by R S Surtees
Very gratifying to the major must have been the respect our Tom saw him receive, as well from horse as foot. How gracious and condescending old Flexible Back was in return. How he sky-scraped and bowed and bent forward to the raisings and touchings of hats, the curtseyings and good-mornings of the petticoats! No election candidate, primed by the subtlest “Gents, one, &c.,” ever so thoroughly identified himself with a constituency as did our major with the good people around. He had a word to say to every one, and said it neatly too, instead of blundering like Colonel Blunt, calling Mrs Stack Mrs Hen, or Mr Broadcast Mr Turnipfly, but sent each shot right home to the bull’s-eye, showing how infinitely superior — in tact at least — the militia are to the regulars. Being a great man for cheap favours, and never forgetting any he had conferred, he had now a favourable opportunity for calling them over, which he proceeded to do as soon as his punt-hat got settled on his head, after replying to the salutes of Seton, and Ginger, and Drumhead, and Ribgrass, and Vernal, and Tapper, and Elbows, and his profane brother, Dweller, who, it might be observed, was the most humble and subservient of the whole.
“Well, Mr Vernal,” said the major, resting his whip on his thigh like a field-marshal’s baton, “I hope you got the Italian ryegrass seed I sent you safe?”
“Thank you, major; yes, I did,” replied Vernal, who had long ago acknowledged the receipt in writing, and expressed his obligations for the quarter of a bushel on three several occasions.
“Glad of it,” replied the major pompously; “hope it will do you a vast of good.” Then turning to Set on, he said, “Well, Seton, how are you? — child keeps better, I hope?” The major had given the child, who had a sore hand, an outdoor ticket for the infirmary a year and a half before.
“Nicely, thank ye, major,” replied Seton, with another touch of his greasy hat; but, without waiting for an answer, our friend had passed on to Drumhead, to whom he had once sent word that some stray cattle had got into his field.
“How’s Mr Drumhead?” asked he. “Hope he’s well.” Then, without waiting for an answer from him either, he proceeded, “Hope you’ve had no more trespass — monstrous disagreeable thing trespass — no knowing what complaints stray cattle may have, is there, Seton? By the way,” continued he, now addressing Mr Ribgrass, “you once admired my gooseberries — shall be most happy to give you some cuttings”; and so the major went on through the field, finishing off with the ladies, who he coupled with their cats, kittens, and children.
But it is time we had a look at the hounds. Here they are: two, four, six, eight, nine — nine couple and a half of by no means bad-looking little wrigglers. A happy medium between the old psalm-singing potterers of former days, that a hare seemed really to think were playing with her until all of a sudden they got her by the back, and the flying, dwarf foxhound hare bursters of modern times.
“And how do you like my hounds?” asked the major, pointing them out to Tom, adding, “There’s as neat a pack of hounds as any in England — in the world, perhaps — bred with the greatest care and attention — regardless of expense. I’m quite of the great Lord Chesterfield’s opinion, that what’s worth doing at all, is worth doing well, and I’ve always said I wouldn’t keep hounds if I couldn’t keep them well. This is my six-and-twentieth season — six-and-twentieth season,” repeated he. “Long time — very long time to keep hounds without a subscription — believe Heartycheer and oi have kept hounds longer without subscriptions than any two men in the kingdom. There’s a lot of game ‘uns,” said he, as the lively little animals began baying and frolicking under Falconer’s horse’s nose. “Move them on a little, Falconer — move them on a little, and let Mr Hall see them — Mr Hall understands hunting — no man better. Now, there,” continued the major, “are a pack of what I humbly say hounds ought to be. Only a short pack out to-day — a good many lame ones — obliged to economise at the beginning of the season — but there are hounds here that would do credit to any pack — the great Sir John Dashwood King’s himself, who was reckoned the great improver of harriers, introducing the present pushing breed in lieu of the tedious exactness of the old psalm-singing sort. The late Lord Sondes of Rockingham Castle gave Sir John seven hundred guineas for his hounds — a large price — but they were worth it, and so are any well-established pack, such as his or moine,” the major wishing any one would offer him half, or a quarter the money, and let him be done with them altogether.
This, to Tom, as good as a Greek lecture, was here interrupted by a fustian-clad, poacherified-looking scamp, with a red cotton kerchief twisted carelessly round his scraggy neck, stepping up to our master, with a touch of his foxskin cap, and muttering something, which caused our friend to exclaim, “Oh, ah — you’re the man who took Violet to Mr Bluffield’s the day she was kicked,” observed Guineafowle aloud, now diving into the right-hand pocket of his white cords, and fishing something out (a fourpenny-piece), which he slipped in an unostentatious sort of way into the ready hand of the applicant, observing, in an undertone to Hall, as he turned his horse away —
“How true Lord Petre’s observation to Delmé Radcliffe was, that a master of hounds will never have his hand out of his pocket, and must always have a guinea in.”
“It’s a vast to give for a job of that sort,” observed Tom, who thought a shilling would have been enough.
“Keeps things pleasant,” replied Guineafowle, raising his eyebrows, and pouting his lips—” keeps things pleasant,” repeated he. “There’s no hunting a country with any degree of comfort unless you are liberal with your money. A guinea’s badly saved if you’re to be talked of as a shabby fellow,” added he, with a curl of his nose and a toss of his head.
“He must have plenty of money,” thought our Tom, and thereupon the Laura funds rose considerably.
“You remember the story of old Hanbury and the Hertfordshire farmer, don’t you?” asked the proposed papa-in-law.
“No,” replied Tom.
“Oh yes — in Radcliffe’s ‘Noble Science,’” rejoined the major, who thought everybody must be as well read in that work as himself.
Tom stared, and shook his head, never having heard of it.
“I’ll tell it you, then,” said the major, seating himself consequentially in his saddle. “Old Hanbury, you know, was a great brewer in London, and hunted Hertfordshire many years — as many as I’ve done this country, and more p’r’aps — with a subscription, though; and he used to send the farmers who walked him pups, or received damage from the foxes, presents of porter—’ Hanbury’s Entire,’ as it is called — which kept all things right. However, one year the porter was forgotten, and the worthy master received the following anonymous reminder —
“How can you expect the foxes to thrive,
When they have no porter to keep them alive?”
A story that was received by our Tom with all the honours.
The great Billy Bedlington now appeared at the field gate, having been round his farm to see all things straight; and the major, knowing that Billy would soon read the riot act if he was kept waiting, pulled out his watch, and observed that it was time to throw off.
“But first,” said he, addressing the foot-people, who were preparing to strike across the fields for the well-accustomed pasture, “let me entreat of you to be quiet and orderly. No person can be more truly happy to contribute in any shape or way to your gratification or amusement. I’m not one of your stiff-backed aristocrats who think the world was made for none but themselves; on the contrary, I feel great pleasure in seeing you all out with my hounds, but you must be aware that mobbing and shouting and disorderly conduct only tends to mar your own sport and diversion, and—”
An oration that was cut short by the mob bustling away, one long unshaved monster exclaiming —
“Ay, ay, ‘ard man, we knaw arle that — better gie us a trifle to drink.”
The major then giving old Falconer a nod, that worthy whistled his little animals together, and moved towards the gate, followed by
the major, with our Tom on his right, to whom he began expatiating on the merits of the horse his huntsman was riding — said huntsman looking as little like the overnight footman as did the horse look like the carriage-horse Tom had seen in company with the one the major was on, drawing the fair cargo in the streets of Fleecyborough.
Billy Bedlington having moved his elephantine horse a little from the gate, to allow the hounds to pass, now took the vacant place on the major’s left, and mutual salutations being exchanged, with inquiries how Billy got home, the major proceeded to consult him where they should try first.
“Oh why, I should say Mr Hermitage’s aquatic plants — that he calls turnips — would be as likely a place as any this mornin’,” replied Billy.
“The ship are in there, sir,” observed Falconer, with a touch of his cap.
“Sheep are in, are they,” repeated Billy, adding, “Then go to Rushmede Bottoms.”
“Rushmede Bottoms!” exclaimed the major; and forthwith Jonathan Falconer’s shoulders began bobbing responsive to the order, and with a “Come along, hounds, come along,” he turned down Blobbington-lane, along which there was presently a fine splashing and floundering, and stone-scattering and noise.
“Gee!” cried one sportsman to his horse; “Hee!” cried another; “Hold up!” roared a third; “Rot ye!” exclaimed a fourth, cropping and sticking his solitary spur into his bran-fed beggar’s side, “ye’re not tired already?”
Then came Mr Hermitage, astride a wretched fiddle-case-headed, collar-marked, mealy bay, sticking his legs out as though he meant to catch all the gate-posts in the country.
When the stringing cavalcade reached Rushmede Bottoms, the peculiarities of the chase began to manifest themselves, for instead of being marshalled in a corner, with standing-still orders, till the wild beast got away, each man was invited to exert himself in whipping it out of the gorse-bushes and rushy patches with which the pastures abounded, while the foot-people, now breaking rails and pulling out hedge-stakes, scattered far and wide on similar errands. The major acted more as superintendent-general and cicerone to our Tom, in which office he was assisted by Hermitage, the two pointing out to Tom the various points and remarkable features of the country, and expatiating on the marvellous runs they had seen from Skyline Clumps, Heathery Grove, and Loosefish Hill. Just as the major was in the middle of one of his yarns, the hero of the fourpenny-piece held up his fur cap, and the field started convulsively, as if about to encounter a lion.
“Put her away without a view!” exclaimed the major authoritatively, and as Falconer drew his hounds one way, and the man of the cap went the other, many of the gallant sportsmen sat in nervous trepidation, some of them wishing they hadn’t come, others that it was well over. Our Tom, thanks to Tights’ curtailment of his horse’s corn, had been a good deal more comfortable than he was on the Silverspring Firs day, with Lord Heartycheer’s hounds, but now that the fatal moment for action had arrived, the agonies of his former enjoyment rushed back upon his recollection with horrid vividness, and he would have given something to have been getting off his horse at the end. However, there was no help for it; and with twinkling eyes he watched the knowing poacher’s extended staff and stealthy stride as he crouched for pussy’s form. He pokes the place, Tom and field expecting to see her start away like an arrow from the bow. Wrong for once! There’s nothing in, and roars of laughter announce the fact.
“What a go!” shouts Drumhead.
“What a sell!” exclaims Dweller.
“Stupid feller!” roars Tom in considerable relief, adding, “You’re a pretty feller to find a hare.”
Find or no find, the gentleman in question was one of the best hands in the country, and as any gamekeeper within a circle of ten miles could testify.
This contretemps, however, having got all heads up, and the bottoms being pretty well tried, at least all the parts ever used by a hare, our major drew his horn from his saddle, and tweet-tweet-tweeted to some of the wide-ranging beauties at a distance.
The forces being collected, a council of war was now held as to where they should go next, each man advocating a visit to his neighbour’s farm. Drumhead was sure they would find immediately at Ribgrass’s; Ribgrass assured them there hadn’t been such a thing as a hare seen upon his farm since September, and proposed instead that they should go to Mr Dweller’s, at Noddington, where they had such capital sport last time. Dweller, who had a nice crop of turnips that he didn’t want mashed, to say nothing of a good take of seeds that he didn’t think would be improved by the antics of such cavalry as he now saw around him, advised that Mr Heavycrop’s, at Beanlands, would be more likely; but Heavycrop having already intimated that they came rayther too often, and moreover wanted some oat money of Guineafowle, which it wasn’t quite convenient for Guinea to pay, our master thought, perhaps, they had better not go — alleging “that it wasn’t right, as Heavy wasn’t out.” In truth, the major, though extremely popular according to his own account, hadn’t it all his own way as he wished it to be inferred. In this dilemma, Bleaberry Common was suggested, and produced a burst of assent from the farmers present — Tapper, Seton, Elbows, and suchlike, of course, not caring whose land they went upon. Bleaberry Common was then the word, and forthwith Falconer’s cap and shoulders resumed the place in front of the crowd that they had occupied down Blobbington-lane. Bump, bump, splash, splash — whip, spur, hec, gee, hec — the field followed as before. All were now in high spirits, for going to Bleaberry Common was like all putting into the lucky bag to take their chance, instead of being invidiously singled out for a trampling match, the hare being as likely to select one man’s land as another’s. So our friends spread themselves industriously over the common, flopping and hissing, and shoo-shooing at everything that came in their way. Still no puss responded to their noises, and Tapper and Vernal had both looked at their watches to see if their time wasn’t “hup,” and Drumhead feared he “must be goin’,” when a terrific yell, as if some gentleman had suddenly encountered the devil, startled the field, and, looking ahead, a hare was seen going away at a pace that looked as if she would never be caught.
“Hoop! hoop! hoop! — screech! screech! — yell! — tallyho!” mingled with the twang of Jonathan’s horn, and the shrill tweet of the major’s rent the air; and, as these noises gradually died out, the musical notes of the little hounds rose and swelled on the breeze like the melody of musical glasses. They clustered like a swarm of bees.
“There!” exclaimed the major, pointing them out to our now trembling Tom, as the hounds bustled away with the scent—” there,” repeated he, “ar’n’t they like a lot of gallant fellows, who, when they engage in an undertaking, determine to share its fatigue and dangers equally amongst them?” — a piece of Beckfordism that was lost on Tom, who was fully occupied with his horse.
“Hold hard! and let Mr Hall take his place!” exclaimed the major to Tapper and Elbows, who were having a trial of speed with their hack-horses, regardless of the hounds. “Hold hard!” repeated he, frowning at them, as he hustled with Tom in before them.
The common being open, and the hare having run the full length of it, our friends had some pleasant plain sailing at starting — a most favourable thing for steadying the nerves for future exploits — and they rode and rode as if raspers and rivers were nothing in their way. As they reached the end, however, and a sod boundary fence, with a line of furze along the top, obtruded its ungainly dimensions, there was a good deal of pas yielding politeness, and scientific explanation as to why the hare shouldn’t cross it, and it was not until old Stormer popped into the enclosure beyond, and proclaimed it with his wonted energy, that our friends became sensible of the awful predicament they were in. There they were, with a fence nearly five feet high before them, with nobody knew what on the far side.
“Don’t be in a hurry!” exclaimed the major—” don’t be in a hurry,” repeated he, as if quite ready to take it when necessary, only wanting to be convinced that the hare was on
— a fact that was soon placed beyond all doubt by the pack scrambling to Stormer’s proclamation, and peeling onward with the scent. “Forrard” went Warbler and Bustler, and Wanton and Frolic, and Ringwood and Clearer, and Fortune and Twister, and Lovely and Countess, and Skilful and Tickler, and Towler and Lilter — all the merry little minstrels to the veteran’s summons.