by R S Surtees
‘Where’s there a gate?’ roared our friend, skating up.
‘Gate! there’s never a gate within a mile, and that’s locked,’ replied Watchorn sulkily.
‘Then here goes!’ replied Mr. Sponge, gathering the chestnut together to give him an opportunity of purging himself of his previous faux pas. ‘Here goes!’ repeated he, thrusting his hard hat firmly on his head. Taking his horse back a few paces, Mr. Sponge crammed him manfully at the palings, and got over with a rap.
‘Well done you!’ exclaimed Miss Glitters in delight; adding to Watchorn, ‘Now, old Beardey, you go next.’
Beardey was irresolute. He pretended to be anxious to get the tail hounds over.
‘Clear the way, then!’ exclaimed Miss Glitters, putting her horse back, her bright eyes flashing as she spoke. She took him back as far as Mr. Sponge had done, touched him with the whip, and in an instant she was high in the air, landing safely on the far side.
‘Hoo-ray!’ exclaimed Captains Quod and Cutitfat, who now came panting up.
‘Now, Mr. Watchorn!’ cried Captain Seedeybuck, adding, ‘You’re a huntsman!’
‘Yooi over, Prosperous! Yooi over, Buster!’ cheered Watchorn, still pretending anxiety about his hounds.
‘Let me have a shy,’ squeaked George Cheek, backing his giraffe, as he had seen Mr. Sponge and Miss Glitters do.
George took his screw by the head, and, giving him a hearty rib-roasting with his whip, ran him full tilt at the palings, and carried away half a rood.
‘Hoo-ray!’ cried the liberated field.
‘I knew how it would be,’ exclaimed Mr. Watchorn, in well-feigned disgust as he rode through the gap; adding, ‘con-founded young waggabone! Deserves to be well chaste-tized for breakin’ people’s palin’s in that way — lettin’ in all the rubbishin’ tail.’
The scene then changed. In lieu of the green, though hard, sward of the undulating park, our friends now found themselves on large frozen fallows, upon whose uneven surface the heaviest horses made no impression while the shuffling rats of ponies toiled and floundered about, almost receding in their progress. Mr. Sponge was just topping the fence out of the first one, and Miss Glitters was gathering her horse to ride at it, as Watchorn and Co. emerged from the park. Rounding the turnip-hill beyond, the leading hounds were racing with a breast-high scent, followed by the pack in long-drawn file.
‘What a mess!’ said Watchorn to himself, shading the sun from his eyes with his hand; when, remembering his rôle, he exclaimed, ‘Y-o-o-n-der they go!’ as if in ecstasies at the sight. Seeing a gate at the bottom of the field, he got his horse by the head, and rattled him across the fallow, blowing his horn more in hopes of stopping the pack than with a view of bringing up the tail-hounds. He might have saved his breath, for the music of the pack completely drowned the noise of the horn. ‘Dash it!’ said he, thumping the broad end against his thigh; ‘I wish I was quietly back in my parlour. Hold up, horse!’ roared he, as Harkaway nearly came on his haunches in pulling up at the gate. ‘I know who’s not Cardinal Wiseman,’ continued he, stooping to open it.
The gate was fast, and he had to alight and lift it off its hinges. Just as he had done so, and had got it sufficiently open for a horse to pass, George Cheek came up from behind, and slipped through before him.
‘Oh, you unrighteous young renegade! Did ever mortal see sich an uncivilized trick?’ roared Watchorn; adding, as he climbed on to his horse again, and went spluttering through the frozen turnips after the offender, ‘You’ve no ‘quaintance with Lord John Manners, I think!’
‘Oh dear! — oh dear!’ exclaimed he, as his horse nearly came on his head, ‘but this is the most punishin’ affair I ever was in at. Puseyism’s nothin’ to it.’ And thereupon he indulged in no end of anathemas at Slarkey for bringing the wrong fox.
‘About time to take soundings, and cast anchor, isn’t it?’ gasped Captain Bouncey, toiling up red-hot on his pulling horse in a state of utter exhaustion, as Watchorn stood craneing and looking at a rasper through which Mr. Sponge and Miss Glitters had passed, without disturbing a twig.
‘C — a — s — t anchor!’ exclaimed Watchorn, in a tone of derision— ‘not this half-hour yet, I hope! — not this forty minnits yet, I hope; — not this hour and twenty minnits yet, I hope!’ continued he, putting his horse irresolutely at the fence. The horse blundered through it, barking Watchorn’s nose with a branch.
‘‘Ord rot it, cut off my nose!’ exclaimed he, muffling it up in his hand. ‘Cut off my nose clean by my face, I do believe,’ continued he, venturing to look into his hand for it. ‘Well,’ said he, eyeing the slight stain of blood on his glove, ‘this will be a lesson to me as long as I live. If ever I ‘unt again in a frost, may I be —— . Thank goodness! they’ve checked at last!’ exclaimed he, as the music suddenly ceased, and Mr. Sponge and Miss Glitters sat motionless together on their panting, smoking steeds.
Watchorn then stuck spurs to his horse, and being now on a flat rushy pasture, with a bridle-gate into the field where the hounds were casting, he hustled across, preparing his horn for a blow as soon as he got there.
‘Twang — twang — twang — twang,’ he went, riding up the hedgerow in the contrary direction to what the hounds leant. ‘Twang — twang — twang,’ he continued, inwardly congratulating himself that the fox would never face the troop of urchins he saw coming down with their guns.
‘Hang him! — he’s never that way!’ observed Mr. Sponge, sotto voce, to Miss Glitters. ‘He’s never that way,’ repeated he, seeing how Frantic flung to the right.
‘Twang — twang — twang,’ went the horn, but the hounds regarded it not.
‘Do, Mr. Sponge, put the hounds to me!’ roared Mr. Watchorn, dreading lest they might hit off the scent.
Mr. Sponge answered the appeal by turning his horse the way the hounds were feathering, and giving them a slight cheer.
‘‘Ord rot it!’ roared Watchorn, ‘do let ’em alone! that’s a fresh fox! ours is over the ‘ill,’ pointing towards Bonnyfield Hill.
‘Hoop!’ hallooed Mr. Sponge, taking off his hat, as Frantic hit off the scent to the right, and Galloper, and Melody, and all the rest scored to cry.
‘Oh, you confounded brown-bouted beggar!’ exclaimed Mr. Watchorn, returning his horn to its case, and eyeing Mr. Sponge and Miss Glitters sailing away with the again breast-high-scent pack. ‘Oh, you exorbitant usurer!’ continued he, gathering his horse to skate after them. ‘Well now, that’s the most disgraceful proceedin’ I ever saw in the whole course of my life. Hang me, if I’ll stand such work! Dash me, but I’ll ‘quaint the Queen! — I’ll tell Sir George Grey! I’ll write to Mr. Walpole! Fo-orrard! fo-orrard!’ hallooed he, as Bob Spangles and Bouncey popped upon him unexpectedly from behind, exclaiming with well-feigned glee, as he pointed to the streaming pack with his whip, ‘‘Ord dash it, but we’re in for a good thing!’
Little Bouncey’s horse was still yawning and star-gazing, and Bouncey, being quite unequal to riding him and well-nigh exhausted, ‘downed’ him against a rubbing-post in the middle of a field, making a ‘cannon’ with his own and his horse’s head, and was immediately the centre of attraction for the panting tail. Bouncey got near a pint of sherry from among them before he recovered from the shock. So anxious were they about him, that not one of them thought of resuming the chase. Even the lagging whips couldn’t leave him. George Cheek was presently hors de combat in a hedge, and Watchorn seeing him ‘see-sawing,’ exclaimed, as he slipped through a gate:
‘I’ll send your mar to you, you young ‘umbug.’
Watchorn would gladly have stopped too, for the fumes of the champagne were dead within him, and the riding was becoming every minute more dangerous. He trotted on, hoping each jump of brown boots would be the last, and inwardly wishing the wearer at the devil. Thus he passed through a considerable extent of country, over Harrowdale Lordship, or reputed Lordship, past Roundington Tower, down Sloppyside Banks, and on to Cheeseington Green; the severity
of his affliction being alone mitigated by the intervention of accommodating roads and lines of field gates. These, however, Mr. Sponge generally declined, and went crashing on, now over high places, now over low, just as they came in his way, closely followed by the fair Lucy Glitters.
‘Well, I never see’d sich a man as that!’ exclaimed Watchorn, eyeing Mr. Sponge clearing a stiff flight of rails, with a gap near at hand. ‘Nor woman nouther!’ added he, as Miss Glitters did the like. ‘Well, I’m dashed if it arn’t dangerous!’ continued he, thumping his hand against his thick thigh, as the white nearly slipped upon landing. ‘F-o-r-r-ard! for-rard! hoop!’ screeched he, as he saw Miss Glitters looking back to see where he was. ‘F-o-r-rard! for-rard!’ repeated he; adding, in apparent delight, ‘My eyes, but we’re in for a stinger! Hold up, horse!’ roared he, as his horse now went starring up to the knees through a long sheet of ice, squirting the clayey water into his rider’s face. ‘Hold up!’ repeated he, adding, ‘I’m dashed if one mightn’t as well be crashin’ over the Christial Palace as ridin’ over a country froze in this way! ‘Ord rot it, how cold it is!’ continued he, blowing on his finger-ends; ‘I declare my ‘ands are quite numb. Well done, old brown bouts!’ exclaimed he, as a crash on the right attracted his attention; ‘well done, old brown bouts! — broke every bar i’ the gate!’ adding, ‘but I’ll let Mr. Buckram know the way his beautiful horses are ‘bused. Well,’ continued he, after a long skate down the grassy side of Ditchburn Lane, ‘there’s no fun in this — none whatever. Who the deuce would be a huntsman that could be anything else? Dash it! I’d rayther be a hosier — I’d rayther be a ‘atter — I’d rayther be an undertaker — I’d rayther be a Pusseyite parson — I’d rayther be a pig-jobber — I’d rayther be a besom-maker — I’d rayther be a dog’s-meat man — I’d rayther be a cat’s-meat man — I’d rayther go about a sellin’ of chick-weed and sparrow-grass!’ added he, as his horse nearly slipped up on his haunches.
‘Thank ‘eavens there’s relief at last!’ exclaimed he, as on rising Gimmerhog Hill he saw Farmer Saintfoin’s southdowns wheeling and clustering, indicative of the fox having passed; ‘thank ‘eavens, there’s relief at last!’ repeated he, reining up his horse to see the hounds charge them.
Mr. Sponge and Miss Glitters were now in the bottom below, fighting their way across a broad mill-course with a very stiff fence on the taking-off side.
‘Hold up!’ roared Mr. Sponge, as, having bored a hole through the fence, he found himself on the margin of the water-race. The horse did hold up, and landed him — not without a scramble — on the far side. ‘Run him at it, Lucy!’ exclaimed Mr. Sponge, turning his horse half round to his fair companion. ‘Run him at it, Lucy!’ repeated he; and Lucy fortunately hitting the gap, skimmed o’er the water like a swallow on a summer’s eve.
‘Well done! you’re a trump!’ exclaimed Mr. Sponge, standing in his stirrups, and holding on by the mane as his horse rose the opposing hill.
He just got up in time to save the muttons; another second and the hounds would have been into them. Holding up his hand to beckon Lucy to stop, he sat eyeing them intently. Many of them had their heads up, and not a few were casting sheep’s eyes at the sheep. Some few of the line hunters were persevering with the scent over the greasy ground. It was a critical moment. They cast to the right, then to the left, and again took a wider sweep in advance, returning however towards the sheep, as if they thought them the best spec after all.
‘Put ’em to me,’ said Mr. Sponge, giving Miss Glitters his whip; ‘put ’em to me!’ said he, hallooing, ‘Yor-geot, hounds! — yor-geot!’ — which, being interpreted, means, ‘here again, hounds! — here again!’
‘Oh, the conceited beggar!’ exclaimed Mr. Watchorn to himself, as, disappointed of his finish, he sat feeling his nose, mopping his face, and watching the proceedings. ‘Oh, the conceited beggar!’ repeated he, adding, ‘old ‘hogany bouts is absolutely a goin’ to kest them.’
Cast them, however, he did, proceeding very cautiously in the direction the hounds seemed to lean. They were on a piece of cold scenting ground, across which they could hardly own the scent.
‘Don’t hurry ’em!’ cried Mr. Sponge to Miss Glitters, who was acting whipper-in with rather unnecessary vigour.
As they got under the lee of the hedge, the scent improved a little, and, from an occasional feathering stern, a hound or two indulged in a whimper, until at length they fairly broke out in a cry. ‘I’ll lose a shoe,’ said Watchorn to himself, looking first at the formidable leap before him, and then to see if there was any one coming up behind. ‘I’ll lose a shoe,’ said he. ‘No notion of lippin’ of a navigable river — a downright arm of the sea,’ added he, getting off.
‘Forward! forward!’ screeched Mr. Sponge, capping the hounds on, when away they went, heads up and sterns down as before.
‘Ay, for-rard! for-rard!’ mimicked Mr. Watchorn; adding, ‘you’re for-rard enough, at all events.’
After running about three-quarters of a mile at best pace, Mr. Sponge viewed the fox crossing a large grass field with all the steam up he could raise, a few hundred yards ahead of the pack, who were streaming along most beautifully, not viewing, but gradually gaining upon him. At last they broke from scent to view, and presently rolled him over and over among them.
‘Who-hoop!’ screamed Mr. Sponge, throwing himself off his horse and rushing in amongst them. ‘Who-hoop!’ repeated he, still louder, holding the fox up in grim death above the baying pack.
‘Who-hoop!’ exclaimed Miss Glitters, reining up in delight alongside the chestnut. ‘Who-hoop!’ repeated she, diving into the saddle-pocket for her lace-fringed handkerchief.
‘Throw me my whip!’ cried Mr. Sponge, repelling the attacks of the hounds from behind with his heels. Having got it, he threw the fox on the ground, and clearing a circle, he off with his brush in an instant. ‘Tear him and eat him!’ cried he, as the pack broke in on the carcass. ‘Tear him and eat him!’ repeated he, as he made his way up to Miss Glitters with the brush, exclaiming, ‘We’ll put this in your hat, alongside the cock’s feathers.’
The fair lady leant towards him, and as he adjusted it becomingly in her hat, looking at her bewitching eyes, her lovely face, and feeling the sweet fragrance of her breath, a something shot through Mr. Sponge’s pull-devil, pull-baker coat, his corduroy waistcoat, his Eureka shirt, Angola vest, and penetrated the very cockles of his heart. He gave her such a series of smacking kisses as startled her horse and astonished a poacher who happened to be hid in the adjoining hedge.
Sponge was never so happy in his life. He could have stood on his head, or been guilty of any sort of extravagance, short of wasting his money. Oh, he was happy! Oh, he was joyous! He was intoxicated with pleasure. As he eyed his angelic charmer, her lustrous eyes, her glowing cheeks, her pearly teeth, the bewitching fulness of her elegant tournure, and thought of the masterly way she rode the run — above all, of the dashing style in which she charged the mill-race — he felt a something quite different to anything he had experienced with any of the buxom widows or lackadaisical misses whom he could just love or not, according to circumstances, among whom his previous experience had lain. Miss Glitters, he knew, had nothing, and yet he felt he could not do without her; the puzzlement of his mind was, how the deuce they should manage matters— ‘make tongue and buckle meet,’ as he elegantly phrased it.
It is pleasant to hear a bachelor’s pros and cons on the subject of matrimony; how the difficulties of the gentleman out of love vanish or change into advantages with the one in— ‘Oh, I would never think of marrying without a couple of thousand a year at the very least!’ exclaims young Fastly. ‘I can’t do without four hunters and a hack. I can’t do without a valet. I can’t do without a brougham. I must belong to half-a-dozen clubs. I’ll not marry any woman who can’t keep me comfortable — bachelors can live upon nothing — bachelors are welcome everywhere — very different thing with a wife. Frightful things milliners’ bills — fifty guinea
s for a dress, twenty for a bonnet — ladies’ maids are the very devil — never satisfied — far worse to please than their mistresses.’ And between the whiffs of a cigar he hums the old saw —
‘Needles and pins, needles and pins,
When a man marries his sorrow begins.’
Now take him on the other tack — Fast is smitten.
‘‘Ord hang it! a married man can live on very little,’ soliloquizes our friend. A nice lovely creature to keep one at home. Hunting’s all humbug; it’s only the flash of the thing that makes one follow it. Then the danger far more than counterbalances the pleasure. Awful places one has to ride over, to be sure, or submit to be called “slow.” Horrible thing to set up for a horseman, and then have to ride to maintain one’s reputation. Will be thankful to give it up altogether. The bays will make capital carriage-horses, and one can often pick up a second-hand carriage as good as new. Shall save no end of money by not having to put “B” to my name in the assessed tax-payer. One club’s as good as a dozen — will give up the Polyanthus and the Sunflower, and the Refuse and the Rag. Ladies’ dresses are cheap enough. Saw a beautiful gown t’other day for a guinea. Will start Master Bergamotte. Does nothing for his wages; will scarce clean my boots. Can get a chap for half what I give him, who’ll do double the work. Will make Beans into coachman. What a convenience to have one’s wife’s maid to sew on one’s buttons, and keep one’s toes in one’s stocking-feet! Declare I lose half my things at the washing for want of marking. Hanged if I won’t marry and be respectable — marriage is an honourable state!’ And thereupon Tom grows a couple of inches taller in his own conceit.
Though Mr. Sponge’s thoughts did not travel in quite such a luxurious first-class train as the foregoing, he, Mr. Sponge, being more of a two-shirts-and-a-dicky sort of man, yet still the future ways and means weighed upon his mind, and calmed the transports of his present joy. Lucy was an angel! about that there was no dispute. He would make her Mrs. Sponge at all events. Touring about was very expensive. He could only counterbalance the extravagance of inns by the rigid rule of giving nothing to servants at private houses. He thought a nice airy lodging in the suburbs of London would answer every purpose, while his accurate knowledge of cab-fares would enable Lucy to continue her engagement at the Royal Amphitheatre without incurring the serious overcharges the inexperienced are exposed to. ‘Where one can dine, two can dine,’ mused Mr. Sponge; ‘and I make no doubt we’ll manage matters somehow.’
