by R S Surtees
So what with one, and what with another, they about dispensed with leaping altogether. It was, “I’ll get off if you’ll hold my horse! that’s a good fellow; I’ll do it next time,” or “you’d better get off and lift it,” as Tom Bowles was fumbling at a chained gate.
This, however, is all under the rose, the stiffest fencing and the hardest riding being always, by courtesy, supposed to come last.
So they went on from field to field rejoicing.
After skirting Birkshaw coppice, and taking a look at Cranfield farm buildings, Reynard did not find such accommodation as induced him to desert his original point for the forest; but a colly dog chasing him, pumped out the little balance of wind he had left; to recruit which he shortly after lay up in a hedge-row, from whence, after the usual flash forward and feathering flourish of the pack, he was soon elevated in the arms of old Ben before the admiring eyes of “glorious seven,” each trying who could WHO-HOOP loudest.
The following may be taken as a sample of the usual varied accounts that attend a good run: —
Real distance, eight miles.
Telling distance, fourteen.
Real time, forty-five minutes.
Telling time, one hour.
Checks, one. —
Checks, none.
Heavies up, four.
Lights, three. —
The result of our friend Tom’s ride was, that ho repriced the young’un at 150l.
CHAP. V.
LORD LIONEL LAZYTONGS.
DELIGHTED WITH HIS day with Mr. Neville, pleased with the performance of the five year old, in love with all the world, particularly with his sweet charmer Lydia Clifton, our friend gave his horse to Sleekpow, with an intimation that he should want Rough Robin the next afternoon, being fully determined to ride over to Snailswell, and finish the matter off hand, whether he gave up hunting or not.
“It’s time I was married,” said he, stamping the conglomerated mud off his soaked boots, and casting an eye downwards on the stained and spattered cords.
“It doesn’t follow,” continued he, as he opened the back door, and hurried into the house, “that I need give up hunting the first year at all events, or perhaps not even the second, or yet the third and if anything was wanting to clench his determination about matrimony, it would have been the fact of his stumbling over one of those abominable tape women’s baskets that had been left in the passage, while the owner carried on the usual promiscuous barter with the females — ribbons for rabbits’ skins, shawls for suet, tape for tea, and so on.
It’s very odd, but bachelors always use twice as much tea as married people; at least they pay for twice as much.
A letter with a large seal lay on the entrance table — a seal so large that, had it been in black, Tom would have thought all the crowned heads in Europe had demised together.
“Who can this be from?” exclaimed he, eying the spreading-many-quartered shield and crests, surmounted by a coronet. He broke it and read as follows: —
“Dawdle Court.
“DEAR MR. SCOTT — The Tear Devil hounds meet at Ecclesford Green, near here, on Tuesday next, and we shall be glad if it will suit your convenience to come on Monday and stay till Wednesday, with
“Yours very truly,
“LIONEL LAZYTONGS.
“To Thomas Scott, Esq. Hawbuck Grange.”
“What the deuce can have come over him now!” exclaimed Tom, as he read it: “his lordship has been living at Dawdle Court these three seasons, and never got further than a card, or a call, or a hope that I’d come to him at that most undefined period ‘some time,’ and now he breaks out in a downright invitation to stay.”
No man is more keenly alive to the extreme absurdity of people visiting out of their own station of life, or censures it more severely in their neighbours than Tom does; after which our readers will not be surprised to learn that he looked out his best boots, &c., and wrote to say he would go.
* * * * * * * * * *
The premature closing of a winter’s day, but little aided by the slender horn-like circle of the young and rising moon, saw him before the massive pile of Dawdle Court, whose heavy outline, he, however, forsook in favour of the stables, into whose spacious yard he rode with an “at home” sort of air.
It is not every man that can face the silk-stocking smartness and lace-daubed splendour of a frontdoor entrance; but between the denizen of the stable and the fox hunter, there is a something in common that prevents the latter feeling distrait. Though our walk in life has not been either lofty or extensive, we are free to confess that we have seen lackeys who looked quite as much like gentlemen as their masters. “Small blame to their masters for keeping them,” as Paddy would say; but it is inconvenient for a stranger to scrape and bow to the servant; equally disagreeable to take the lord for a lackey. We, therefore, like the stable. We like to ride quietly in and ask the groom or coachman, or the postilion, or the anybody connected with horses that we see moving about, if Sir John, or Sir George, or my lady are at home, and then, if we get an answer in the negative, we just ask them to take charge of our cards; and if they say “yes,” why we see our horse put up ourself, and so save old Patepowder, the porter, the wickedness of the oaths he might let fall as he hobbled away with him from the front door. Seeing the horse housed oneself, also, gives one time to rectify any little derangement of dress incurred on the road, stamp off the mud sparks, pull up one’s collars, comb out one’s whiskers — all extremely proper and allowable, but which a modest man would feel a delicacy in doing at a front door, with all the eye windows of the house full upon him, and no saying how many pair of bright roguish eyes within, criticising his movements. We do not know a more nervous situation for a shy man than to place himself in the pillory of public observation, before a large house full of company in the country — luncheon time, say — when all the ladies are together, giving a loose to their tongues and their appetites. Unfortunate young man! Should you be accused of sweethearting anyone, how they would pull you to pieces, especially if you were “booked.” There wouldn’t be a feature but what they would condemn, or a sin in the whole catalogue of crime but what they would lay to your charge.
There is an advantage in riding direct to the stables, when one goes to stay all night, even though the shades of night would protect one from idle curiosity. One sees what sort of accommodation one’s horse gets; sees what sort of screws they keep of their own; and so while away an hour that might be very heavy in the house. The best ginger beer that ever was bottled won’t fiz above a certain time.
Well, Tom Scott rode into the yard, as we said, with a “rest, soldier rest,” sort of feeling, and also with the pleasing conviction that in the course of his ride he had earned an enormous appetite.
It was four o’clock, stable hour, and the horses, after being stripped, strapped, and watered, were now in the full enjoyment of their corn, standing up to their bellies in clean wheat straw, as shown by numerous lanthorns hanging from ceilings.
The trampling of his horse’s feet drew a shirtsleeved helper or two to the doors, and one more venturesome and less afraid of fresh air than the rest, keeping his head out sufficiently long to receive the shot of a question, Tom ventured to ask “where his stable was?”
“We don’t take in osses ere, old boy: it ain’t a livery stable,” replied the man, taking our friend for a groom.
“Hush!” exclaimed a voice behind, pulling the speaker back, “it’ll be Mr. Scott; I’ve just sent his servant on.”
A very orthodox, round about, stud groom, then came forward with a lanthorn, and casting the’ light over Tom, lest he might compromise his consequence by misplaced politeness, observed, with a touch of the hat, “Mr. Scott, I believe.”
“Yes,” replied Tom, adding, “would you have the kindness to show me my stable.”
“I sent a helper on with your servant, not half an hour since,” replied the groom, “and he’s not returned yet; but I’ll endeavour to get some one to take
this,” continued he, ringing a small bell.
“Don’t you take in horses?” asked Tom, as the little tinkler ceased sounding.
“Why — no — yes — no — not exactly here,” hesitated ‘the groom; “at the Lazytong Arms, close by, just outside the park. Excellent accommodation — kept by an old coachman of ours — Esau Broadback — two year old oats — sweetest hay that ever was smelt.”
“But if the park is as wide that way as it is the one I’ve come,” replied Tom, “it will be a precious distance, and how am I to manage for want of a servant? I have only a groom.”
“Oh, Mr. Lampoil, the groom of the chamber, will manage all that for you, sir,” replied he, at the same time turning to a group of helpers, whom his ring had drawn together; he inquired of one, whom he designated Mat, “What he was doing?” and receiving the usual answer, “Nothing,” he ordered him to saddle Usurper, and “lead this ere orse over to the Arms.”
“But if it’s close by, what’s the use of taking out a horse?” asked Tom.
“He’ll be none the worse of a little exercise,” replied the groom. —
“Nor Mat, either, perhaps,” observed Tom.
Not being quite satisfied about the locality of the Arms, and the moon now giving a more available light, Tom thought he might as well consume part of the two hours and a half that still separated him from dinner, by riding the old mare to her quarters; accordingly he set off, accompanied by Mat on Usurper, a thorough bred hack with a bang tail down to the hocks.
It was not without a longing look that Tom took leave of the Dawdle Court stables, feeling satisfied that, however good the “Arms’” ones might be, they could not beat the “Court.”
Taking in horses has almost become the sole perquisite of the poor, at least those that the world call “poor,” though they often have more to spend than those that the world call “rich.” Men in our friend Tom Scott’s class of life, never think of separating “man and horse.” If they can’t take in both, they send word, clearly showing that “not” taking in, is the exception.
There are some places of such convenient distance that they stretch or contract like telescopes, according to the wishes of the party. We have known the same place both two miles and four in the mouth of the same person. The Scotch talk of their miles and a bittick; but their miles and a bittick are not a bit more undefinable than an Englishman’s “close by.”
Although enlivened by Mat’s agreeable conversation, who, not having heard the groom’s orders to take over Tom’s mare, concluded by Tom going that he was a fellow servant, was both inquisitive and communicative, informing Tom, “what he had,” and anxious to know Tom’s wages; our friend found the “close by,” a long way. When one expects to arrive at a journey’s end every minute, distance stretches out amazingly. Even on an ordinary beaten road, travelling the last mile is often the longest. The meanderings of the road through the park seemed as if they would never end, and views and vistas, that might be very beautiful by day, were anything but interesting on a winter night, illumined only by the fitful gleams of a crescent moon.
At last Tom and his conductor reached the noble lodge, and following the turnpike road upon which they now got, the creaking of the glittering sign containing the Fender and Fire-iron Arms, as it swung to and fro in the little garden before the house, at last proclaimed Tom’s journey done.
Following Mat, he presently found himself in the soft bedding of a farm yard, the little panes of glass for windows in the encircling buildings, emitting gleams of light indicative of occupants within.
“Have you bespoke a stable?” asked Mat, halting in the middle of the straw yard.
“No,” replied Tom: “I thought his lordship took in horses.”
“I fear you’ll come badly on, then,” said Mat, “for they’ve only six decent stalls, and they seem to be all full.”
“Holloa!” exclaimed he, giving a loud, shrill, shilling gallery sort of whistle, which had the effect of awakening a man in an open-doored building to a sense of their presence, who, on coming forward, proved to be Sleekpow. This worthy was in the usual state of mental depression, of a groom who hasn’t got the best stable. “He was sure he didn’t know what they should do. The stable wasn’t fit to put a dog horse in, let alone such horses as ours;” and after divers lamentations he led the way into a sort of a cross, between a stable and a cowhouse — not very good to be sure, but a place that might have been a great deal worse. The ceiling was very low, and formed of loose rafters for the support of hay; but that was a deal better than no ceiling, or a roof with holes in it; and though the stalls were merely formed of swing bars, that is of little consequence with horses that know each other. The stable was warm and dry, and there was plenty of clean straw; and the hay being last year’s (1846), it was almost superfluous smelling it, for it was sure to be good.
However, having humoured Sleekpow by joining in his grumble, and admitting all his objections to be valid, Tom proceeded to worm it out if he knew whose horses were there.
“There’s Captain Tipthorn and Mr. Blobditch, Major Tinhead, and a gentleman, whose name he forgot, Squire Muffinhead, or something of that sort.
The hounds met at Ecclesford Green, but where that was he couldn’t tell; Esau Broadback, the landlord of the Arms, who knew as much about hounds as coachmen generally do, stating it to be two miles, while Major Tinhead’s groom declared it was four.” However, two or four was no great matter; so ordering Sleekpow to bring the mare in time for the four, Tom retraced his steps through the park, and was surprised to find himself back at Dawdle Court in “no time.”
“What time do we dine?” asked he of one of the bedizened flunkeys who rushed to his assistance as he entered, and persisted in stripping him as if he hadn’t a hand of his own.
“Dinner’s ordered at seven,” replied he, with an emphasis on the “ordered.”
Having possessed himself of Tom’s hat, gloves, whip stick, and paletot, he handed him over to a pump and pantaloon gentleman in a cataract of white linen, who guided our friend along a labyrinth of passages, lighted in the true pick-up-a-pin-style, to the library.
Here Tom found his noble host, booted and breeched, in the midst of an admiring circle whose peculiar costume indicated sportsmen in mufti — cut away coats, fancy neckcloths, striped vests, cord pantaloons, and so on. They all seemed as if they had come on horseback, and hadn’t got the straddle out of their legs yet.
His lordship, who, in addition to boots and breeches, was attired in a smart new pea-green cut-away, was exhibiting his long length before the fire, in the true British style, — a lap over each arm, — detailing for the third time the splendour of a hare hunt he had been engaged in; which narrative he was kind enough to break off — though he had nearly hunted puss to destruction again — as Tom entered, in order that he might edify him, with it from the beginning. —
“Gad, Mr. Scott,” said he, after mutual salutations were over, and he had moved a little to the left to give Tom a smell of the fire, “Gad, Mr. Scott,” said he, “d’yé know, I was so pleased with your account of the Goose and Pudding Hunt that I wrote up to Tattersall to buy me a pack of harriers, and I’ve been out with them to-day for the first time, and I do assure you I never enjoyed anything more. We met at Furzeydown,” continued he, “about three miles and a-half from here, and found a hare by Clipstone Clump, who went as straight as an arrow to Gatley Coppice, from whence, sinking the wind all the way, she ran to
Silverspring, skirting the plantations at Stover, then on to Frogley Glen, where there was a slight check — not more than five minutes, hardly so much — owing to a flock of sheep; however, we hit her off again, when the hounds flew like pigeons over those fine large pastures to Hackthorn, skirting Rookley Bog, and she was finally killed in the middle of Broadfield village, just by the blacksmith’s shop. I dare say you know it, Mr. Scott — close to the public house — the sign of the Frugal Spinster.” Here Tom managed to intimate that he didn’t know the coun
try.
“Ah, if you don’t,” continued his lordship, without drawing breath, “my friend Captain Windeyhash here does,” — as if Windeyhash’s knowing it was the same as Tom; and on his lordship went again, talking of hunting, and riding, and foiling, and casting, and crashing, till the announcement of Colonel Buckskin again brought him “to.” Having got himself settled among them, much after the fashion of a lost hound casting up, Buckskin essayed to show his perfect ease by observing on his lordship’s boots and breeches.
“At it,” his lordship went again, beginning with the find at Clipstone Clump, and hunting the hare, with variations, through all the places before mentioned, running out into a long dissertation on the comparative merits of Pelhams and snaffles, each of which he had been trying on the horses he had ridden that day. This, too, in defiance of the gong, whose last boom had long died out, and been succeeded by the light notes of a musical clock chiming a quarter to seven. —
Still his lordship rattled away, talking of scent, and skirting, and nicking, and babbling, and leaping, and creeping, and flying, and bruising, and rasping, and racing, and ramming, as if there was no such thing as dinner in the wind, at all events, as if his sporting keenness had completely subdued the keenness of his appetite.
At last Lampoil, the white-breasted gentleman Tom had encountered on entering, appeared at the door, followed by a flunkey with a tray full of flaring wax lights; which appeared to draw his lordship’s attention to the fact of his not having dined, for whisking one up with a flourish that sent the accumulated wax all over his leather breeches, he transferred the rest of the company to Lampoil, and proceeded to show Tom to the “blue room.”
