Complete Works of R S Surtees

by R S Surtees

  The young gentlemen’s linen and morals will be under the immediate superintendence of Mrs. Pigg, and they will in every respect be treated the same as the little Piggs.

  For terms and further particklars, apply to the Professor at Hillingdon Hall.

  THE END

  Hawbuck Grange

  This novel was published in 1847 and is similar in structure to Surtees’ other ‘sporting’ novels; it relates the adventures of Thomas Scott, as he tours the regional hunts of the North of England, ingratiating himself with the local sportsmen. Along the way he offers a comic commentary on different types and practices of hunting and of English country life.

  The first edition's title page

  CONTENTS

  PREFACE.

  CHAP. I.

  CHAP. II.

  CHAP. III.

  CHAP. IV.

  CHAP. V.

  CHAP. VI.

  CHAP. VII.

  CHAP. VIII.

  CHAP. IX.

  CHAP. X.

  CHAP. XI.

  CHAP. XII.

  CHAP. XIII.

  CHAP. XIV.

  CHAP. XV.

  CHAP. XVI.

  An illustration from the novel, by Phiz (Hablot K. Browne) who would later achieve considerable acclaim as a regular illustrator of Charles Dickens’s novels

  The original frontispiece

  PREFACE.

  ALL WE HAVE got to say in the way of a preface to this work is, that our friend Tom Scott, seeing his Adventures advertised as the sporting adventures of “Thomas Scott, Esquire,” wrote to us to say that he calls himself Mister — Mr. Thomas Scott, and that he has “THOMAS SCOTT, FARMER, HAWBUCK GRANGE,” in honest parliamentary-sized letters, without flourish or eye-mystifying gewgaw, on the back of his dog-cart, as any one who likes to inspect it may see.

  London, October, 1847.

  CHAP. I.

  CUB-HUNTING.

  “SPORT IN FOX-HUNTING cannot be said to begin before October, but in the two preceding months a pack is either made or marred.” — BECKFORD.

  “IT was the horn I heard,” said Scott, as the old mare again cocked her ears to the wind. “It was the horn I heard, as I came over Addington Hill, though the country looks so green and gay that I never thought of such a thing as hunting.”

  This exclamation was elicited as, on a fine bright September day, a month in which, according to the usual course of English summers, harvest operations would be about commencing in many parts, Mr. Thomas Scott the hero of this work, whose “pedigree and performances” must work themselves out as we proceed, was taking a quiet ride “across country” to hear how things were going on at the kennel.

  The kennel is a grand summer lounge. One is sure to fall in with somebody to talk to; either the huntsman ingratiating himself with his entry, the whip sweeping the yards, or the feeder filling his boiler or scalding his troughs. It is privileged easiness — not idleness, but easiness — for the huntsman can “make of” a pup quite as well in the presence of a stranger as when alone, and the whip is not likely to be put off his work by answering “interrogatories,” as our friend Big-bag of the Chancery bar calls his questions, nor the boiler turned from his purpose by listening to our rigmarole. Therefore a man goes to the kennel with the certainty of a smiling reception and a gossip, instead of a gruff “Well, what do you want?” or the “I’m particularly busy just now,” of the man who, seeing one’s approach from his window, mutters to himself, “Here’s that confounded Tom Scott coming to bother me with his infernal nonsense. I wish he was — . Ah, Tom, my dear fellow, how are you?” &c.

  Tom was riding his favourite old roan mare, that has carried him safely for ten good seasons, and who knows just as well what she goes out for as he does. She had gone stepping along, with the snaffle bridle rein dangling carelessly on her neck when, on reaching the summit of the aforementioned hill, she suddenly pricked her ears, giving certain indications of gaiety quite incompatible with the sober steadiness of pace she had been pursuing.

  Mr. Scott no more thought of hearing the horn in September than he did of picking gooseberries at Christmas, or of having a snowball romp in August. Indeed, how should he? Take the summer or no summer of 1845 as a “precedent,” as Bigbag would say, and what was he doing in September? Shearing a bit of barley — beginning with the wheat, perhaps and the “tartars” standing so ridiculously green as to look for all the world like next year’s crop. The summers of 1845 and 1846 were not in the least like the same thing, neither were the winters. Some masters hardly got any cub-hunting at all in 1845, so late and protracted was the harvest. But, when they did begin hunting, what a season they had! Almost a surfeit — to the short stud ones, certainly a surfeit. We have not had such an early season as the one of 1846, since “Plenipo’s” year, when we remember seeing a buck ride up Doncaster High-street in scarlet and boots on the Leger day. The summer was a roaster; but what a winter followed! That, however, we will deal with as we go on.

  Well, old Barbara was right. At a second blast, her small pointed ears almost touched, and she stood stock still. The spot she chose was worthy the eye of a painter. It was the angle of a road, commanding as well the deep-ribbed Gothic arches of an old stone bridge, as the bend of the rapid river above, whose rocky sides were fringed with stately trees of various sorts, in all the motley beauty of autumnal leaf. The hounds were out. Mr. Scott had not stood many seconds, ere the well-known “Get away!” of the whip, on the one side, and the horn of the huntsman on the other, proclaimed that they had drawn the banks.

  Presently he saw a scarlet — a purple, rather — then another, and shortly after a small cavalcade, among which he distinctly recognised the flaunting of a couple of habits, emerged from the wooded water-side and made for the grass field above.

  The horn again twanged, and the whips cracked loud and heavily on the clear crisp atmosphere, sounding over the far country like guns.

  “I’m in luck,” said Mr. Scott, pretending to tickle old Barbara’s sides with his spurless shooting shoe-heel. The old mare, however, wanted no persuasion. Having satisfied herself what was going on, she forthwith gathered herself together, and began showing her big black knees below her nose, as she trotted away in the line.

  She knew the way as well as Scott did — in at the bridle-gate by Squire Ramrod’s keeper’s, across the lawn, through the brook, and at the back of Mr. Hacker’s farm buildings, then a long trot along the banks, and another bridle-gate at the top lets her into the field where the hounds were. She had often gone that line, but never so early in the year — at least never for the purpose of hunting-

  We have often doubted whether masters of hounds like seeing people out cub-hunting or not, and, we have about settled the question in our own mind as follows, viz that huntsmen or masters who go out early — at day-break, for instance — are glad to see people, because they are sure that none but sportsmen will come; whereas the midday or afternoon performance favours all the idle, yammering, bothersome, chance-medley customers of the country.

  Take to-day’s field as a sample. There were the Misses Ogleby, beautiful girls, and full of chatter; and in their train the great Mr. Tarquinius Muff, dressed like a dancing-master, and his brother Blatheremskite Muff, who come after the girls instead of after the hounds. Then there was little Dr. Podgers, the union doctor, on his black pony, who fell in with the hounds at Gunton Gate, and is deluding himself into the idea that he is hunting; ‘Drippinghead, the butcher’s boy, with his greasy blue coat, and apron tucked round his waist, who is stealing his hour to the detriment of his unfortunate nag, who will have to gallop all the way home; an unknown gentleman in gambadoes, with an umbrella under his arm; Tom Muzroll, the horsebreaker, who is instructing a four-year-old at the expense of the pack; and two weed-riding, be-trowsered, be whiskered young gentlemen from the neighbouring town of Scrapetin, who just may be anything or anybody.

  But Scott approaches the field. Hark to old Muff! Tarquinius, that’s to say. “Halloo, Mr.
Scott!” exclaims he, with all the consequence of the great Mr. O’Toole, the toast-master himself. “Halloo, Mr. Scott, you are getting slack in your old age. What! only coming out now! You’ve lost the most beautiful thing that ever was seen — found half-a-dozen most beautiful foxes all huddled together, and had the most charming hunt that can possibly be imagined. Hadn’t we, Miss Amelia?” asks he, appealing to the younger of the sisters.

  “O dear! thuch a delightful hunt!” lisps the beauty, repressing her jet black hair beneath her smart black Malay cock-feathered hat. “My pony took thuch a jump!” added she, raising herself up in the saddle, as if to show how it was done, sousing down an uncommonly neat embonpoint figure.

  Muff is Scott’s abomination. Had he ever thought of meeting him, he would have gone “t’other way.” Muff knows he despises him, and calls him a “humbug,” but cannot resist the opportunity of showing off before the ladies by pretending to be a great sportsman. They don’t know that he isn’t, and he thinks by carrying matters with a high hand to prevent Scott exposing him.

  Just as Scott had undergone the Muffs, and made his salutations to the “ladies,” who received him in the sort of way young ladies generally receive incorrigible fox-hunting, not particularly young or overgilt bachelors — just as Scott had undergone and performed all this we say, Arrogant, who had been making the banks echo with her name, at last condescended to creep through the wood-fence, and make for the pack in the hurried way peculiar to disobedient hounds with an irate whipper-in at their stems.

  “Get to him, Arrogant!” screamed Joe, the second whip, galloping and cracking his whip, as though he would cut her in two.

  Mr. Neville, who had been sitting patiently waiting Arrogant’s appearance, to say a few words to the juvenile delinquent, and parrying Blatheremskite Muff’s importunities to know when he would begin “advertising,” was just turning his horse to move on when Mr. Scott’s appearance attracted his attention.

  “Ah Tom, my boy!” exclaimed he, his handsome face brightening up with a smile, “I was just thinking of you. I was just looking at that ugly turnstile, and thinking of the confounded cropper you got over it on the first day of the season. By Jove that’s twenty years since,” added he, with a shake of the head, and a significant glance of his bright eye.

  “Three and twenty, Sir,” replied Tom, for so we will take the liberty of calling him too.

  “By Jove, you ‘re right,” rejoined Mr. Neville. “Quite right, I do declare,” with an emphasis, and a dig of his hunting-whip end on his thigh. “It was the fifteenth season of ray hunting the country, and now I’m in my thirty-eighth — time flies.”

  “It passes lightly over you, Sir, though,” observed Tom.

  “Middling,” replied he, cheerfully. “Middling — can’t complain. What do you think of the young hounds? That’s a nice lot,” said he, pointing to some yellow pied ones who came frisking forward as he called them by name; “Marksman! Merlin! Messmate! Midnight! Myrtle! by old Marmion out of Marcia,” added he, his eyes sparkling as he looked at them. “Marmion was by Sir Bellingham Graham’s Marmion, you know; and Marcia was by Lord Lonsdale’s Monarch out of Modish;” and so he went on through his entry.

  Mr. Neville is one of the last of the old school of sportsmen; of men who made fox-hunting their study, instead of mixing it up with half-a-dozen other pursuits. Everything connected with his establishment is ordered with the regularity of the army, and conducted with the precision of a regiment. Cub-hunting: — Undress; men in hats, last year’s coats, boots, breeches, and whips, riding, exercising horses; master in a sort of costume combining the varieties of the shooter, the hare-hunter, and the farmer — white hat, green cut-away, striped cravat and waistcoat, drab breeches, with cloth caps to his boots, and a pair of heavy-looking spurs; horse, a back; saddle and bridle, last year’s ones, whip ditto; and there’s the cub-hunting turn-out.

  Year after year has seen him in the same; and so rapidly have they passed, that the first time appears but as last year. Nor has the hand of time marked its lapse more strongly on his person. His hair may he a shade greyer, whiter rather; but his figure retains its pristine lightness and neatness, he sits well into his saddle, and looks like what he is — a gentleman and a sportsman. How unlike the Muffs with their ringlets, and chains, and brooches, and gew-gaws — their registered paletots, satin cravats, white leather trousers, and varnished, heel-spurred boots! They look more like Hyde Park than the hunting-field.

  “This is our first day,” observed the squire. “Indeed, I didn’t think of going; but it was so fine, and the Misses Ogleby persuaded me.”

  The fact was, the Muffs had bothered him so that he went to the kennel to get rid of them; and finding they followed, he took out the hounds. “We killed a cub in Clifton Dean,” continued he; “and found a litter in the banks, and now we are going to Cold-brook Gorse; we’ve plenty of, and there is a litter there wants disturbing.” So saying he gave the signal to old Ben, the huntsman, who forthwith tickled his nag in the flank, and, preceded by Tom, the whip, took a line of bridle gates for Cold-brook Gorse. —

  The country was not quite clear of corn; indeed, they came upon a field of oats they were shearing, across a corner of which the route lay.

  “Come on, Sir — come on, Sir!” cried the farmer, from amidst his work-people, seeing the squire was turning away to avoid the damage of the hounds through the standing corn. “You’re quite welcome, Sir! — you ‘re quite welcome, Sir!” repeated he, as he held open the gate into the field. This put the horsemen into single file; and as they jogged on, Tom thus began to ruminate: —

  “Cub-hunting is only poor sport to any but the immediately interested,” said he. “It resembles the tuning of the instruments for a grand let off of a concert, all of which is very right, necessary, and proper, but a sort of thing that the public care very little to hear. To the master, however, it is everything. It is the rehearsal of the performance of the season, and upon which much of his credit and comfort depends. Still it has more the air of the foreign chasse about it than the go-along clear-the-stage devil-take-the-hindmost-sort of affair of an English fox-hunt. It is like a play, with the principal character omitted — a kill without a run, or the intention of a run.” Despite the sneer and smile of contempt it may raise on the features of our friends, we will candidly state that we agree with Mr. Scott and are not cub-hunters. We have no taste for killing foxes “while they suck,” as the old huntsman said to the young one, who was boasting of the number of noses he reckoned on the kennel door.

  Cub-hunting is like the noise and prattle of children, all very delightful to the parents, but very uninteresting to strangers. If you get up in the middle of the night to start with the light, though you avoid the Muffs, you have not the excitement that attends the same performance in the spring of the year, when you go to drag up to a wild flying fox. In the latter case, you have the hopes of a gallant run over a boundless extent of country, while, with the cubs it is all up and down, backwards and forwards, heading and tally-going back. Hunting is hunting, no doubt, and the cry of hounds is very delightful — far better than Jullien’s or any other body’s band — and the cry of hounds is most beautiful in a wood, but a great part of the joyful excitement is lost by the knowledge that the fading dying notes outside, so quickly following “Tally-ho! a-w-a-y!” will not he heard. “Tally-ho! back! Tally-ho! back!” is only a poor cry.

  In short, cub-hunting is neither one thing nor another, to any one save the master and his men. There is neither the joyous wide-awake uncertainty and excitement peculiar to the real thing, nor the quiet, staid, take-it-easy, game-at-chess-sort of labyrinth unwinding of hare-hunting. Cub-hunting is good for the ladies and men like the Muffs, who come out for appetites and to kill time. They can take up positions on hills and view commanding spots, join the chiding of hounds with the charms of the landscape, and trot away when they have had enough of either; but the man who wants his gallop, and to see hounds work, had better take a turn
with the harriers. It is bad enough laming a horse with harriers at the beginning of the season, but infinitely worse stubbing or staking one in cub-hunting.” Moreover, the ground is generally so desperately hard in autumn, that it shakes and shatters the often not over sound legs and feet of the old hunter. Many a horse is perfectly sound in November, that makes a very pottering shamble of it over the hard ground in September or October. But we are only stating what everybody knows.

  The hounds soon arrived at Cold-brook Gorse; and a fine, large, close, healthy cover it was. Bush swelled above bush, like undulations of the sea, or like cauliflower heads; and the rising ground of the north side commanded a view of the whole. A belt of now bright yellow horse-chestnuts, broken, weather-beaten, and bent, formed a sort of shelter on that side. There were eight or ten acres of it altogether, and we hold that one cover of eight or ten acres is worth eight or ten covers of two or three acres.

  The low end we should add was bounded by Cold-brook, a very uninviting, sedgy, rotten-banked looking burn, of great reputed coldness of water, as frequently tested in the course of each season.

  The hounds were soon in the cover.

  The compact gorse began to shake, and in less than two minutes the place was alive with their melody.

  They had found no end of foxes! The scared blackbirds flew in all directions; rabbits popped in and out; and every now and then a great golden-throppled cock-pheasant or dusky-coloured hen rose with boisterous clamour, as if furiously indignant at such unwonted intrusion.

  Up and down, and round about, the whips rode, hooping, and hallooing, and cracking their whips; but it is weary work hallooing to hounds with a good scent in a close gorse.