by R S Surtees
“She could’nt have stood two minutes before them,” sighed Tom Hobbletrot, who was next in rotation for a hare.
“Who could it be?” gasped Parson Goodman, who was riding a still pulling four-year old, and had had something else to do than stare about.
“I know,” responded Trumper; “I’ll same him out,” added he, bringing his ponderous hunting whip crack down his boot.
“Most infamous thing that ever was done!” exclaimed Giles Gosling.
“So like those wild fox-hunting fools,” muttered Trumper, leaning over his horse’s shoulder to open a gate. “Never happy but when they ‘re galloping,” added he, throwing it open, and striking into a gallop himself.
He presently reached the eminence over which they had seen the hounds disappear, from whence Trumper was horrified at seeing “white leathers” absolutely casting the pack! casting the hounds that Trumper deemed it next to high treason for any one to speak to but himself.
There was the stranger in the middle of a twenty-acre turnip field riding about, tasselled cap in hand, describing a circle, which he kept enlarging each time round, after a fashion of his own.
Trumper turned deadly pale at the sight. If there is one thing in the world that he hates more than another, it is a pair of white breeches, and his detestation seemed to increase by the length of the present articles.
“Mister Muff! Mister Muff!” gasped he, as if in the last agony of a stomach-ache. “Mister Muff!” repeated he; but Mr. Muff was deaf to the cry. “ — He’s mad! he’s mad! he must be mad!” continued Trumper, eyeing Tarquinius’s manœuvres among the turnips, who, regardless of Trumper’s imprecations, continued his career to the damage of the turnips and the danger of the hounds.
Trumper then put on ail steam, and charged down hill, followed by the train-band, bold.
Tarquinius, full of his own importance, not only as a first-class swell, but a fox-hunter, held up his hand as he saw them coming, exclaiming most importantly, “Hold hard, gentlemen, hold hard! Pray hold hard!” continued he, seeing the exhortation was disregarded; adding, “I know how far they brought her.”
“You know how far they brought her?” grinned Trumper, in agony, as he leaned fumbling the chain off the gate opening into the field where they were. “You know how far they brought her? I wish I knew how far I might take you to hang you.”
“I never did ride over turnips in my life,” observed he to himself as he got the gate open, “but I’ll have a shy at them to-day.”
So saying, he stuck spurs into Golumpus, and went pounding and smashing through the middle of them.
If it had’nt been for the hounds, we believe Trumper would have charged Tarquinius full tilt. Luckily, some of the beauties popping above the turnips, which being guano sown were uncommonly forward, caused Trumper to get his horse more in hand, and ultimately to pull up a little short of assaulting distance.
“Oh Mr. Trumper, it’s you, is it?” observed Muff, in the most patronising way to our gasping and perspiring sportsman. “I thought it must be a heavy-weight pack, as none of you were up with them.”
“Up with them!” gasped Trumper, “I wish you would ride about your business, and leave our hounds to themselves.”
“Why, my good fellow,” replied Muff, turning his horse to the now assembled field, “I was doing you an absolute service. I viewed the hare, and laid your beagles on to her.”
“Beggles!” vociferated Trumper, “Beggles,” repeated he, as if he was going to be sick; “Where the deuce do you use any beggles here?”
“Them’s harriers,” observed Hobbletrot, with the utmost contempt, muttering something about “d — d frenchified” something that sounded rather like “fool.”
“Well, but my good fellow, let me make my cast perfect, at all events,” continued Muff, who had been studying Mr. Smith’s patent “all-round-my-hat” cast in the “Diary of a Huntsman” that morning.
“You know I know something about hunting, Tom Scott,” continued he, appealing to our friend with the familiar “Tom,” instead of the distant “Mr.” he uses on ordinary occasions, when he is coming it grand.
“Indeed I don’t,” replied Tom, nettled at his meanness, and unable to resist the temptation of having a shy at him too.
“That’s right, Mr. Scott! speak your mind like a man!” exclaimed Trumper, slapping his whip down his boot.
“Not about fox-hunting, at all events,” continued Scott, thinking to qualify his answer.
“And I’m sure he knows nothing about harehunting,” ejaculated Tom Hobbletrot, determined not to let Muff off.
“But, my good men,” minced Muff, with the greatest effrontery, throwing back his registered paletot, and showing a profusion of trinkets appended to his glittering watch chain, at the same time sticking out a great leather-covered leg—” my good men,” repeated he, “at all events, you must admit, that but for me you would have seen no more of your hare; your little dogs could hardly own the scent when I capped them away close at her scut.”
“D — n you and your capping,” roared Tom Hobbletrot, unable to restrain himself at hearing Muff take credit to himself for losing him his hare; “you’ve lost us our hare, Sir, instead of helping us to catch her.”
“That’s because you interrupted me when I was making my cast,” retorted Muff.
“Cast!” screamed Trumper, “you hallooed us away to a fresh hare.”
“Fresh hare!” sneered Muff—” fresh hare,” repeated he, shrugging up his shoulders, and throwing out a primrose coloured kid-gloved hand, “my good fellow, do you suppose I’m such a fool as not to know a fresh hare from a hunted one?”
“Yes, ar do,” roared Tom; “I don’t think you know nothin about one except you see her in the soup plate.”
“Silly man! silly man!” simpered Muff; “If this is not the hunted hare, I’m—”
“Well, Mr. Muff, it don’t argufy a bit,” interrupted Trumper, whose choler had been subsiding as the other’s had been getting up; “it don’t argufy a bit, Sir,” repeated he; “the hunted hare is back. I saw her make for the hills as we came to your halloo. I tell you how it is, Sir! I tell you how it is, Sir!” his anger rising again as he spoke, “You are a fox-hunter, Sir — no objection at all to fox-hunters, Sir — none whatever; Mr. Neville’s an excellent man, Sir — can’t be a better — always most civil to me when I go out with his hounds, Sir; but I never presume to halloo, Sir. If I see a fox, Sir, I hold up my hat, Sir; never think of hunting the hounds, Sir. Glad to see Mr. Neville, or any of his gentlemen out, Sir, with our hounds, Sir, but I hope they’ll do the same when they come, Sir — hope they’ll do the same when they, Sir. Now, Sir you’ve lost us our hare, Sir,” continued he, “so I’ll bid you good morning, Sir — I’ll bid you good morning, Sir, and we’ll go home to dinner, Sir — we’ll go home to dinner, Sir.”
So saying, Mr. Trumper made Mr. Muff a bow, and diving into his bed-gown pocket for the horn, gave it a twang, and, having gathered his hounds, retraced his way through the turnips.
* * * * *
“He’ll cut his stick now,” observed Mr. Trumper, looking over his shoulder as he got to the gate to see where Muff was.
“We’ll just try and see if we can recover the hunted hare,” added he, looking at his watch, and seeing it was a little past one.
“That Mr. Muff,” continued he, jogging on, half to himself and half to any one that would listen to him, “is the most disagreeable man I know; he’s eternally teaching somebody something. He thinks, because he rides in scarlet, that he’s fit for a huntsman, whereas, saving Mr. Scott’s presence,” said he, looking at Scott. “I really believe there are more fools in scarlet than in any other colour. I’d rather have laid in bed all day, a thing I detest after sunrise,” continued Trumper, “than have asked him to join our hunt, for he’s certain to make a mess if he comes. He’s just one of those sort of daft bodies that can’t hold their tongues, and must always be doing. Gently, Cottager — good dog,” added he;
“I know where she is better than that,” continued he to Cottager, who was feathering on the grassy side of the road. “If that stupid man had hallooed them fox dogs away,” continued Trumper, “as he did ours, there’d have been an end of the thing; but there’s one great advantage of hare-hunting, that you need never give her up — never as long as a hound can own the scent.”
“And when they can’t, you begin to prick her, don’t you?” asked Scott.
“That’s as may be,” replied Mr. Trumper; “We never dig her out, at all events!”
“She does’nt give you a chance,” replied Scott, as Trumper hastened to conclude the dialogue by getting out of hearing.
They soon reached the fallow where puss and they had parted company, and certainly it seemed a most unpromising speculation trying to recover her. Even the redoubtable Twister and Towler could make nothing of it, though she was plain enough to prick where the water had left a sandy wash on the furrow ends of the poor, undrained land.
Trumper’s keen eye saw these plainly enough, though his paternal affection made him anxious to transfer the credit of the feat to the noses of the now mute pack.
At length even pricking failed.
Puss, with a tact often displayed by hunted animals, had selected an enclosure so cold, so bleak, so barren that nothing but a few water-weeds grew upon it, and of those there were only barely sufficient to hide her track.
Trumper pulled up as the hounds got upon it, feeling quite incompetent to form the least opinion - as to whether she was on, or sideways, or back, or down, or where.
Twister, however, thought she was on, and a greenish spot of land on the rising ground, towards the middle of the enclosure, yielding something that acted upon his frame like a scent, Mr. Trumper moved forward, and Twister spoke to her at the hedge-row.
They were now again upon a large fallow, and Trumper felt the difficulty of picking the cold scent with the danger of starting a fresh hare. However, he went on, eyes well down, in hopes of seeing something.
The day, having changed for the worse, was now getting raw, and the ceremony of hunting by inches, though very interesting to masters, is any thing but exhilarating to strangers: at last, having come to about a dead lock — not a hound being able to own the scent, or to carry it a bit further — Scott ventured to suggest that it was all “u p.”
“Gad, now do you know, I thought you’d be saying that,” replied Trumper, starting round. “I never saw a fox-hunter yet that did’nt think it was time to shut up as soon as they were run out of scent.”
“We’ve been walked out,” replied Scott.
“Very true,” retorted Mr. Trumper, “very true,” repeated he, “and that makes me think she won’t be far off; Gad, Sir, she’s under your horse’s nose at this moment!” added he “Hold hard! while I draw the hounds off, or they’ll spoil her.”
Trumper then drew the hounds away, and looking a little ahead Scott saw what at first looked like a clod, but which, on closer observation, proved to be poor puss.
“To be, or not to be,” was the question, — a live hare or a dead one.
“Save her!” whispered Scott, “Save her! she’s a good-un, and will give us a gallop another day. Mercy’s all that’s wanting to make the day’s sport perfect.”
“Nay then!” rejoined. Trumper, in astonishment, as he still kept drawing the hounds off, “I thought you fox-hunters were all for blood.”
“So we are,” said Scott, “so we are — but not hares’ blood.” —
“Well, then, I’ll humour you,” said Trumper, “and let her live; but you must allow she was well hunted.”
“Never saw any thing better in my life!” exclaimed our friend. “It was a most wonderful performance.”
“Wide difference between fox-hunting and harehunting, you see,” observed Trumper, fishing the bugle from the bottom of the bed-gown pocket, and giving it a twang.
“Come away, good dogs! come away!” hallooed he, as if he was giving the game up for lost.
“You should never give a hare up,” said he, “when you come to those sort of solemn stops, for, ten to one, she’s not far off. A fox would be far off, and the longer you persevere, the further you’re left behind; but come,” continued he, briskly, “we’ve had a good day’s sport. You lost the first run, to be sure, which was an uncommon good one, as good a one as ever was seen; but this has’nt been a bad-un, and now, suppose you finish the day by dining with us.”
“With all my heart,” replied Scott.
“Goose and dumplings,” observed Trumper; “goose and dumplings: suppose you can dine off them?”
“Nothing better,” said Scott “nothing better.”
“Lots of onions!” added Trumper, “lots of onions!”
“That’s your ticket,” replied Scott, “that’s your ticket.”
They soon got upon the Edge-hill Road, and the longer they travelled the smaller the pack became, one hound cutting off at a stile, another at a gate, a third at the cross-roads, all making for their respective homes.
There are two things in this world that there is seldom any mistake about — the smell of a fox and the smell of roast goose. Even the most unsophisticated in sporting matters, though they may not think it prudent to exclaim “I smell a fox,” as the peculiar odour crosses their noses on the pure air of a hunting morning, yet never assign the effluvia to any other thing; while in the matter of roast goose, the veriest ignoramus has no hesitation about it.
It so happened that Mr. Scott winded the savoury bird ere he viewed the buildings at the back of Jollyrise Farm, which are shut out from view at the back approach by a row of gigantic hollies, then in the full luxuriance of the deepest green and the reddest berries.
“I smell goose!” exclaimed Scott, at the turn of the road.
“You may say that,” replied Trumper, “four on ’em, I expect.”
“You go the whole hog in the goose way,” observed Scott.—’
“A goose to two’s the allowance,” replied Trumper; “there’ll hardly be that to-day; but you needn’t make yourself uneasy on that score, there’ll be plenty for us all.”
The out-buildings, forming an ample square at the back of Jollyrise House, were like Mr. Trumper himself — large, roomy, and substantial. The beasts in the fold-yards revelled in the cleanest straw, and if there was the slightest smell of any sort, it was entirely overpowered by that of roast goose.
What surprised Mr. Scott most was some half dozen gigs and dog-carts, all drawn up under a shed on entering.
“What do you do with so many gigs, Mr. Trumper?” asked he. Before, however, he had time to get an answer, the trampling of the horses’ feet drew out as many attendant clowns, who forthwith assisted their masters to alight. They had brought their “drinking carts,” as they call them, in exchange for their hunters.
After a bucket of gruel a-piece, the latter took their departures home. Trumper, having boxed Golumpus, proceeded to cast an eye round the buildings to see that all was right.
“Come, Tom, come!” exclaimed Mrs. Trumper from the long staircase window commanding the landing and angle of the staircase, in which she now appeared full length, in a black silk gown and cherry-coloured ribbons to her cap, looking most blooming and buxom. “Come, Tom, come!” repeated she, as she saw her husband wandering from filly to foal and from heifer to cow.
They all then made for the back kitchen, where towels and basons, and boot-jacks and slippers waited their pleasure, superintended by a nice freshlooking maid, in a blue cotton gown, with crisp cork-screw ringlets dangling down the sides of her merry healthy cheeks.
The party were presently divested of their tops, and now appeared in most comfortable woollens and slippers. After running the joint stock comb through the lightish crops of straggling hair, they waddled into the parlour, where they were greeted by the “missis.”
This was a low wainscoted room, situate on the right of the front door on entering, with one window looking to the south and the othe
r to the east, the latter commanding a view of the twisting Aubom water, and the well-wooded Greyridge Hills beyond. The walls were profusely decorated with hare hunts in every stage and variation of the sport, from the turn out from the kennels down to “Who whoop!” There were hares sitting, and hares running, and hounds finding their own hares, and people finding the hares for them, and hounds hunting, and hounds viewing, and hounds at fault, and hounds hitting her off again, and hounds running into her, and hounds catching her, and hounds baying her.
Then there were stuffed hares in cases on the mantel-piece and about the broad skirting boards of the walls, with inscriptions detailing the exploits of each, and sometimes the names of the favoured few who were out. Long before Scott had made the circuit of the room, however, the well roasted geese came hissing in hot from the spit, and each man paired off with a partner for one.
The Rev. Timothy Goodman having said grace, they all set to with the most rapacious and vigorous determination.
For people who are fond of goose (and who is not?) a greater treat could not be devised. There was no taking the edge of the appetite off with soup, or fish, or patties, or cutlets, or side dishes of any sort; but they sat down to dine off the one thing they expected. This, too, was done in the fairest, most equitable way imaginable; for instead of a favoured few getting the breast and tit-bits, leaving nothing but grisley drumsticks for late comers, each man had his own half goose, and could take whatever part he liked first, without eating in haste and fear that the next favoured cut would be gone ere he could get at it again. All, too, dining off goose, and eating most profusely of stuffing, none could reproach the other with “smelling of onions.”
Silence appeared to be the order of the day both morning and evening, for with the exception of a voice occasionally hallooing out “Beer scarce a word passed, until the dishes presented a most beggarly account of bones. Beer they might call it, and beer it might look like, being both light and bright, but it was uncommonly strong and heady to take.
Let the French talk of their vin ordinaire or pure St. Julien claret, with considerable body, at 28s a dozen: what is it when compared with the vin ordinaire, the malt and hops wine of old England? — a quart of Trumper’s beer would sew up the best Frenchman that ever was seen. We are quite sure we have tasted bottled ale that would be prized before champagne if it was only as dear. How few people appreciate still champagne! It is the fiz, the pop, and the cream that makes sparkling champagne such a favourite, and good bottled ale has all those concomitants.
