by R S Surtees
The bridge stands obliquely over the broad impetuous Wheetlade, presenting a pleasing feature from whichever end it is approached. Belonging to two counties, the surveyors of each exercise their ingenuity in making their respective ends as different as possible, the arches of one being of thirty, the other of fifty feet chord; while the wall and parapet of one is of coped rubble, and the other has an iron-railing fixed upon an indifferent ashlar one, to prevent drunken farmers and others shooting over the acute angle into the brawling river below. The bridge itself is on a liberal incline; and of course there is a toll-bar at the low end, presenting a substantial barrier to runaway horses, and causing many an objurgation from travellers on wheels, who expect to enjoy the benefit of the descent. Nothing annoys people so much as having to pull up to pay when they are cheating their horses into a belief that they have got nothing behind them.
Branforth bridge was not a very favourite meet for foxhunters, the general report of a day’s sport from thence being, “We ran up the banks and down the banks;” but as the foxes liked the banks it was necessary to disturb them occasionally and drive them out into more popular quarters. Still it was a favourite place for the rising generation, and just at the season of the year when the schools had returned their valuable charges to their homes, it was sure, on a fine day like the present, to draw a considerable number.
Although Mr. Jovey Jessop did not, as we said before, affect lady-foxhunters, he was kind and encouraging to boys, who, besides placing under the particular care of his Jug, he always charged his servants to keep an eye upon, and to ride by such safe ways as would show them the most of a run. So he kept up his popularity with the Mammas who brought their smiling-faced boys on their ponies and in their pretty basket-carriages and confided them to his care, in the full confidence of getting them safe back again.
“Here we are now!” exclaimed Mr. Jovey Jessop, as the brow of Highford Hill brought them full above the circling river, with its well-wooded banks, marking its meandering course through the country. “Here we are!” repeated he, taking out his watch, and showing Mr. Bunting that it was seven minutes within time.
Two or three red coats, and two or three black coats, dotted the line, the wearers working their horses in the careful sort of way that denotes a ride on, but there was little to indicate a popular gathering.
“Well, but where are the hounds?” asked Mr. Bunting, thinking there was a great falling off in the field.
“The hounds are in the quarry,” replied Mr. Jessop, and easing out his horse, he drove rapidly down the hill; but, instead of crossing the bridge, he turned short to the right, and trotting up a narrow lane, entered a spacious whins tone quarry, that looked as if it could supply all the world with stone. Ow, wow, wow, went the joyful hounds, up went the hats and caps, smiles and greetings burst from all quarters. The large sheltered area of the quarry was alive with hounds, and horses, and carriages, and ponies — black, white, dun, roan, pie-bald, skew-bald — all the captivating colours, in fact. There was Mrs. Lob, with her large lustrous dark eyes fixed on her son, now sitting sideways on his skew-bald, whom she commends to the “very great care” of Mr. Jessop, begging that he will not let him ride over any five-barred gates, or dangerous places; there is Mrs. Honeybrook, sitting in her clothes-basket in the midst of her bevy of beauties equally energetic with regard to Albert Arthur, while Mrs. Eglantine begs that Mr. Jessop will see to sweet William, who is out with the hounds for the first time in his life. To all of whose injunctions, and to those of several others, Mr. Jessop replies that he will make a point of attending, and will place the boys under the care of Mr. Boyston as soon as ever he comes up. And scarcely are the words out of his mouth ere our red-hot Mend is borne into the midst of the assemblage by the boring, teeth-grinding Billy Rough’un; and, the usual interchange of civilities or incivilities, such as “Well, Tom!”
“Well, Jug!”
“Well, old Quart Pot! how goes it?” and so on, over, Mr. Jessop, who has now mounted his horse, and sits in the midst of his hounds, exclaims, “I say, Boyston! here are three hundred and fifty thousand pounds worth of jewels (looking round on the smiling faces as he spoke) committed to your care; now will Mark and you take and ride them so as to show them as much of the run as you can, and keep them out of all scrapes?”
To which the Jug, who is a kindly-disposed man, and takes up with children as though he had some of his own, replies, “I will,” whereupon Mrs. Lob and all the Mammas open upon him, each urging the claims of her innocent to extra care and protection, in the midst of which Mr. Jovey Jessop having moved first his hat to the ladies, then moves his hounds out of the quarry.
CHAPTER LXXXIV.
A DAY FOR THE JUVENILES.
AS USUAL THE departure of the hounds operated like the bursting of a pent-up cataract; there was a general rush and hurry after them. First went the keen fustian and smock-frocked countrymen with their staffs, and their poles; then the anxious few-days-a-season-men, desirous of seeing as much as they could; next the easy-going regulars who despised the banks and were only out because it was a fine day, followed by a few second horsemen and the homeward bound grooms. Mr. Boyston was presently left alone in the quarry with the youngsters and their Mammas. Then there was a fresh appeal to his sympathies on behalf of Albert Arthur, sweet William, and others, each Mamma declaring she would be so much obliged to Mr. Boyston if he would look after her boy. Oh, she would be so much obliged!
Billy Rough’un, not being a horse that liked being left behind, very soon began fidgeting and turning tail to get after the hounds, so Mr. Boyston having assured the ladies that they might rest perfectly satisfied of the safety of their darlings, marshalled his forces as quickly as possible, saying, “Now, boys! follow me, and whatever you do, keep clear of the horses, for they often kick ponies when they wouldn’t kick one another.” So saying, he took off his hat to the ladies, and led the way out of the quarry, followed by the miniature field, the rear being brought up by some very sedate-looking family servants with large stomachs, large whips, and a great many large crest-buttons on their party-coloured coats. Then the ponies, like their riders, began showing which had a turn for the chase and which not, some ambling and curveting to get oh, others plodding carelessly along, as though there was nothing particular astir.
It is strange how hunting runs in families, some boys taking to it quite naturally, others never having the slightest idea of anything of the sort. There is young Lob, for instance, so lively and gay, sitting quite at his ease, though his skew-bald pony is excited and keen, while Master Bowderoukins (nephew of our esteemed friend) has called in the aid of his roundabout red-vested man to see if he can’t make his old brown pony go quieter, though it has no more life in it than a cow. Even little Eglantine, who is two years younger, and has never been out before, laughs at Bowderoukins, and asks if he is tired already. Joe Walker, who has been out hunting four times, and is quite an old sportsman, holloas out, “Never say die!” as flourishing his right arm he trots past Bowderoukins, now busy a bun.
Mr. Boyston, meanwhile, looks them all over, thinking which will make sportsmen and which not.
“And what do you call your pony?” asks he of Lob, as the keen little animal darts up along side the great striding Billy Rough’un.
“Atalanta,” replies Lob, swinging along quite at his ease.
“Rather fresh, isn’t it?” asks Mr. Boyston, eyeing its impetuosity.
“I’ll soon cure it of that,” replies Lob, patting its arched neck—” wait till I get it upon grass.”
“And what do you call your pony?” asks Mr. Boyston of little Honeybrook, as the latter on his white now draws up on Mr. Boyston’s left. —
“Lily of the Valley,” replies the boy, pleased with the notice of the red-coat.
“Lily of the Valley,” repeats Mr. Boyston— “Lily of the Valley — a very pretty name, and a very pretty pony too. Mind,” added he, addressing himself conjointly to his companions—” mind you keep ou
t of the crowd, and don’t let your ponies touch the horses, and tell the other boys to do the same.”
“I will,” says Lob.
“And whatever you do, keep clear of the hounds — Mr. Jessop wouldn’t lose one of those dogs if it was ever so.”
“I will,” says Lob, now turning his pony off the road for a probationary gallop up the grass-siding. Away went Lob, followed by Honeybrook, Walker, and two or three others.
“Come on! come on!” cries Mr. Boyston, looking back, and waiving his arm to little Bowderoukins, and others in the rear, to advance.
“Get on, Master Charles! get on, Master George!” urge the attendant servants, and forthwith there is extra exertion of elbows and legs, and the party press up towards the safe pilot.
“Mold hard!” now holloas Mr. Boyston to those in advance, and forthwith Lob and his tail pull up, and turning their ponies, take a return gallop towards him.
“G-e-ntly!” cries Mr. Boyston, holding up his hand as they advance—” g-e-ntly!” repeats he, as the hurrying boys try to outstrip one another. After shooting past a few paces, the racing-party pull up, and wheeling round, rejoin their companions, when the juvenile party is again complete.
Meanwhile Mr. Jessop having jogged on with the hounds, is now approaching the end of the little spinny which runs down into the banks. It is a nice warm sheltered place, with a variety of comfortable am bush, which our master always makes safe before drawing the wood. Hopping over a low fence, his gallant chestnut horse, Star of the West applies himself vigorously to the steep ascent as though he liked the exertion of climbing. Arrived at the top, the hounds dash eagerly into cover, dividing and spreading like a rocket. The field follow in long-drawn file, but Mr. Boyston recollecting that there is an awkward bottom to cross, halts his little party to the infinite mortification of Lob, who does not like leaving the hounds.
“This way, boys,” cries Mr. Boyston, turning Billy Rough’on’s head in quite a contrary direction to what the hounds are going—” this way, boys,” and passing through a well-established gap, he rides them along Leawood Green, while the occasional cheer of the huntsman becomes fainter and fainter.
“But what shall we do if they find?” now asks Lob, anxiously, trotting up alongside of his leader.
“Oh, I’ll soon catch them up,” replies Mr. Boyston, jogging on.
Lob doesn’t like it, and thinks they had much better stick to the hounds. That, however, he keeps to himself.
Mr. Boyston jogs on briskly, and presently making a short turn to the left, after pursuing the intricacies of a very devious cattle-track through some much mutilated brushwood, he suddenly pulled up on Pebble Bidge Hill with the panorama of the advancing pack coming down upon them.
“Here we are!” cried he, pointing them out to his party. Mr. Jessop’s “yoicks wind him! yoicks push him up!” sounding most musically. So the steady hounds come sniffing here and there and everywhere for the scent, regardless alike of scuttling rabbits, and bouncing hares. Lob’s eyes sparkle with pleasure, but little Bowderoukins dives into his overcoat-pocket, and fishes up a currant-bun, with which he commences regaling himself. Still the cry is “yoicks wind him! yoicks push him up!” varied with an occasional crack, which startles the wood-pigeons and scares an occasional pheasant. And now the steady drawing hounds are parallel with our juvenile party, and the sloping spinny inclines more determinedly to the river.
“Follow me, boys!” cries Mr. Boyston, again turning tail, and cutting away through a ricketty old gate on the left, ho strikes down a very indifferent road, which, after two or three tortuous windings, brings him upon the alluvial soil of the fields next the river, just as Conqueror, Traveller, Whimsey, and Whipster round the expanding spinny, and enter upon the well-wooded banks above.
“Now you’ll see everything,” says Mr. Boyston, pointing to the spreading pack with Mr. Jessop and the body of the field riding on the high side of the cover.
Lob draws rein, and sits with eager eye viewing the gay speckled hounds ranging all over the banks; while Honeybrook and Walker propose a race up the field to the opposite gate, and Bowderoukins perseveres assiduously with his bun. There is pretty good lying, and Mr. Jessop gives his hounds plenty of time, never liking to hear that he has loft a fox behind, or that one had slipped away at one end of a cover just as he went out at the other.
And now a loud crack of Horneyman’s whip reverberates through the clear atmosphere awakening the distant echoes; and ere its last notes have expired there is such an outburst of melody from the pack, that the horses are thrown into ecstacies, the ponies caper, and Atalanta darts at the bit as if it was determined to be off.
The fox has been snugly ensconced in an ivy-bush, high up in a crag, and came down with a sweep right before Pillager and Champion, and nothing but astonishment at the unwonted descent prevents them annihilating him. Prompter, and Prowler, and Hotspur, and Spanker, and Sportive, too, get a view, and the whole pack rush from their respective lines to join in the general outcry. Twenty couple of lately leisurely-taking-it hounds are thrown into a state of the most frantic excitement, and rush after the hardy old veteran of a fox in the most headstrong violent way. If he was to dash at an express train, or run into a red-hot furnace, they would follow him. The twang of the horn, and the cheer of the huntsmen are drowned in the melody of the pack, and the glad party push on in the hopes that the fox will run up the banks, but not down the banks, as heretofore has been usual. Mr. Bunting is now quite at home on the Bold Pioneer, who is neither too fresh nor too stale, but just in that comfortably subdued state when a horse yields his wishes to his master, and canters merrily along, snorting, and clearing his pipes as he goes.
“Now, boys! look sharp!” cries Mr. Boyston, hugging the teeth-grinding Billy Rough’un, and getting in front of his party; “follow me,” continues he settling himself in his great saddle, feet well home in the stirrups, and proceeding to pound up the gate-accommodating line of fields running parallel with the swiftly gliding river. The hounds are on their right hand, crashing and racing through the well-wooded banks, making the welkin ring with their melody. All operations are suspended at their coming. The birds in the air, the cattle in the field, the countrymen in the fold are all diverted from their pursuits. A magical influence pervades the air, heads are up and eyes are straining to the utmost to get a view of the fugitive.
Mr. Jessop shoots a-head in the stealing sort of way that so soon leaves a lagger in the lurch, and just gains the brow of Millerton Hill as the fox comes pacing up the green valley leading from the banks to Summercourt Dale, with two crows and a magpie hovering and wheeling on his line.
Our master daps spurs to the gallant Star of the West, and dropping his whip-thong as he goes, meets the fox full in the face at the accustomed turn by which he generally seeks to regain the banks, and with a tremendous crack and a “hoop!” sends him sailing away on to Farmanby Common, and so up to Rawdon Hill, and away towards Finglemoor Edge. This dexterous feat accomplished, a second or two bring up the racing hounds. Fugleman and Firebrand racing for the lead — every hound throwing his tongue — and all in a fine widening phalanx. Away they race, with a breast-high scent. And now two distinct parties emerge from the banks, the one led by Horneyman, comprising the élite of the red coats; the other by the Jug, who being on the low side of the wood has lee-way to recover, and comes tearing up a roughly stoned lane, spattering his little followers with the mud and débris of the surface as he goes.
“Now, boys, follow me!” exclaims he, standing in his stirrups and looking round on the party, as on rising the banks he sees the hounds are racing due north; adding, “and whatever you do, don’t cross or touch other horses, for there are tailors who seek to conceal their incompetence by abusing boys.” So saying, he again settled himself in his saddle, and went bucketing away, with the little ponies after him, in the extraordinary sort of way these little animals keep up with a horse. Thus he went hitting and holding and grinning and watching, running his min
d’s eye through all the familiar gaps and gates and nicks of the line.
“Hold hard!” now cries he, as Lob, who is a little in advance, puts Atalanta at a broken down fence over which the rest of the field have passed. “Hold hard!” cries he, turning short to the left, and throwing open the first of a series of gates leading up to Shillingham farm on the hill. Then seeing that Bowderoukins’s Robin-red-breast has caught the gate for his young master, the Jug again sets sail, with Lob by his side, who asks him anxiously, “Why they don’t keep with the hounds?”
“I’ll show you,” says the Jug, rather posed with the question. “I’ll show you,” says he; and after clattering along the field road and swinging open several more convenient gates, he at length passes right through farmer Sweetland’s stack-yard, and presents his followers with a fresh smiling landscape, just as Sweetland’s cur, having chased the fox, has brought the hounds to a stand-still on a large rough fallow two fields below the comfortable well-stocked homestead.
“There!” said the Jug, pointing triumphantly to the hounds, “there,” said he, “you have them without risking your neck over the hedges and ditches.”
“Well, but I like leaping,” says Lob, stealing on and making for the hounds instead of waiting with the Jug to see which way they will go next. Little Albert Arthur follows Lob’s example, but sweet William, Bowderoukins, and the rest remain with our deputy master, Mr. Boyston. Mark, Mr. Jovey Jessop’s second horseman, then detaches himself from the miscellaneous group of servants, and trots gently on with an eye on the adventurous youths. Lob pulls up at a respectful distance from the field, and eyes Mr. Jessop’s proceedings with his hounds, now casting them, now letting them alone. So he holds them round the south side of the large fallow — every bound working his best, but unable to recover the scent. At length Trueman after a precautionary whimper drops his stem with a vigorous proclamation, and dashes at the neighbouring hedgerow as if he expected to find the fox in the middle of it. Life is again infused into the lately drooping pack, and impetuosity supplies the place of care. Horses and riders catch the enthusiasm, and there is a complete electrification of the whole. The hounds dash at the hedgerow which bends and breaks with their weight. Mr. Jessop follows close on the tail ones, clearing the wattled fence and yawning ditch in his stride. Homeyman does the same, the next man breaks the witherings, the third displaces some cut and laid growers, while the fourth brushes all away together, and nearly reposes after a flounder in the broad black ditch beyond. His horse having at length extricated his hind legs and re-established himself on terra firma, to the great satisfaction of his rider, again sets sail, when the dread place has to be encountered by the remanets, many of whom go w-h-o-a-ing and craneing, wishing themselves well over. That desirable feat accomplished by the next in rotation, he looks back and cries, “There’s nothing to be afraid of!” so the succeeding man approaches it with increasing confidence, his young grey horse, however, throwing such an arch as apparently contradicts the assertion. Still, it is no time for turning; every man hurries his neighbour, either for the purpose of getting over or putting an end to his own fears.