by R S Surtees
“What’s happened him?” asked Billy.
“Don’t know — but von vould think he was going to storm a city — take Sebastopol himself,” replied Monsieur, shrugging his broad shoulders. He then resumed his valeting operations, and crowned the whole by putting Billy into his green cut-away, without giving him even a peep of the pink.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Yammerton has been holding a court of inquiry in the kitchen and larder, as to the extent of the overnight mischief, smelling at this dish and that, criticising the spoons, and subjecting each castor-oily offender to severe ablution in boiling water. Of course no one could tell in whose hands the bottle of “cold drawn” had come “in two,” and Monsieur was too good a judge to know anything about it; so as the mischief couldn’t be repaired, it was no use bewailing it farther than to make a knot in her mind to be more careful of such dangerous commodities in future.
Betty Bone had everything — tea, coffee, bread, cakes, eggs, ham (fried so as to hide the spurious flavour), honey, jam, &c., ready for Miss Benson, who had been impressed into the carrying service, vice the Bumbler turned whip, to take in as soon as Mr. Pringle descended, a fact that was announced to the household by the Major’s uproarious greeting of him in the passage. He was overjoyed to see him! He hoped he was none the worse for his over-night festivities; and without waiting for an answer to that, he was delighted to say that it was a fine hunting morning, and as far as human judgment could form an opinion, a good scenting one; but after five-and-thirty years’ experience as a master of “haryers,” he could conscientiously say that there was nothing so doubtful or ticklish as scent, and he made no doubt Mr. Pringle’s experience would confirm his own, that many days when they might expect it to be first-rate, it was bad, and many days when they might expect it to be bad, it was first-rate; to all which accumulated infliction Billy replied with his usual imperturbable “Yarse,” and passed on to the more agreeable occupation of greeting the young ladies in the dining-room. Very glad they all were to see him as he shook hands with all three.
The Major, however, was not to be put off that way; and as he could not get Billy to talk about hunting, he drew his attention to breakfast, observing that they had a goodish trot before them, and that punctuality was the politeness of princes. Saying which, he sat down, laying his great gold watch open on a plate beside him, so that its noisy ticking might remind Billy of what they had to do. The Major couldn’t make it out how it was that the souls of the young men of the present day are so difficult to inflame about hunting. Here was he, turned of —— —— , and as eager in the pursuit as ever. “Must be that they smoke all their energies out,” thought he; and then applied himself vigorously to his tea and toast, looking up every now and then with irate looks at his wife and daughters, whose volubility greatly retarded Billy’s breakfast proceedings. He, nevertheless, made sundry efforts to edge in a hunting conversation himself, observing that Mr. Pringle mustn’t expect such an establishment as the Peer’s, or perhaps many that he was accustomed to — that they would have rather a shortish pack out, which would enable them to take the field again at an early day, and so on; all of which Billy received with the most provoking indifference, making the Major wish he mightn’t be a regular crasher, who cared for nothing but riding. At length, tea, toast, eggs, ham, jam, all had been successively taxed, the Major closed and pocketed his noisy watch, and the doomed youth rose to perform the dread penance with the pack. “Good byes,” “good mornings,” “hope you’ll have good sport,” followed his bowing spur-clanking exit from the room.
A loud crack of the Major’s hammer-headed whip now announced their arrival in the stable-yard, which was at once a signal for the hounds to raise a merry cry, and for the stable-men to loosen their horses’ heads from the pillar-reins. It also brought a bevy of caps and curl-papers to the back windows of the house to see the young Earl, for so Rougier had assured them his master was — (heir to the Earldom of Ladythorne) — mount. At a second crack of the whip the stable-door flew open, and as a shirt-sleeved lad receded, the grey-headed, green-coated sage Solomon advanced, leading forth the sleek, well-tended, well-coddled, Napoleon the Great.
Amid the various offices filled by this Mathews-at-home of a servant, there was none perhaps in which he looked better or more natural than in that of a huntsman. Short, spare, neat, with a bright black eye, contrasting with the sobered hue of his thin grey hair, no one would suppose that the calfless little yellow and brown-liveried coachman of the previous night was the trim, neatly-booted, neatly-tied huntsman now raising his cap to the Richest Commoner in England, and his great master Major Yammerton — Major of the Featherbedfordshire Militia, master of “haryers,” and expectant magistrate.
“Well, Solomon,” said the Major, acknowledging his salute, as though it was their first meeting of the morning, “well, Solomon, what do you think of the day?”
“Well, sir, I think the day’s well enough,” replied Solomon, who was no waster of words.
“I think so too,” said the Major, drawing on his clean doeskin gloves. The pent-up hounds then raised another cry.
“That’s pretty!” exclaimed the Major listening
“That’s beautiful!” added he, like an enthusiastic admirer of music at the opera.
Imperturbable Billy spoke not.
“Pr’aps you’d like to see them unkenneled?” said the Major, thinking to begin with the first act of the drama.
“Yarse,” replied Billy, feeling safe as long as he was on foot.
The Major then led the way through a hen-house-looking door into a little green court-yard, separated by peeled larch palings from a flagged one beyond, in which the expectant pack were now jumping and frisking and capering in every species of wild delight.
“Ah, you beauties!” exclaimed the Major, again cracking his whip. He then paused, thinking there would surely be a little praise. But no; Billy just looked at them as he would at a pen full of stock at a cattle show.
“Be-be-beauties, ar’n’t they?” stuttered the Major.
“Yarse,” replied Billy; thinking they were prettier than the great lounging, slouching foxhounds.
“Ca-ca-capital hounds,” observed the Major.
No response from Billy.
“Undeniable b-b-blood,” continued our friend.
No response again.
“F-f-foxhounds in mi-mi-miniature,” observed the Major.
“Yarse,” replied Billy, who understood that.
“Lovely! Lovely! Lovely! there’s a beautiful bitch,” continued the Major, pointing to a richly pied one that began frolicking to his call.
“Bracelet! Bracelet! Bracelet!” holloaed he to another; “pretty bitch that — pure Sir Dashwood King’s blood, just the right size for a haryer — shouldn’t be too large. I hold with So-so-somerville,” continued the Major, waxing warm, either with his subject, or at Billy’s indifference, “that one should
‘A di-di-different hound for every chase
Select with judgment; nor the timorous hare,
O’ermatch’d, destroy; but leave that vile offence
To the mean, murderous, coursing crew, intent
On blood and spoil.’”
“Yarse,” replied Billy, turning on his heel as though he had had enough of the show.
At this juncture, the Major drew the bolt, open flew the door, and out poured the pack; Ruffler and Bustler dashing at Billy, and streaking his nice cream-coloured leathers down with their dirty paws, while Thunder and Victim nearly carried him off his legs with the couples. Billy was in a great fright, never having been in such a predicament before.
The Major came to the rescue, and with the aid of his whip and his voice, and his “for shame, Ruffler! for shame, Bustler!” with cuts at the coupled ones, succeeded in restoring order.
“Let’s mount,” said he, thinking to get Billy out of further danger; so saying he wheeled about and led the way through the outer yard with the glad pack gamboling and frisking around him to the stab
les.
The hounds raise a fresh cry of joy as they see Solomon with his horse ready to receive them.
CHAPTER XXIII. SHOWING A HORSE. — THE MEET.
THE BUMBLER, LIKE our Mathews-at-home of a huntsman, is now metamorphosed, and in lieu of a little footman, we have a capped and booted whip. Not that he is a whip, for Solomon carries the couples as well as the horn, and also a spare stirrup-leather slung across his shoulder; but our Major has an eye as well to show as to business, and thinks he may as well do the magnificent, and have a horse ready to change with Billy as soon as Napoleon the Great seems to have had enough. To that end the Bumbler now advances with the Weaver which he tenders to Billy, with a deferential touch of his cap.
“Ah, that’s your horse!” exclaimed the Major, making for White Surrey, to avoid the frolics and favours of his followers; adding, as he climbed on, “you’ll find her a ca-ca-capital hack and a first-rate hunter. Here, elope, hounds, elope!” added he, turning his horse’s head away to get the course clear for our friend to mount unmolested.
Billy then effects the ascent of the black mare, most devoutly wishing himself safe off again. The stirrups being adjusted to his length, he gives a home thrust with his feet in the irons, and gathering the thin reins, feels his horse gently with his left leg, just as Solomon mounts Napoleon the Great and advances to relieve the Major of his charge. The cavalcade then proceed; Solomon, with the now clustering hounds, leading; the Major and Billy riding side by side, and the Bumbler on Bulldog bringing up the rear. Caps and curl-papers then disappear to attend to the avocations of the house, the wearers all agreeing that Mr. Pringle is a very pretty young gentleman, and quite worthy of the pick of the young ladies.
Crossing Cowslip garth at an angle they get upon Greenbat pasture, where the first fruits of idleness are shown by Twister and Towler breaking away at the cows.
“Yow, yow!” they go in the full enjoyment of the chase. It’s a grand chance for the Bumbler, who, adjusting his whip-thong, sticks spurs into Bulldog and sets off as hard as ever the old horse can lay legs to the ground.
“Get round them, man! get round them,” shouts the Major, watching Bully’s leg-tied endeavours, the old horse being a better hand at walking than galloping.
At length they are stopped and chided and for shamed, and two more fields land our party in Hollington lane, which soon brings them into the Lingytine and Ewehurst-road, whose liberal width and ample siding bespeaks the neighbourhood of a roomier region. Solomon at a look from the Major now takes the grass siding with his hounds, while the gallant master just draws his young friend alongside of them on the road, casting an unconcerned eye upon the scene, in the hope that his guest will say something handsome at last. But no, Billy doesn’t. He is fully occupied with his boots and breeches, whose polish and virgin purity he still deplores. There’s a desperate daub down one side. The Major tries to engage his attention by coaxing and talking to the hounds. “Cleaver, good dog! Cleaver! Chaunter, good dog! Chaunter!” throwing them bits of biscuit, but all his efforts are vain. Billy plods on at the old post-boy pace, apparently thinking of nothing but himself.
Meanwhile Solomon ambles cockily along on Napoleon, with a backward and forward move of his leg to the horse’s action, who ducks and shakes his head and plays good-naturedly with the hounds, as if quite delighted at the idea of what they are going to do. He shows to great advantage. He has not been out for a week, and the coddling and linseeding have given a healthy bloom to his bay coat, and he has taken a cordial ball with a little catechu, and ten grains of opium, to aid his exertions. Solomon, too, shows him off well. Though he hasn’t our friend Dicky Boggledike’s airified manner, like him he is little and light, sits neatly in his saddle, while his long coat-lap partly conceals the want of ribbing home of the handsome but washy horse. His boots and breeehes, drab cords and brown tops, are good, so are his spurs, also his saddle and bridle.
There is a difference of twenty per cent, between the looks of a horse in a good, well-made London saddle, and in one of those great, spongy, pulby, puddingy things we see in the country. Again, what a contrast there is between a horse looking through a nice plain-fronted, plain-buckled, thin-reined, town-made bridle, and in one of those gaudy-fronted things, all over buckles, with reins thick enough for traces to the Lord Mayor’s coach.
All this adornment, however, is wasted upon fine Billy, who hasn’t got beyond the mane and tail beauties of a horse. Action, strength, stamina, symmetry, are as yet sealed subjects to him. The Major was the man who could enlighten him, if Billy would only let him do it, on the two words for himself and one for Billy principle. Do it he would, too, for he saw it was of no use waiting for Billy to begin.
“Nice ‘oss that,” now observed the Major casually, nodding towards Nap.
“Yarse,” replied Billy, looking him over.
“That’s the o-o-oss I showed you in the stable.”
“Is it?” observed Billy, who didn’t recognize him.
“Ought to be at M-m-melton, that oss,” observed the Major.
“Why isn’t he?” asked Billy, in the innocence of his heart.
“Don’t know,” replied the Major carelessly, with a toss of his head; “don’t know. The fact is, I’m idle — no one to send with him — too old to go myself — haryers keep me at home — year too short to do all one has to do — see what a length he is — ord bless us he’d go over Ashby p-p-pastures like a comet.”
Billy had now got his eyes well fixed upon the horse, which the Major seeing held his peace, for he was a capital seller, and had the great gift of knowing when he had said enough. He was not the man to try and bore a person into buying, or spoil his market by telling a youngster that the horse would go in harness, or by not asking enough. So with Solomon still to and froing with his little legs, the horse still lively and gay, the hounds still frisking and playing, the party proceeded through the fertility-diminishing country, until the small fields with live fences gradually gave way to larger, drabber enclosures with stone walls, and Broadstruther hill with its heath-burnt summit and quarry broken side at length announces their approach to the moors. The moors! Who does not feel his heart expand and his spirit glow as he comes upon the vast ocean-like space of moorland country? Leaving the strife, the cares, the contentions of a narrow, elbow-jostling world for the grand enjoyment of pure unrestricted freedom! The green streak of fertile soil, how sweet it looks, lit up by the fitful gleam of a cloud-obscured sun, the distant sky-touching cairn, how tempting to reach through the many intricacies of mountain ground — so easy to look at, so difficult to travel. The ink rises gaily in our pen at the thought, and pressing on, we cross the rough, picturesque, stone bridge over the translucent stream, so unlike the polished, chiseled structures of town art, where nothing is thought good that is not expensive; and now, shaking off the last enclosure, we reach the sandy road below the watcher’s hill-ensconced hut, and so wind round into the panorama of the hills within.
“Ah! there we are!” exclaimed the Major, now pointing out the myrtle-green gentlemen with their white cords, moving their steeds to and fro upon the bright sward below the grey rocks of Cushetlaw hill.
“There we are,” repeated he, eyeing them, trying to make out who they were, so as to season his greetings accordingly.
There was farmer Rintoul on the white, and Godfrey Faulder, the cattle jobber, on the grey; and Caleb Bennison, the horse-breaker, in his twilled-fustian frock, ready to ride over a hound as usual; and old Duffield, the horse-leech, in his low-crowned hat, black tops, and one spur; and Dick Trail, the auctioneer, on his long-tailed nag; and Bonnet, the billiard-table keeper of Hinton, in his odious white hat, grey tweed, and collar-marked screw; but who the cluster of men are on the left the Major can’t for the life of him make out. He had hoped that Crickleton might have graced the meet with his presence, but there is no symptom of the yellow-coated groom, and Paul Straddler would most likely be too offended at not being invited to dine and have gone to Sir
Moses’s hounds at the Cow and Calf on the Fixton and Primrose-bank road. Still there were a dozen or fourteen sportsmen, with two or three more coming over the hill, and distance hiding the deficiencies as well of steeds as of costume, the whole has a very lively and inspiriting effect.
At the joyous, well-known “here they come!” of the lookers out, a move is perceptible among the field, who forthwith set off to meet the hounds, and as the advancing parties near, the Major has time to identify and appropriate their faces and their persons. First comes Captain Nabley, the chief constable of Featherbeds, who greets our master with the friendliness of a brother soldier, “one of us” in arms, and is forthwith introduced to our Billy. Next is fat farmer Nettlefold, who considers himself entitled to a shake of the hand in return for the Major’s frequent comings over his farm at Carol-hill green, which compliment being duly paid the great master then raises his hat in return for the salutes of Faulder, Rennison, and Trail, and again stops to shake hands with an aged well-whiskered dandy in mufty, one Mr. Wotherspoon, now farming or starving a little property he purchased with his butlerage savings under the great Duke of Thunderdownshire. Wotherspoon apes the manners of high life with the brandified face of low, talks parliament, and takes snuff from a gold box with a George-the-Fourthian air. He now offers the Major a pinch, who accepts it with graceful concession.
The seedy-looking gentleman in black, on the too palpable three and sixpence a sider, is Mr. Catoheside, the County Court bailiff, with his pocket full of summonses, who thinks to throw a round with the Major into the day’s hire of his broken-knee’d chestnut, and the greasy-haired, shining-faced youth with him, on the longtailed white pony, is Ramshaw, the butcher’s boy, on the same sort of speculation. Then we have Mr. Meggison’s coachman availing himself of his master’s absence to give the family horse a turn with the hounds instead of going to coals, as he ought; and Mr. Dotherington’s young man halting on his way to the doctor’s with a note. He will tell his mistress the doctor was out and he had to wait ever so long till he came home. The four truants seem to herd together on the birds-of-a-feather principle. And now the reinforced party reach the meet below the grey ivy-tangled rocks, and Solomon pulls up at the accustomed spot to give his hounds a roll, and let the Major receive the encomiums of the encircling field. Then there is a repetition of the kennel scene: “Lovely! Lovely! Lovely! — beautiful bitch that — Chaunter. Chaunter! Chaunter! — there’s a handsome hound — Bustler, good dog!” Only each man has his particular favourite or hound that he has either bred or walked, or knows the name of, and so most of the pack come in for more or less praise. It is agreed on all hands that they never looked better, or the establishment more complete. “Couldn’t be better if it had cost five thousand a-year!”
