by R S Surtees
London being now accessible to everybody — accessible either by the flying Express, the moderate twopence-a-mile, or the still more reasonable Parliamentary trains, according as time or money is most valuable to the traveller, people get sucked up to the capital almost incontinently, and talk of going to town just as their forefathers talked of going to sessions or assizes. And there being little fatigue consequent on the journey, there is no occasion for the prolonged stay for recruiting that used to be considered necessary ere the intrepid voyageur again committed his precious person to the care of all the jibbers, and kickers, and vicious horses in the country. People talk of the dangers of railways, but all horse owners know that there was no little danger attendant on the coaches. If a man had a vicious animal he always sold it to a coach proprietor.
And Romford, ever anxious to be doing, and being now a great man — a master of fox-hounds — sought the capital, like his equals, and renewed his acquaintance with the large swelling bosom of Goodhearted Green. Goodheart was well in stock with troublesome animals, having what Mr Rarey would call some very incorrigible offenders, constantly passing and repassing through his hands. Never a week elapsed without his either receiving a most fuming letter from some provincial dupe, or some resident cockney walking Lincoln and Bennett in hand up his yard, to show the destruction done to his head-gear.
Then Goodheart, inflating his canary-coloured vest, with grief would sigh and exclaim, “Oh dear, dear, dear, was there ever sich doings, was there ever sich doings! Here, Michael! Robert! William!” hallooing to his men, “did any of you ever see any symptoms of vice or depravity about that ’ere cockolorum ‘oss?” then they all exclaimed, as with one voice, “Oh, never, sir! never! quietest ‘oss that ever was seen,” and then retired to their respective dens to watch the further proceedings.
When Mr Romford came, which was towards the close of the London season, Goodheart had some seven or eight horses that a timid rider could make nothing whatever of, horses that, if the purchaser wanted to go to Barking, would perhaps insist upon carrying him to Brompton, or may be to Hoddesdon instead of Hyde Park. There were others with less objectionable properties, but still troubled with qualities that made them unmarketable to general purchasers.
Now Goodheart, who could read a man pretty quickly, recognised in Romford the materials of a determined rider, and opened his expanding breast accordingly, telling him the peculiarities of each, and recommending such as he knew were full of courage and endurance.
First on the list was that noble weight-carrying hunter, bought as “The Cur,” but re-christened by Goodheart “Honest Robin.” The Cur — we beg pardon — Honest Robin, was a bright, sixteen hands chestnut, with light lively action, a capital fencer, and fast, but unfortunately having been ridden to a standstill in his youth, and not relishing the performance, now shut up whenever he thought he’d had enough. In the middle of a run, when the rider thought he was going gallantly, expecting to cut everybody down, the Cur would suddenly collapse, and refuse to proceed a step further, leaving the laughing field to pass him like a mile-stone. No, neither bullying nor coaxing had any effect on the Cur. He would kick, and strike, and plunge, and wheel round and round, but as to going any further, that he resolutely declined — it was quite out of the question. “A fair day’s work for a fair day’s food” was the horse’s motto; and of course the animal himself was the best judge of what was fair. And this sort of performance not being at all relished in the hunting-field, he passed quickly from country to country, becoming more hardened in his profligate habits at each change — until he introduced the practice of the hunting-field into his ordinary road performances. He wouldn’t go any further than he liked on a journey, and if his rider insisted on pushing him forward, he would either run away or kick him over his head, and return home without him. And a horse that will neither ride nor drive not being of much use to anybody, he at length came into Goodhearted Green’s hands, who, knowing how the world is governed by appearances, thought to turn him to account.
The Cur not being at all an endearing or marketable name, ‘Goodheart quickly changed it to its opposite, Honest Robin, a confidence-inspiring one, which, coupled with his appearance (barring a certain sulk of the eye), was well calculated to produce a favourable impression. Then, to see Goodheart appraising him to a purchaser, shaking his head, and drawing in his breath, as though he were taking a prolonged suck at a stick of barley-sugar, was a fine piece of acting.
Green had sold him for three hundred guineas, and thirty back; for two hundred, and twenty back; for one hundred, with nothing back; and now put him into Romford at thirty pounds, or half of whatever he made beyond that. Of course Facey didn’t put anything down, “honour among thieves” being the motto.
The next of Goodhearted Green’s horses that it will be necessary to introduce to the reader, was a black horse called Brilliant, some sixteen hands and a half high, and nearly a perfect model of a weight-carrying hunter. (At first sight, he appeared to be two inches lower than he really was, his great frame having been well developed by good meat when he was young. He stood slightly over before, rather an advantage to Goodheart than otherwise, for suspicious purchasers invariably took exception to his legs, and required to be specially guaranteed against their going; a request that Goodheart readily complied with, for he knew that the horse had been foaled so, and subscribed to the doctrine that the legs of horses so foaled never failed.
Still Brilliant — and be it observed, he had never passed under any other name — had his peculiarities, being, as Goodheart amiably observed, a “playful rogue,” that is to say, a most inveterate savage in the stable. He would kick, and bite, and fly at even the man with his food, in a way that was perfectly alarming, and Goodheart had always to pay a helper two or three shillings a week more for looking after Brilliant than the regular tariff of the yard. Still, when at the door and in the hunting-field, Brilliant was quite quiet and tractable; but then the difficulty was to get him to the door, it being obvious to everybody that a horse is of no use to any one unless he can be got there. And many a time Green’s too sensitive bosom had been wrung with recitals of the horse’s malpractices ere Mr Romford’s manly form relieved him of him. Brilliant had nearly eat so many men, that Goodheart feared a “crowner’s ‘quest” from him, and didn’t know but he himself might be involved in the consequences. So he put him in very low, twenty pounds, or half of whatever Romford might get beyond that for him.
The third was Leotard, the wondrous Leotard! a beautiful creamcoloured lady’s pad, with an Arab-like head, and silver mane and tail — a picture to look at, but a profligate in practice. Leotard had no notion of doing anything he didn’t like, and as remonstrance was vain, and pretty sure to end in a backward over rear, it was Goodheart’s humour to show him in a plain snaffle bridle, as if he could be turned with a thread. And there were times when Leotard would do exactly what he was wanted; at other times he seemed to be possessed of a devil, and would do nothing but either run away or rear. Still, he had the redeeming quality of generally showing off to advantage before strangers, especially to purchasers, and had brought Goodheart in considerable gains. But his peculiar colour was against him — as was his character. He came back too often, and people began to quiz Goodheart about the cream-colour’s notorious performances, so that altogether he wasn’t sorry when Romford decided upon making Leotard the third in his horse-box. And having said that he wasn’t “altogether to be depended upon,” he left Facey to find out what were his deficiencies. Leotard was put in low, ten pounds, or half profit as before. So the new friends parted, mutually pleased with each other, Goodheart thinking he had done Romford, and Romford thinking he had done Goodheart.
And now, humbly following in the footsteps of the immortal author of the “House that Jack built,” and having got some hounds to follow the fox that stole the goose that Facey meant for his dinner, and also some horses to live with the hounds that followed the fox that stole the goose that Facey meant f
or his dinner, let us see about getting some men to ride the horses and live with the hounds that followed the fox that stole the goose that Facey meant for his dinner.
XIII. SWIG AND CHOWEY
WHAT DILAPIDATED SPECIMENS OF HORSEY humanity one sees down Tattersall’s yard on a full Monday in the height of the London season. Men in every stage of sporting decay, from the covered button roseate groom of yesterday’s dismissal, down to the threadbare, calfless scarecrow of irreconcilable garments, who does not look as if he had had a meal for a month. Were there ever such queerly-cut clothes, so oddly put on; such shaggy heads, such baggy shorts, such faded, careless ties, such uncouth vests, such extraordinary coats, so rich in little oddly-placed pockets, made for holding the mythical never-coming coin! What sticks, what legs, what sticks of legs! Two to one but every other man wants a back button to his coat. And yet these incongruous garments often cover those who have been clad, if not in purple and fine linen, at all events in pink — men who have been hailed by my Lord and noticed by Sir Harry, as they jogged on to cover with their hounds; or maybe they contain men who, in the soberer costume of stud grooms, and the full arrogance of office, have even refused their masters admission to their own stables, now perhaps only too happy to lead a newly-purchased horse at the hammer all the way to Hackney or Hoxton for a shilling.
If the talented author of Dick Christian’s lectures could inveigle a few of these men down into the Turf tap, and opening their hearts with a little of Mr Maish’s best brandy, he might gain matter for instruction on servitude that would be extremely useful both to master and man — to the masters in teaching them not to give way to the men, to the men as teaching them not to presume with their masters. We incline, however, to think the demon drink would be found to have been at the bottom of most of their misfortunes. Not that the men themselves would admit the fact, but would say they had been most unhandsomely used, or made the victims of base conspiracy or unfounded suspicions. Drink! oh no, they never mention drink.
It was at Messrs. Tattersall’s repository of bad legs and brandy noses that Mr Romford sought to supply the vacancies caused by Mr Lotherington’s retirement, and the subsequent secession of his coadjutor Mr Michael. Romford wanted two whippers-in to aid in breaking and entering the hounds so surreptitiously obtained, and our master giving his own personal superintendence to every department of the kennel, he did not care more about character than a groom generally does when he engages a helper. Knowledge of their business, with lightness of weight, were Facey’s principal requirements; and as most men out of place are light, and summer is the season for choice, he soon had plenty of applicants — some with whole bones, some with broken; some with teeth, some without, some with a few scattered here and there. They were all most willing to work; no asking who did this or that, or inquiring how many suits of clothes Mr Romford allowed in a year. Fancy old Facey giving his servants what he didn’t allow himself. He had so many remnants of humanity to choose from, that he scarcely knew which to select. Now he thought Joe Harford, late of the Blazers, whose face was his character, would do; then Harry, late of the Beckingham Bruisers, superseded Joe, and was in turn eclipsed by the hard-riding — too hard-riding Rat from the Cheshire. Just as he was closing with the Rat, who, as Facey said, seemed as light as a bladder, up came the residuum of that hard-bitten, hard-drinking creature Daniel Swig. Daniel, clad in three waistcoats, and no coat, the outer waistcoat worn open, like a spencer, a pair of very critical-looking cords, and dirty leather leggings, with sadly patched shoes. Daniel had lived with the great Lord Scamperdale, who had put up with his nonsense so long that he thought his Lordship would stand him for ever, and now, finding his mistake, he could never sufficiently atone for his faults by airing his Lordship’s name, on all drunken occasions. He seemed to think it a perfect talisman against mischief, and would go hallooing out “Mind! I’m Daniel! I’m the Right Honourable the Hurl of Scamperdale’s Daniel!” as if it would be perfect high treason to meddle with such a man as Daniel. Facey knew Daniel, and also that he knew his business, so he threw the Rat over (who had but one eye), and installed Daniel instead. He soon picked up a match for him in the forlorn figure of little Tom Chowey.
Who doesn’t know little Tom Chowey? — Chowey, the man with the india-rubber-hall-like mouth? — Chowey, the mildest-mannered, civilestspoken, most drunken little dog in the kingdom? Chowey has been with half the hunts going, thus forming a large acquaintance, and so enabling him to earn a precarious livelihood when out of place, by touching his hat, and re-introducing himself to itinerant sportsmen, or gentlemen down Tattersall’s yard. “Remembers your Lordship when I lived with the Crammers,” with a saw of the air with his arm. “Caught your ‘oss, Sir Harry, when you got that juice of a fall with the Varickshire”(“juice” being the nearest approach to an oath that Chowey ever indulges in). “Was out, Mr Crasher, when you swam the Lune on Lehander,” and so on. A horsey scamp will generally get a shilling out of a sportsman, while a combey or a staylacey one would plead in vain. The most remarkable part of Chowey, however, was his mouth. This, as we said before, was like an india-rubber ball, and once seen could never be forgotten. In repose it was like the neck of the ball tied; when, however, the owner was excited — say, by the sight of a fox — it gaped again, just like one of the Dutch toys into whose mouth children try to chuck balls. When he screwed it up, it looked like the incipient trunk of an elephant. The whole of the lower part of his face seemed to converge to that feature. It was a most remarkable one.
Swig, with his three waistcoats on, was a few pounds heavier than Chowey, the two together weighing less than friend Facey. They were as lean as laths, just like so many feet of galvanized gristle. Both had piercing grey eyes that roved in all directions, like Daniel Forester’s on dividend days. Their ages might be anything — anything between thirty and sixty. Swig’s wardrobe went into a little valise that swung in the air as light as a pen case, while Chowey carried his in the crown of an extinguishing bell-shaped hat. These two geniuses, Romford, after due deliberation and much cautioning, at length engaged, and having paid their third-class fares by the Parliamentary train, and giving them each a penny roll and sixpence a-piece, sent them off to Minshull Vernon, thinking they could not do much harm till he came. And like a majestic master as he now began to be, he followed next day with his newly-acquired horses.
XIV. CUB HUNTING
HAVING ALREADY INTIMATED THAT MR Romford did not stay very long with the Heavyside Hunt, and not having Brown, Jones, and Robinson in the field, the reader will not expect us to dilate much on the peculiarities of the country, or to tell who gave Mr Romford
white bread
Who gave him brown;
Who gave him plum cake
And sent him out of town;
but would doubtless rather that we trotted on with our story to the more permanent scene of his great sporting career.
To this end, therefore, we shall be very brief, merely observing that he got through his summer very comfortably, fishing where he liked, shooting where he liked, and, generally speaking, doing pretty much what he liked. The harvest was early, the corn was cut and carried in good order, and he satisfied himself that the litters of foxes were both numerous and strong. He had heard nothing of Jog or his check; nothing of Mr Holmside, the treasurer of the Stir-it-Stiff Poor Law Union; nothing of Mr Nathan Levy and his rent; and nothing of Mr Soapey Sponge, either about his shop or his wife. Altogether, Mr Romford felt like a new man — like the Turbot on its tail himself. If he ever thought of Oncle Gilroy, it was only to bless the day on which he stared into Wilkinson and Kidd’s shop window, and was instigated to become a master of fox-hounds. Thanks to the generosity of his brother masters, or the gullibility of their huntsmen, he had now a most promising entry of hounds. If they were only as good as they looked, thought he, they would indeed be hard to beat. And he would stand by the hour in the kennel, criticising their shape and their make, incontinently culling samples of his beard, until he
was actually sore with the operation. And as the glad day approached for trying the pack, he was more and more in the kennel, until he seemed absolutely to begrudge himself his necessary rest and relaxation. At length came the time for trying their prowess, as also that of his horses and men.
Most masters would have felt rather nervous in taking the field with two such coadjutors as Chowey and Swig, but Mr Romford knew no fear, for he looked carefully after them himself; and there being no public-house within three miles of the kennel, save the “Dog and Partridge” inn, where he himself lived, and whose every nook and cranny he could command from his sitting-room, they dare not come there, while he hardly gave them time to get elsewhere. Moreover, they had no money, and were not likely-looking customers for people to trust. So they had to “behave themselves” whether they were inclined to do so or not.
