Complete Works of R S Surtees

by R S Surtees

  ‘Did they?’ exclaimed Sponge, adding, ‘well, I thought he went away rather queerly.’

  ‘Oh, it was only old Bung the brewer, who runs down every run he doesn’t ride.’

  ‘Well, never mind,’ replied Sponge, ‘we’ll make the best of it, whatever it was’; writing away as he spoke, and repeating the words ‘bag one’ as he penned them.

  ‘“Broke away,”’ continued Jack:

  ‘“In view of the whole field,”’ added Sponge. ‘Just so,’ assented Jack.

  ‘“Every hound scoring to cry, and making the “ — the — the — what d’ye call the thing?’ asked Jack.

  ‘Country,’ suggested Sponge.

  ‘No,’ replied Jack, with a shake of the head.

  ‘Hill and dale?’ tried Sponge again.

  ‘Welkin!’ exclaimed Jack, hitting it off himself—’”makin’ the welkin ring with their melody!” makin’ the welkin ring with their melody,’ repeated he, with exultation.

  ‘Capital!’ observed Sponge, as he wrote it.

  ‘Equal to Littlelegs,’ said Jack, squinting his eyes inside out.

  ‘We’ll make a grand thing of it,’ observed Sponge.

  ‘So we will,’ replied Jack, adding, ‘if we had but a book of po’try we’d weave in some lines here. You haven’t a book o’ no sort with you that we could prig a little po’try from?’ asked he.

  ‘No,’ replied Sponge thoughtfully. ‘I’m afraid not; indeed, I’m sure not. I’ve got nothin’ but Mogg’s Cab Fares.’

  ‘Ah, that won’t do,’ observed Jack, with a shake of the head. ‘But stay,’ said he, ‘there are some books over yonder,’ pointing to the top of an Indian cabinet, and squinting in a totally different direction. ‘Let’s see what they are,’ added he, rising, and stumping away to where they stood. I Promessi Sposi, read he off the back of one. ‘What can that mean! Ah, it’s Latin,’ said he, opening the volume. Contes à ma Fille, read he off the back of another. ‘That sounds like racin’,’ observed he, opening the volume, ‘it’s Latin too,’ said he, returning it. ‘However, never mind, we’ll “sugar Puff’s milk,” as Mr. Bragg would say, without po’try.’ So saying, Mr. Spraggon stumped back to his easy-chair. ‘Well, now,’ said he, seating himself comfortably in it, ‘let’s see where did we go first? “He broke at the lower end of the cover, and, crossing the brook, made straight for Fleecyhaugh Water Meadows, over which,” you may say, “there’s always a ravishing scent.”’ ‘Have you got that?’ asked Jack, after what he thought a sufficient lapse of time for writing it.

  ‘“Ravishing scent,”’ repeated Sponge as he wrote the words.

  ‘Very good,’ said Jack, smoking and considering. ‘“From there,”’ continued he, ‘“he made a bit of a bend, as if inclining for the plantations at Winstead, but, changing his mind, he faced the rising ground, and crossing over nearly the highest part of Shillington Hill, made direct for the little village of Berrington Roothings below.”’

  ‘Stop!’ exclaimed Sponge, ‘I haven’t got half that; I’ve only got to “the plantations at Winstead.”’ Sponge made play with his pen, and presently held it up in token of being done.

  ‘Well,’ pondered Jack, ‘there was a check there. Say,’ continued he, addressing himself to Sponge, ‘“Here the hounds came to a check.”’

  ‘Here the hounds came to a check,’ wrote Sponge. ‘Shall we say anything about distance?’ asked he.

  ‘P’raps we may as well,’ replied Jack. ‘We shall have to stretch it though a bit.’

  ‘Let’s see,’ continued he; ‘from the cover to Berrington Roothings over by Shillington Hill and Fleecyhaugh Water Meadows will be — say, two miles and a half or three miles at the most — call it four, well, four miles — say four miles in twelve minutes, twenty miles an hour, — too quick — four miles in fifteen minutes, sixteen miles an hour; no — I think p’raps it’ll be safer to lump the distance at the end, and put in a place or two that nobody knows the name of, for the convenience of those who were not out.’

  ‘But those who were out will blab, won’t they?’ asked Sponge.

  ‘Only to each other,’ replied Jack. ‘They’ll all stand up for the truth of it as against strangers. You need never be afraid of over-eggin’ the puddin’ for those that were out.’

  ‘Well, then,’ observed Sponge, looking at his paper to report progress, ‘we’ve got the hounds to a check. “Here the hounds came to a check,”’ read he. ‘Ah! now, then,’ said Jack, in a tone of disgust, ‘we must say summut handsome of Bragg; and of all conceited animals under the sun, he certainly is the most conceited. I never saw such a man! How that unfortunate, infatuated master of his keeps him, I can’t for the life of me imagine. Master! faith, Bragg’s the master,’ continued Jack, who now began to foam at the mouth. ‘He laughs at old Puff to his face; yet it’s wonderful the influence Bragg has over him. I really believe he has talked Puff into believing that there’s not such another huntsman under the sun, and really he’s as great a muff as ever walked. He can just dress the character, and that’s all.’ So saying Jack wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his red coat preparatory to displaying Mr. Bragg upon paper.

  ‘Well, now we are at fault,’ said Jack, motioning Sponge to resume; ‘we are at fault; now say, “but Mr. Bragg, who had ridden gallantly on his favourite bay, as fine an animal as ever went, though somewhat past mark of mouth—” He is a good horse, at least was,’ observed Jack, adding, ‘I sold Puff him, he was one of old Sugarlip’s,’ meaning Lord Scamperdale’s.

  ‘Sure to be a good ‘un, then,’ replied Sponge, with a wink, adding, ‘I wonder if he’d like to buy any more?’

  ‘We’ll talk about that after,’ replied Jack, ‘at present let us get on with our run.’

  ‘Well,’ said Sponge, ‘I’ve got it: “Mr. Bragg, who had ridden gallantly on his favourite bay, as fine an animal as ever went, though somewhat past mark of mouth—”’

  ‘“Was well up with his hounds,”’ continued Jack, ‘“and with a gently, Rantipole! and a single wave of his arm, proceeded to make one of those scientific casts for which this eminent huntsman is so justly celebrated.” Justly celebrated!’ repeated Jack, spitting on the carpet with a hawk of disgust; ‘the conceited self-sufficient bantam-cock never made a cast worth a copper, or rode a yard but when he thought somebody was looking at him.’

  ‘I’ve got it,’ said Sponge, who had plied his pen to good purpose.

  ‘Justly celebrated,’ repeated Jack, with a snort. ‘Well, then, say, “Hitting off the scent like a workman” — big H, you know, for a fresh sentence— “they went away again at score, and passing by Moorlinch farm buildings, and threading the strip of plantation by Bexley Burn, he crossed Silverbury Green, leaving Longford Hutch to the right, and passing straight on by the gibbet at Harpen.” Those are all bits of places, observed Jack, ‘that none but the country folks know; indeed, I shouldn’t have known them but for shootin’ over them when old Bloss lived at the Green. Well, now, have you got all that?’ asked he.

  ‘“Gibbet at Harpen,”’ read Sponge, as he wrote it.

  ‘“Here, then, the gallant pack, breaking from scent to view,”’ continued Jack, speaking slowly, ‘“ran into their fox in the open close upon Mountnessing Wood, evidently his point from the first, and into which a few more strides would have carried him. It was as fine a run as ever was seen, and the hunting of the hounds was the admiration of all who saw it. The distance couldn’t have been less than” — than — what shall we say?’ asked Jack.

  ‘Ten, twelve miles, as the crow flies,’ suggested Sponge.

  ‘No,’ said Jack,’ that would be too much. Say ten’; adding, ‘that will be four miles more than it was.’

  ‘Never mind,’ said Sponge, as he wrote it; ‘folks like good measure with runs as well as ribbons.’

  ‘Now we must butter old Puff,’ observed Spraggon.

  ‘What can we say for him?’ asked Sponge; ‘that he never went off the road?’

  ‘No,
by Jove!’ said Jack; ‘you’ll spoil all if you do that: better leave it alone altogether than do that. Say, “the justly popular owner of this most celebrated pack, though riding good fourteen stone” (he rides far more,’ observed Jack; ‘at least sixteen; but it’ll please him to make out that he can ride fourteen), “led the welters, on his famous chestnut horse, Tappey Lappey.”’

  ‘What shall we say about the rest?’ asked Sponge; ‘Lumpleg, Slapp, Guano, and all those?’

  ‘Oh, say nothin’,’ replied Jack; ‘we’ve nothin’ to do with nobody but Puff, and we couldn’t mention them without bringin’ in our Flat Hat men too — Blossomnose, Fyle, Fossick, and so on. Besides, it would spoil all to say that Guano was up — people would say directly it couldn’t have been much of a run if Guano was there. You might finish off,’ observed Jack, after a pause, ‘by saying that “after this truly brilliant affair, Mr. Puffington, like a thorough sportsman, and one who never trashes his hounds unnecessarily — unlike some masters,” you may say, “who never know when to leave off” (that will be a hit at Old Scamp,’ observed Jack, with a frightful squint), ‘“returned to Hanby House, where a distinguished party of sportsmen—” or, say, “a distinguished party of noblemen and gentlemen” — that’ll please the ass more— “a large party of noblemen and gentlemen were partaking of his” — his — what shall we call it?’

  ‘Grub!’ said Sponge.

  ‘No, no — summut genteel — his — his — his— “splendid hospitality!”’ concluded Jack, waving his arm triumphantly over his head.

  ‘Hard work, authorship!’ exclaimed Sponge, as he finished writing, and threw down the pen.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ replied Jack, adding, ‘I could go on for an hour.’

  ‘Ah, you! — that’s all very well,’ replied Sponge, ‘for you, squatting comfortably in your arm-chair: but consider me, toiling with my pen, bothered with the writing, and craning at the spelling.’

  ‘Never mind, we’ve done it,’ replied Jack, adding, ‘Puff’ll be as pleased as Punch. We’ve polished him off uncommon. That’s just the sort of account to tickle the beggar. He’ll go riding about the country, showing it to everybody, and wondering who wrote it.’

  ‘And what shall we send it to? — the Sporting Magazine, or what?’ asked Sponge.

  ‘Sporting Magazine! — no,’ replied Jack; ‘wouldn’t be out till next year — quick’s the word in these railway times. Send it to a newspaper — Bell’s Life, or one of the Swillingford papers. Either of them would be glad to put it in.’

  ‘I hope they’ll be able to read it,’ observed Sponge, looking at the blotched and scrawled manuscript.

  ‘Trust them for that,’ replied Jack, adding, ‘If there’s any word that bothers them, they’ve nothing to do but look in the dictionary — these folks all have dictionaries, wonderful fellows for spellin’.’

  Just then a little buttony page, in green and gold, came in to ask if there were any letters for the post; and our friends hastily made up their packet, directing it to the editor of the Swillingford ‘guide to glory and freeman’s friend’; words that in the hurried style of Mr. Sponge’s penmanship looked very like ‘guide to grog, and freeman’s friend.’

  CHAPTER XL

  A LITERARY BLOOMER

  TIME WAS WHEN the independent borough of Swillingford supported two newspapers, or rather two editors, the editor of the Swillingford Patriot, and the editor of the Swillingford Guide to Glory; but those were stirring days, when politics ran high and votes and corn commanded good prices. The papers were never very prosperous concerns, as may be supposed when we say that the circulation of the former at its best time was barely seven hundred, while that of the latter never exceeded a thousand.

  They were both started at the reform times, when the reduction of the stamp-duty brought so many aspiring candidates for literary fame into the field, and for a time they were conducted with all the bitter hostility that a contracted neighbourhood, and a constant crossing by the editors of each other’s path, could engender. The competition, too, for advertisements, was keen, and the editors were continually taunting each other with taking them for the duty alone. Æneas M’Quirter was the editor of the Patriot, and Felix Grimes that of the Guide to Glory.

  M’Quirter, we need hardly say, was a Scotsman — a big, broad-shouldered Sawney — formidable in ‘slacks,’ as he called his trousers, and terrific in kilts; while Grimes was a native of Swillingford, an ex-schoolmaster and parish clerk, and now an auctioneer, a hatter, a dyer and bleacher, a paper-hanger, to which the wits said when he set up his paper, he added the trade of ‘stainer.’

  At first the rival editors carried on a ‘war to the knife’ sort of contest with one another, each denouncing his adversary in terms of the most unmeasured severity. In this they were warmly supported by a select knot of admirers, to whom they read their weekly effusions at their respective ‘houses of call’ the evening before publication. Gradually the fire of bitterness began to pale, and the excitement of friends to die out; M’Quirter presently put forth a signal of distress. To accommodate ‘a large and influential number of its subscribers and patrons,’ he determined to publish on a Tuesday instead of on a Saturday as heretofore, whereupon Mr. Grimes, who had never been able to fill a single sheet properly, now doubled his paper, lowered his charge for advertisements, and hinted at his intention of publishing an occasional supplement.

  However exciting it may be for a time, parties soon tire of carrying on a losing game for the mere sake of abusing each other, and Æneas M’Quirter not being behind the generality of his countrymen in ‘canniness’ and shrewdness of intellect, came to the conclusion that it was no use doing so in this case, especially as the few remaining friends who still applauded would be very sorry to subscribe anything towards his losses. He therefore very quietly negotiated the sale of his paper to the rival editor, and having concluded a satisfactory bargain, he placed the bulk of his property in the poke of his plaid, and walked out of Swillingford just as if bent on taking the air, leaving Mr. Grimes in undisputed possession of both papers, who forthwith commenced leading both Whig and Tory mind, the one on the Tuesday, the other on the Saturday.

  The pot and pipe companions of course saw how things were, but the majority of the readers living in the country just continued to pin their faith to the printed declarations of their oracles, while Grimes kept up the delusion of sincerity by every now and then fulminating a tremendous denunciation against his trimming, vacillating, inconsistent opponent on the Tuesday, and then retaliating with equal vigour upon himself on the Saturday. He wrote his own ‘leaders,’ both Whig and Tory, the arguments of one side pointing out answers for the other. Sometimes he led the way for a triumphant refutal, while the general tone of the articles was quite of the ‘upset a ministry’ style. Indeed, Grimes strutted and swaggered as if the fate of the nation rested with him.

  The papers themselves were not very flourishing-looking concerns, the wide-spread paragraphs, the staring type, the catching advertisements, forming a curious contrast to the close packing of The Times. The ‘Gutta Percha Company,’ ‘Locock’s Female Pills,’ ‘Keating’s Cough Lozenges,’ and the ‘Triumphs of Medicine,’ all with staring woodcuts and royal arms, occupied conspicuous places in every paper. A new advertisement was a novelty. However, the two papers answered a great deal better than either did singly, and any lack of matter was easily supplied from the magazines and new books. In this department, indeed, in the department of elegant light literature generally, Mr. Grimes was ably assisted by his eldest daughter, Lucy, a young lady of a certain age — say liberal thirty — an ardent Bloomer — with a considerable taste for sentimental poetry, with which she generally filled the poet’s corner. This assistance enabled Grimes to look after his auctioneering, bleaching, and paper-hanging concerns, and it so happened that when the foregoing run arrived at the office he, having seen the next paper ready for press, had gone to Mr. Vosper’s, some ten miles off, to paper his drawing-room,
consequently the duties of deciding upon its publication devolved on the Bloomer. Now, she was a most refined, puritanical young woman, full of sentiment and elegance, with a strong objection to what she considered the inhumanities of the chase. At first she was for rejecting the article altogether, and had it been a run with the Tinglebury Harriers, or even, we believe, with Lord Scamperdale’s hounds, she would have consigned it to the ‘Balaam box,’ but seeing it was with Mr. Puffington’s hounds, whose house they had papered, and who advertised with them, she condescended to read it; and though her delicacy was shocked at encountering the word ‘stunning’ at the outset, and also at the term ‘ravishing scent’ farther on, she nevertheless sent the manuscript to the compositors, after making such alterations and corrections as she thought would fit it for eyes polite. The consequence was that the article appeared in the following form, though whether all the absurdities were owing to Miss Lucy’s corrections, or the carelessness of the writer, or the printers, had anything to do with it, we are not able to say. The errors, some of them arising from the mere alteration or substitution of a letter, will strike a sporting more than a general reader. Thus it appeared in the middle of the third sheet of the Swillingford Patriot:

  SPLENDID RUN WITH MR. PUFFINGTON’S HOUNDS.

  This splendid pack had a superb run from Hollyburn Hanger, the property of its truly popular and sporting owner, Mr. Puffington. A splendid field of well-appointed sportsmen, among whom we recognized several distinguished strangers, and members of Lord Scamperdale’s hunt, were present. After partaking of the well-known profuse and splendid hospitality of Hanby House, they proceeded at once to Hollyburn Hanger, where a fine seasonal fox, though some said he was a bay one, broke away in view of the whole pack, every hound scorning to cry, and making the welkin ring with their melody. He broke at the lower end of the cover, and crossing the brook, made straight for Fleecyhaugh Water Meadows, over which there is always an exquisite perfume; from there he made a slight bend, as if inclining for the plantations at Winstead, but changing his mind, he faced the rising ground, and crossing over nearly the highest point of Shillington Hill, made direct for the little village of Berrington Roothings below. Here the hounds came to a check, but Mr. Bragg, who had ridden gallantly on his favourite bay, as fine an animal as ever went, though somewhat past work of mouth, was well up with his hounds, and with a ‘gentle rantipole!’ and a single wave of his arm, proceeded to make one of those scientific rests for which this eminent huntsman is so justly celebrated. Hitting off the scent like a coachman, they went away again at score, and passing by Moorlinch Farm buildings, and threading the strip of plantation by Bexley Burn, he crossed Silverbury Green, leaving Longford Hutch to the right, and passing straight on by the gibbet at Harpen. Here, then, the gallant pack, breaking from scent to view, ran into their box in the open close upon Mountnessing Wood, evidently his point from the first, and into which a few more strides would have carried him. It was as fine a run as ever was seen, and the grunting of the hounds was the admiration of all who heard it. The distance could not have been less than ten miles as a cow goes. The justly popular owner of this most celebrated pack, though riding good fourteen stones, led the Walters on his famous chestnut horse Tappy Lappey. After this truly brilliant affair, Mr. Puffington, like a thorough sportsman, and one who never thrashes his hounds unnecessarily — unlike some masters who never know when to leave off — returned to Hanby House, where a distinguished party of noblemen and gentlemen partook of his splendid hospitality.