or TfiK fiiJfir

BV

lUustpatcd by the Author^

FLOWERS OF THE HUNT.

LOWERS

OF

-^ THE HUNT

BY

FINCH MASON

miih M[in lllufitptioiis bg th^ Jluthoii, indudtng

LONDON:
MESSRS. FORES, PICCADILLY, W.

1889.

[All Rights Reserved.]

Chas. Straker & Sons,* Printers, London and Redhill.

TO

^^ SPORTSMEN" IN GENERAL,

AND

HUNTING MEN IN PARTICULAR,
THIS VOLUME IS DEDICATED

BY
THEIR OBEDIENT SERVANT,

THE AUTHOR,

AUTHOR'S PREFACE.

AID an old Etonian to me the other day :
'' In my time (and I dare say yours)
there was always one particular boy in the
school noted for the habitual possession of a worse
hat than any of his fellows'." In my day a youth

named Mc was the celebrity in that way. His

head-gear was invariably something dreadful to con-
template. When, therefore, he appeared one day at
'' absence " in the school-yard, wearing an apparently
bran-new *' tile," with a lustre upon it that ''The
Glossy Peer " himself might have been proud of, he
created quite a sensation amongst his friends of the
Remove. Finally, Doctor Hawtrey, dandiest of
pedagogues, noticed the circumstance, and, bowing
ironically, said in his mincing manner : '' I con-
gratulate you, Mc , on the possession at last

of a new hat." '' Wrong again, sir," repHed that
unabashed youth, ''Ifs the old 'tin done up!''

This, gentle reader, is the case with this book.
Some of these papers appeared a few years ago in the

viii Authors Preface.

columns of BeWs Life in London^ now amalgam-
ated with the Sporting Life, to the courtesy of
whose proprietor I am indebted for permission to
republish them, and to whom I now beg to ex-
press my thanks.

Since then they have been to a great extent re-
written, and many new " Flowers " added to the
bouquet. The author ventures to think that, like
the Etonian's hat, they have lost nothing by being
^' done up." If the public will only endorse that
opinion, he will be well satisfied.

CONTENTS

The Master of the Hounds

Mr. Grimboy, the Father of the Hunt

Tom Tootler, the Huntsman . .

The Chirpingtons of Larkley Hall

The Rev. Marmaduke Merrythought, the Chaplain of
THE Hunt . .

Mr. and Lady Thomasina Clinker

Captain Dabber . .

Charlie Wildoats

Mr. Samuel Shrub

The Hon. Adolphus Lightfoot, the Younger Son . .

The Harkaway Hunt Ball

Mr. Metal

William Waggleton

Mr. Benjamin Bobbin . .

Ralph Duckworth of the Wild Farm

Mr. and Mrs. Sparkler . .

The Harkaway Hunt Steeplechases . .

The Great Presentation Day . .

The Bore of the Hunt and other Characters

The Last Day of the Season — a Pink Wedding and an
Afternoon Fox . .

List of full-page Tinted Illustrations.

To FACE PAGE

The Master OF THE Hounds 4

Mr. Baggs nearly upsets Miss Bluebell.

Mr. Grimboy ... ... ... ... ... ... ... 8

" No, sir ; I am of opinion that they will not find, sir."

Tom TooTLER 22

" Well, Squire ! are they fast enough for you to-day?"

The Chirpingtons OF Larkley Hall... ... ... ... 32

"Well in the van we can make out the Squire and his Wife."

The Rev. Marmaduke Merrythought 40

" When the country is roughest he's most at his ease."

Mr. AND Lady Thomasina Clinker , ... 46

" I'm coming, Johnnie ! "

Captain Dabber ... ... ... •. ••. 64

" The despised one shoots out and wins, hard held, b}- a length."

Charlie Wildoats ... ... ••• ••• 72

Mrs. Scumbler has a day on Molly Bawn.

Mr. Samuel Shrub ... ... ••• ••• ••• .•• 78

" Mornin', Capt'in, mornin'."

The Hon. Adolphus Lightfoot

" It is a great sight to see Dolly got up, regardless of expense, white kid
gloves, irreproachable breeches and boots, &c."

92

The Harkaway Hunt Ball 106

" The Captain's langviage, needless to say, was quite equal to the occasion."

Mr. Metal 108

' ' That's a Fox, for a Monkey ! "

William Waggleton 126

" Come up, you brute ! "

Mr. Benjamin Bobbin 134

Charlie Wildoats teaches Mr. Bobbin how to shoot a rocketer.

Ralph Duckworth OF THE Wild Farm 138

" The old man on these occasions always acts as judge."

List of full-page Tinted Illustrations.

To FACE PAGF

Mr. AND Mrs. Sparkler i54

* ' Little Mrs. Sparkler wore a scarlet habit, a velvet cap, and was smoking a
cigar, with great apparent satisfaction to herself."

The Harkaway Hunt Steeplechases i68

" And now^ they come to the water jump."

The Great Presentation Day i8o

" Wildoats goes at it fifty miles an hour."

The Bore OF THE Hunt 184

" Oh, Sir Harry, say you're not dead ! do say you're not dead ! "

The Last Day OF THE Season 198

"Thanks to the champagne consumed at breakfast, the large field rode like
demons."

"FLOWERS OF THE HUNT."

BY FINCH MASON.

1

THE MASTER OF THE HOUNDS.

ALF-PAST TEN o'clock to a minute, and '' here
comes my lord," exclaims one of the many
sportsmen assembled at the meet of the old
Harkaway Hounds at No Man's Land.

*' Punctual as clockwork, ain't he ? " remarks Farmer
Jowlekins, admiringly. '' Pity he isn't a bit more
affable though," adds he.

Sooth to say. Lord Daisyfield is just a trifle too much
of the standoffish order to be a thoroughly popular Master
of Hounds.

However, doing the whole thing at his own expense,
as he does, and, what is more, doing it uncommonly well,
and being a first-rate sportsman and horseman to boot
(not that the two always go together, for there are heaps
of men one knows who can ride like blazes, as the saying
is, but yet are shocking bad '' sportsmen " at heart — men
who would just as soon ride after a red herring as a fox
any day of the wxek, so long as they can gallop and jump
to their heart's content), no one can deny his being the
right man in the right place.

I B

2 The Master of the Hounds.

Hats off is the order of the day, as my lord trots up to
his hounds, Trimbush and Traveller rushing forward
with a great show of affection to greet him.

A tall, slim man of about fifty or so, dressed to per-
fection, and mounted as he is on a great slashing, well-
bred brown horse, which he sits to admiration, there is
no getting away from the fact that he looks all over, from
the crown of his curly-brimmed hat to the soles of his
highly-polished top-boots, exactly what a Master of
Hounds should be.

A year or two ago a dreadful trick was played upon his
lordship, a trick indeed altogether so painful to his
feelings that he was all but throwing up the hounds in
disgust.

The Harkaway, as doubtless the sporting reader is
aware, are never advertised in the papers as most of the
other packs of the United Kingdom are.

One reason being that they never have been during
their existence, and my lord, who is very Conservative in
all his notions, don't see why he should begin now.
Another is, that he thinks that by not advertising his
meets, he keeps off a lot of what he is pleased to term
"Those nasty London people," from honouring his hunt
with their presence.

Now, one of these gentry, a blustering, swaggering,
loud-talking, red-faced personage, Baggs by name, took it
into his head one fine day to hunt with the Harkaway ;
and for one whole season, and the beginning of the one
we speak of, he had kept his horses at the Daisyfield
Arms at BuUerton, and made his appearance regularly,
three times a week, at the meet of his lordship's hounds.
His sonorous "■ Good morning, my lord," as Lord

The Master of the Hounds. 3

Daisyfield trotted up to the hounds, used very nearly to
make his lordship sick. Enquired his nephew, the Hon.
Dick Lavender, on a visit to my lord, as the two cantered
up to the meet, one fine morning, and, as usual, were met
and saluted by Mr. Baggs :

** Who's the red-faced party with the brown tops and
the alarming voice, uncle ?"

'* That dreadful person, Dick?" replied my lord, with a
grimace and a shudder. ''Goodness only knows. My
huntsman tells me he's 'something in oil,' and that's all
I know. And," added his uncle, " I conjure you, ride
over him, Dick. Ride over him the very first oppor-
tunity, there's a good boy, and you'll be conferring a most
inestimable favour on both myself and my Hunt."

Well, the irrepressible Mr. Baggs continued to hunt on,
week after week, day after day, regardless of all the noble
Master's black looks. Lord Daisyfield literally hated the
very sight of him. He was always a " hollerin'," as the
first whip remarked.

*' Who the blank taught you to holler ? " said the
huntsman to him one day, galloping up a ride very irate
because the fox would not break, and catching old Baggs
at the far end shouting like mad, for he had just viewed
the fox crossing the ride.

"Who the blank taught j^/ow to holler? Can't ye leave
the 'ounds alone, yer silly man ?" added he, as he plunged
short into the wood, nearly upsetting poor Mr. Muff, who
was standing in the way.

Then he had ridden over a hound or two. Old Barbara,
one of my lord's favourite hounds, did not get over that
kick in the ribs the great Baggs's brute of a grey mare
gave to her one day, for a fortnight at least.

B— 2

4 The Master of the Hounds.

Lastly, he put a finishing touch to his delinquencies by
one day crossing pretty little Miss Bluebell, who was the
favourite of the hunt generally, and an especial pet of his
lordship's, just as she was in the act of riding at a fence,
and all but upsetting her, horse and all. Indeed, if the
fair lady, who could ride like a bird, had not had her horse
well in hand, she might have had what is commonly called
a nasty fall. Desperately angry with this last feat was
my lord, who had just piloted his fair friend over the
fence in question, and had turned in his saddle to watch
her performance. He had half made up his mind to ride
back again over the fence and horsewhip his enemy, but
before he could do so, Miss had set her horse going again,
and in another second came bounding over the obstacle as
light as a cork, and was once more at his side. '' Did
you thee that thtoopid man. Lord Daithyfield ? " lisped
she. '' Indeed I did, my dear Miss Bluebell. I do
trust," said he, with a paternal squeeze of her neatly-gloved
hand, '' I do trust you were not alarmed. Do have a little
orange brandy from my flask. No ? Well, well, I'm
glad it's no worse ; and that wretch of a man, too, who's
always doing something to annoy me. I do really wish
he would break his neck," wound up my lord fervently.

If Dr. Watts is to be believed, that mischievous
old sportsman, Satan, is always able to find some
work for idle hands to do. Accordingly, one fine
afternoon, after a blank day, it happened that
Master Frank Larkins, late of Eton College, Bucks,
and now of Christ Church, Oxford, and his friend,
Dick Upton, also late of Eton, but just now gazetted to the
I i6th Lancers, were jogging homewards together, smoking
their cigars, and chattering like magpies. They had

The Master of the Hounds. 5

talked over all the events of the day, abused their friends,
discussed the hounds, and criticized the huntsman, until at
last they had run themselves clean down, like a Dutch
clock. Stop ; they had not even mentioned the great
Baggs. I am quite certain, therefore, that it must have
been his Satanic Majesty's doing that suddenly induced
that mischievous dog, Larkins, to exclaim, with an
exultant slap of his dogskin-gloved hand on his thigh :

" By George ! Dicky, my boy, sich a game's suddenly
occurred to dis child ! You know how Lord Daisyfield
hates and abominates old Baggs. What a lark it would
be to send him a card of the meet with my lord's compli-
ments." (The card was only sent about to the regular
people of the hunt, and, needless to say, Mr. Baggs never
got one, but had to depend on the great Mr. Shrub, of
the Daisyfield Arms, for all information connected with
the Harkaway.)

'' I knows his address, sir, as old ' Spankie ' at Eton
used to say. The old beggar gave me his card, and said
he 'oped I'd come and see him, when I liquored him up
one day after a fall he got."

Dick was charmed with the notion, and the pair at once
put their horses into a jog-trot, with the object of carrying
out their plan whilst it was fresh in their memories. Sure
enough, when they reached home, they found the card
with the meets for the next fortnight waiting them on the
hall-table. Forthwith, then, it was placed into a fresh
envelope, ''with Lord Daisyfield's compliments" written
across the top, and duly directed to their victim, and
popped into the post-bag.

When the great Mr. Baggs on the following Monday
morning came down to breakfast, and, opening his letters,

6 The Master of the Hounds,

came at last to Messrs. Upton and Larkins's missive, his
surprise and delight knew no bounds. He could scarcely
believe his eyes in fact. His hand trembled so, that he spilt
half his coffee over his beautiful new velvet smoking-suit
(French blue, with foxes' heads embroidered all over it),
and he was obliged to have a glass of his best liqueur
brandy to steady himself. '^ With Lord Daisyfield's com-
pliments ! " gasped he.

'' Well, 1 always said his lordship was a first-chop
feller, and now I'm sure of it ; so here's 'is jolly good
'ealth, and 'is 'ounds'too !" and with that Mr. Baggs tossed
off another glass of eau-de-vie to the toast.

The next day, Tuesday, the Harkaway Hounds met at
" Slipperfield Common," and amongst the earliest arrivals,
as the papers say, you may be sure were Messrs. Upton
and Larkins, looking as if butter would not melt in their
mouths, and Mr. Baggs — Mr. B. on his best horse, with
his best coat, and a brand new cap on, and in a perfect
fever of excitement ; indeed, he hadn't slept a wink all
night. Such dreams he had had ! Delightful visions
of slapping my lord familiarly on the back, and
calling him ''Daisyfield, old boy," his lordship
retaliating with '' Baggs, old pal ; " of Lady
Daisyfield presenting his daughter Julia at the next draw-
ing room, and a hundred other pleasant fancies. Five
minutes to the half-hour. And is it ? Yes, here comes
my lord. The grateful Mr. Baggs can scarcely keep
himself from galloping off to meet him. However, he
waited until the noble Master joined the crowd of horse-
men, and then came gallantly to the front, cap in hand.
" Good morning," my lord, said he. ''Allow me to thank
you most 'eartily for your condescension in so kindly

The Master of the Hounds. 7

sending me the card of your meets, my lord. You need
never be afraid, I can assure you, of my ever insulting
you by ever 'unting with any other 'ounds but your lord-
ship's gallant pack, and if, as I 'ope, my lord, some day
when you are in town, and should be passing my
way, you'll just give me and my daughter Julia a
look in, I can assure you, my lord, we shaU
be most proud and 'appy." And Mr. Baggs,
having thus delivered himself, resumed his cap, and
beamed pleasantly round on the assembled company. As
for my lord, he was struck speechless with astonishment
and disgust. At last he gasped out, " Good heavens ! he
says I wrote to him. Give me my sherry-flask, Robert,"
and, with a withering glance at Mr, Baggs, he took the
flask from his second horseman, and swallowed half the
contents at a gulp. ''A thing," as the groom remarked
afterwards, " I never see my lord do afore, so early in the
day, ever since I've bin in his service." The story of the
hoax spread like wildfire, and the wretched Mr. Baggs
wished himself anywhere before the day was out. Lord
Daisyfield, too, was very angry at such a liberty having
been taken with his name. However, when he heard
next day that Mr. Baggs had actually removed his horses
from the Daisyfield Arms, and had left the country for
good, having given out, in fact, that in future he intended
to hunt with our Most Gracious Majesty's Staghounds —
the Harkaway Hounds being too slow for him — his wrath
was appeased, and everybody agreed that when his lord-
ship turned up, punctual as usual, at the next meet of his
hounds, and found no Mr. Baggs to give him greeting, and,
what was more to the purpose, that he was never likely
to be bothered by that worthy again, they had never seen

8

The Masier of the Hounds.

him look so cheerful before. The muscles of his generally
severe countenance relaxed from their accustomed hard-
ness into a gratified smile ; in fact, if one might say so
without offence, his lordship for once in his life looked as
'' pleased as Punch."

And now the noble Master consults his watch. Time's
up — 'tis the half-hour exactly. The hounds move on ; horses
begin to squeal and kick ; nervous riders begin to look
blue. Away we all go to Raddleton Wood — a sure find.
A wave of the huntsman's hand, and in go the hounds,
and whilst they are busy drawing for the ^' little Red
Rover " we will mingle with the crowd in the big ride
and endeavour to pick out a fresh Flower for our next
sketch.

^p C\/hnr-'^'^^^

*2^i^

0 +-

1 S

DC c

O .2

. 5

cc -5.

(9)

MR. GRIMBOY.

THE FATHER OF THE HUNT.

HINK the 'ounds '11 find 'ere, sir?" inquires
little Jack Sprouter (from London), splashing
up to a solitary horseman, who is sitting
solemnly on his horse right in the middle of the very
swampy, snipe-inhabited-looking scrubs belonging to
Tackleton Wood. The horseman addressed turns round
in his saddle, eyes Sprouter from head to foot, and replies
grufQy, in a most decisive manner, '' No, sir ; I am of
opinion that they will not find, sir."

He then frowns grimly, relapses into his former statue-
like position, and proceeds to mutter audibly to himself,
Mr. Sprouter, who is all attention, just catching such
interjections as " Damned railways. — Never any foxes
here now. — Billy Button. — Infernal counter-jumpers down
for the day. — Hounds going to the devil," and so on.
Truth to tell, the cockney is rather relieved than other-
wise by the statue's reply, for he likes splashing
about in the renowned Scrubs, uncommonly. There

lo Mr. Grimboy.

is no danger about it, and it makes one look like
an out-and-out sportsman, a tip-top Nimrod, he thinks,
to get back to town well splashed all over with
mud, so he drops his reins on his horse's neck, and
proceeds very deliberately to eat his sandwiches, and
take a suck at his " monkey," as he calls it. The Scrubs
is the place of all others for sportsmen like Jack. It
consists of a large extent of scrub, surrounded on three
sides by big woods ; it is wet there at all times, so after
heavy rain it is in beautiful order, and Jack and Co.'s
horses sink into the binding clay over their hocks at
nearly every step. In former days it used to be a great
resort of foxes, in fact was one of the greatest strongholds
for them in the country, but two lines of railway run right
through the heart of it now, besides which the shooting
is let to one of the wrong sort, who abominates ''Sly
Reynolds," and, as he is aided and abetted by a vulpecide
in the shape of a keeper, it is not to be wondered at that
of late the Scrubs have very often been drawn blank.
Indeed, a find there now is the exception, not the
rule.

A greater contrast to each other in the two sportsmen
we have introduced cannot well be imagined. Mr. Jack
Sprouter is a small, pert-looking little gent, with sandy
hair and whiskers. He wears a cap, and a particularly
badly-made red coat. A stick-up collar, with large blue
spots, surrounds his little neck, and round the collar
again comes a blue satin tie (with white spots this time),
folded in a bow, the ends terminating in a fringe. His
breeches are of white cord, and look as if they had been
shrunk in the wash. His boots, very badly blacked,
have brown tops, and, to add to the general effect, he has

Mr. Grimboy. 1 1

contrived to put his spurs on all wrong. Add to it all an
unhappy-looking two-guinea-a-day hunter, who is adorned
with a shockingly bad saddle and bridle, and you have the
picture complete.

Now for his companion. Imagine a small, thin,
shrunken figure, clothed in a tightly-fitting red coat of the
old swallow-tailed pattern ; the rather querulous looking-
face is set off" by a hat, placed well down on his head,
giving the appearance thereby of being a size or two too
large for the wearer. The brim of the hat is turned up, so
much so that it might be likened to a railway arch, and
the end of a yellow bandana peeps slyly out from the
back. The old gentleman's necktie is white, and folded
goodness knows how many times round his neck. An
old-fashioned chain, with a heavy seal at the end, dangles
from his breeches-pocket; his breeches and boots are as
near perfection as possible, and he bestrides a well-bred,
clever-looking hunter, whose closely-docked tail and goose
rump makes him look nearly as old-fashioned as his master.
In fact, the pair look as if they had suddenly sprung out of
one of Aiken's pictures. Mr. Grimboy, of Mistletoe Grange
(for he it is whom the audacious Sprouter has just had the
temerity to address) is looked upon as the Father of the
Hunt, a title to which he has every right, seeing that he has
lived and hunted in the country ever since he was a boy,
and no one seems exactly to know how long ago that
was. No one indeed knows his age ; some say he is
eighty, some say he's ninety — pretty little Miss Chatter-
ton, indeed, going so far as to declare that she ith thure
dear old Mithter Grimboy must be a hundred at the very
least. Miss C. probably exaggerates a little, as fair
ladies are apt to do sometimes, but this is very certain, old

I 2 Mr, Grimboy.

Tom Grimboy has forgotten more than a good many of the
members of our redoubtable Hunt know. He lives all by
himself at the Grange, where he dispenses hospitality in
a stiff, old-fashioned sort of way. To see the old gentle-
man to perfection one must behold him in the evening.
Blue coat and brass buttons, pumps and black silk socks,
and such a white neckcloth ! Jovial Sir Harry Bluff
offended him mortally one night after dinner at the Chir-
pingtons, by swaggering up, just as Mr. Grimboy had
brought himself to anchor in front of the drawing-room
fire, and was helping himself to a comforting pinch of
snuff, and, giving him a poke in his stomach, saying, at
the same time, in his hearty way (Mr. Grimboy hated
hearty ways), ''Well, old boy, does your skin feel pretty
tight, heh ? " Mr. Grimboy ordered his carriage on the
spot, and Sir Harry and he did not speak to each other
for ever so long after.

All modern innovations, more especially railroads, he
hates with all his heart and soul ; whilst for all institu-
tions of the past he has a proportionate veneration. For
instance he is a staunch upholder of the now defunct prac-
tice of duelling, indeed it is rumoured that the old Squire
played a prominent part in more than one affair of honour
in his younger days, and it is also said that, quiet old
gentleman as he now is, he was just as cheerful a dandy
as any of them in the roystering days of Carlton House
and the Pavilion. Sometimes when after dinner a bottle
of good wine has warmed the cockles of his vener-
able heart and made his old eyes sparkle with something
of their former brilliancy, he will launch out with unmis-
takable pleasure into stories of his goings-on in company
with the author of '' The School for Scandal," and Beau

Mr. Grhiboy. 1 3

this and Tom that. Then he will get quite excited, kick
out his little shrivelled legs under the table, and go on to
relate with much gusto how he horsewhipped Mr. Lamb-
skin, the attorney, at Bullerton, one fine day. *' It would
have been all very well, but, begad ! I got hold of the
wrong man, sirs, and had to pay five hundred pounds,
damme! Five hundred pounds ! Fancy that, for thrashing
a damned attorney ! Dear, wasn't it ? It was pleasant at
the time, though. Gad ! how he bellowed when I gave it
him." Horsewhipping the attorney was not the only
scrape of the kind that the irascible Mr. Grimboy had to
pay for. As we have before mentioned, the Squire had a
mortal aversion to railways, and in the early days of the
reign of King Hudson he lived in perpetual dread of the
iron road encroaching on his domain. At last his dream
came true. Sitting one hot summer's night after dinner
over his wine, in company with the curate of the parish —
a mild youth fresh from the University — they were
suddenly interrupted by the abrupt entrance of Mr.
Mulbery, the butler, who rushed into the room purple in
the face with excitement. " They're come, sir, they're
come! " gasped he. " Who's come, you fool ? " replied his
master. " Why, the railway people, sir. Giles has
just come up to say that there's, a lot of 'em at this
moment, a measurin' with their nasty tapes and lines, and
the like, down in the walley."

*' Come oUy^ shouted the Squire, " Come onj^ and away
he went, pumped and silk-socked as he was, not even
waiting for a hat, followed by the curate, who caught up
a thick stick in the hall as he passed, and trotted along be-
hind the irate Squire, mentally repeating as he went along
an impromptu prayer against battle, murder, and sudden

14 Mr. Grim boy.

death, for, poor man, he did not know what might happen.
Away went the Squire across the bowling-green, along
the pleasure-ground, past the summer-house at a hand-
gallop, and out at the postern-gate into the road. Sure
enough, in the field on the other side, were four men
busily employed with tapes, &:c. As the Squire, now
nearly breathless, arrived at the scene of action, the man
in command of the party was just pencilling down some
notes on a huge plan. He was a big man, a Scotchman,
with a back as broad as a prize ox at Christmas-time. It
was David and Goliath over again. Rushing up to the
astonished engineer, without a word of explanation, Mr.
Grimboy snatched the plan out of his hands, and, tearing
it into three or four pieces, threw it on the ground and
stamped on it. This done, he went straight for the enemy,
and, turning him round, gave him, with all the force he
could command, a terrific kick on what the Yankees
would call the Western side of his person. That the
Scotchman was astonished considerabl}^, may well be
imagined ; it was some minutes indeed before he could
collect his faculties. At length he spoke.

^' Eh, mun," said he, rubbing himself, " Eh, mun,
but ye'll pay for this, or me neem's not Sandy Mac-
gregor."

** Get off my ground, you infernal scoundrel, or I'll
throw you into the river," shrieked the Squire, and the
big Scotchman, looking round and seeing some stalwart
keepers and other myrmidons of the Squire approaching
the scene of action, thought discretion the better part of
valour, and walked off, vowing as he went that " he'd
heve setisfection for the assault." We forget how much
this little adventure cost the Squire, but it was a con-

Mr. Grim boy. I c

siderable sum, and, to add to his discomfiture, a Bill was
passed soon after enabling the railway company to go
where it pleased, and accordingly before long it was to be
seen twisting and turning through his domain, like the
great sea-serpent, in spite of all his remonstrances and
occasional assaults and batteries on the company's servants.
Mr. Grimboy never misses a meet of Lord Daisyfield's
hounds by any chance. No weather stops him ; no
distance is too far for him, old as he is ; he is always
there at the finish, and his horses all seem to have the
knack of going where other people's can't. You will see
old Grimboy ride quietly up to a bullfinch that you can't
see through, and squeeze through it between two ash-
stems, where one would imagine there was not room for a
rabbit to pass. It's the " hands " as does it, as the horse-
dealer said. Young Vainhopes thinks he will do the
same ; and, lo and behold, he comes out the other side,
with his hat smashed, his nose barked, a piece of stick in
his eye, and a coat-lap nearly torn off, to say nothing of
his horse's legs being filled with thorns, whilst old Grim-
boy careers away across the next field, with neither a
scratch nor a tear, and as smart as if he had just turned
out of a bandbox. Vainhopes would give anything to
know ''how he does it."

"Hark! is that the horn ? " ''Yes. Mr. Grimboy was
right." The once-famous Scrubs have been drawn blank,
and the huntsman is getting his hounds out of cover.
Mr. Grimboy, muttering invectives against all railways
and all fox-slaying owners of coverts, retires from his
splashy position, and joins the rest of the field.

The order is given to go and draw Cranberry Wood, a
covert belonging to Mr. Grimboy himself. The old

i6

Mr. Grimboy.

gentleman's face lights up with satisfaction when the order
is given, for he knows it is a sure find, and there we will
leave him, with the wish that he may have a good gallop
with the afternoon fox.

( 17 )

TOM TOOTLER.

THE HUNTSMAN.

niSTER TOOTLER be along with the 'ounds,
j sir," says a bare-armed helper to us, as we
pull up one fine frosty afternoon in front of the
kennels inhabited by the Harkaway Hounds, and be-
longing to Lord Daisyfield, and make inquiries for the
huntsman. " Mister Tootler be along with the 'ounds, sir.
If you'll get off, squire, I'll take the cob in and give him a
feed whilst you stop."

Consenting to this arrangement, we dismount and
stump off in search of the redoubtable Tom Tootler. We
run that worthy to ground, as our friend, the helper, pre-
dicted, in the kennel ; in fact, as we tap at the gate we
discern him through the bars in the act of stroking with his
hunting-whip the black-and-tan back of his favourite, hound.
Warrior, and expatiating on that sagacious animal's merits
to his friend, Mr. Marrerbone, the well-known sporting
butcher of Bullerton, — Marrerbone having druv over, as he
calls it, in his gig just to have a friendly glass, a look at the
hounds, and wish his old acquaintance, the Huntsman, a
happy noo year, and many on 'em. They have had their
glass, and have inspected all the hounds, on whose merits
Mr. Marrerbone waxes extremely loquacious, the brown
brandy, acting on the frosty air, giving him a confidence
in his subject that, perhaps, he would not have, on an

c

1 8 Tom Tootler.

ordinary occasion, possessed. Indeed, if the truth must
be told, Mr. '* Hem," as the Huntsman calls him, is a far
better judge of a baron of beef than a fox-hound. Tom
Tootler gets somewhat put out at last, for Mr. Marrer-
bone, notwithstanding the astounding stories Tom relates
of old Warrior's sagacity and staunchness in the field, and
his encomiums on the old hound's make and shape —
'' There's a head, there s legs, there s a back for you," says
Tom — won't have him at any price, but vows that old
Tomboy is far better looking, better shaped, ay, and a
better hound altogether, he'll be bound, than yon ugly-
looking beggar. Tom, in return, with a snort of disgust,
vows that if he had had his way the redoubtable Tomboy
would have had a rope round his neck long ago — not that
he really meant what he said, for, as he very well knew,
old Tomboy was as good a hound as any in the pack.

At this juncture Tom catches sight of us for the first time,
and perhaps our advent at that particular moment was
lucky, as the worthy pair, judging by appearances, were
decidedly getting their "frills out" as the saying is.

Mr. Marrerbone, seeing us, bids his entertainer fare-
well, and Tom opens the door for his egress and our
entrance.

*^ Marnin', sir, Marnin . Don't look much like huntin',
do it. Squire ? " begins Tom. "Will you come in and
have a look at 'em, sir ? " he goes on. " Down, Traveller !
down, good dawg ! Take my whip. Squire. Never
mind me, sir, I've got another here." We then proceed
to do the hounds — now praising this one, now that. " What
a day that was from Raddleton Wood ! eh. Squire ? Ah !
here's old Priestess. D'ye call to mind old Priestess that
day, Squire ? "

Tom Tootler, 19

*' Good bitch, Priestess," says Tom, patting her as she
jumps off the bench to greet us, as we poke our noses
into the kennel where she is. "And now. Squire," says
Tom, as we bid adieu to the hounds, "come into the
house, and have a glass of old ale. Won't do you
no harm after your ride, specially such a cold day as
this," adds he, stamping his feet on the hard ground by
way of emphasis. As there is nothing better in our
opinion on a bright frosty morning than a glass of real
good ale, we accept his invitation forthwith, and, order-
ing the hack to be brought round in half-an-hour, we
accompany the huntsman to his snug-looking, ivy-covered
house.

Tom Tootler is a fresh-coloured, keen-eyed, dapper
little man of some forty-five summers or thereabouts ; his
compactly-built frame looks as if it did not carry an ounce
of superfluous flesh, whilst his ruddy face and clear eye
denote what good condition he is in ; his closely-cropped
hair is just tinged with grey, and if it were not for that
sign of age he might very well pass for at least ten years
less than he really is. A dark-coloured single-breasted
frock-coat, white cord breeches, and leather gaiters, is his
costume on the day of our visit, and very neat and natty he
looks, quite, in fact, what a huntsman in mufti should be.
But to see him at his best one must behold him on a
hunting morning. What a swell he is ! " Wonderful
smart, surelie,'' say the old women in the villages, as he
trots past on his way to the meet. We'll say the hounds
meet at Magnum Bonum Castle, the abode of the Marquis
of Carabas. Tom, with his hounds and his men, trots
through the big park-gates in state. Having done that,
bidding the lodgekeeper's pretty wife good morning as he

c — 2

20 Tom Tootler.

passes, it is a treat to see Tom set his horse into a canter
as he gets on to the turf, he rising in his stirrups and
making much of the hounds. Who wouldn't be a hunts-
man ? Watch him as he goes airily along, his horse, a
three-hundred-guinea one, snatching playfully at his bit,
and whinnying with delight as the hounds gambol about
at his heels. With what an air, too, he pulls off his
cap in honour of the ladies of the house, who are looking
on from the lawn ! The swell London footman, who is
handing the liqueurs about, an exotic of recent importation,
and whose first experience it is of life in the country, is so
impressed with his manners that he even sirs him as he
comes round to him with the curagao, cherry-brandy, &c.

Our huntsman finds a happy combination of the
suaviter in modo and the fortiter in re the most effective in
dealing with his field, and adopts it accordingly on all
occasions. His '' Hounds, gentlemen, if you please ; "
" Thank you, gentlemen, thank you," is quite irresistible.
" Ah, my lord's hounds are too slow iov you I'm afraid, sir;
can't get out of your way, poor things ! " was all he said
when young Graceless rode over Barbara one fine day, his
sarcasm shaming that gentleman far more than any amount
of abuse would have done.

The subject of our sketch commenced his sporting career
as second horseman to that well-known sportsman Sir
Harry Hotspur, the Master of the Danbydale Hounds,
a post for which his light weight and capital hands
and seat well adapted him. He had not been two
years in Sir Harry's service, when, quite unexpectedly, a
great piece of luck came to him, for it happened, one fine
day, just at the commencement of the season, that the
second whip was unfortunate enough to break his leg

Tom Tootler, 21

in the course of a run, and Sir Harry, not knowing
what to do for a substitute, at the Huntsman's sugges-
tion told Tom to take his damaged whip's place the next
day the hounds met, and do his best. Tom was delighted.
He was passionately fond of hunting, and, as he had kept his
eyes well open and his wits about him all the time he was
riding second horse for Sir Harry, he was enabled to
make an uncommonly good debut in his new profession.
The Huntsman took to him uncommonly, and Lady
Hotspur tried to get her husband to keep him on per-
manently as second whip, she being much struck by Tom's
good-looks, his predecessor being anything but a beauty
to look at. However, that arrangement the Baronet flatly
declined to agree to ; fair play, as he very justly observed,
being a jewel. So when the invalided whip returned to
his duties Tom had to look out for a new place. This he
very soon got, and he whipped in the whole of the next
season, and the one after that, to Major Bullyboy, who
hunts the Slopshire Hounds. The principal characteris-
tics of the Slopshire country are enormous great strag-
gling woodlands, small fields, rough, unkempt looking
fences, and a deal of ploughed land. Here Tom learned
a good deal of woodcraft, and saw an amount of rough
woodland hunting that was invaluable to him in after-
life. Finding the country rather too slow for him, he
left at the end of his second season, and we find him the
following one whipping in to a pack of staghounds. The
huntsman leaving soon after, Tom was promoted to the
post. Three years with the stag satisfied him, however,
for though uncommonly fond of galloping and jumping,
yet he still had a hankering after the old legitimate game.
So he left the stag, and took to fox again, as first whip this

2 2 Tom Tootler.

time with Lord Daisyfield. After serving four years
in that capacity, it happened that the huntsman died.
Tom was installed at once in his place, and there he has
been ever since.

"And now, sir," says Tom, as we bring ourselves to
anchor in his snug parlour, and his neat servant-maid
appears with a brown jug and glasses, " try a glass of the
ale. I think you'll say that it ain't the washin' from brew-
ers' aprons as some of the stuff they sell nowadays, is —
indeed it's some Mr. Maltby, the brewer, gave me at
Christmas-time, Squire."

The ale fully comes up to Tom's opinion of it, and
then ensues a delightful conversation about hunting,
nowhere to be arrived at to such perfection as in a hunts-
man's parlour. Now Tom relates some old story ; then
we recall to him some reminiscence of bygone days.
Tom calls to mind another, then we strike in once more,
and so on.

" Eh," says Tom, after a pause, " Eh, I was glad to see
Squire Curzon looking so well the other day, when he
was staying with my lord. I didn't know he was there
until he come up to me at the meet at the Cross-roads last
Toosday, and said, in his hearty way, 'How are ye, Tom?'
I hadn't seen him since I hunted them stag-hounds years
ao-o. What a rare sort he was to be sure ! and tny I
didn't he ride in those days ! His brothers, too — three
on 'em there was ; it's hard to say which was the best
on 'em, but I think, p'raps, the Parson was the neatest
of the lot — him as rode in the Liverpool Steeplechase a
time or two, as you may perhaps recollect. Squire.
But, Lor', they was all first rate. The worst of 'em, if
there was a worst, was good enough to see a run out in

^.»^-'*^

^'1

Tom Tootler. 2

o

any country, no matter what the fences were like. I
shall never forget one day when I was with the stag. The
Squire and all his three brothers was out, for, though they
did not come with us reg'lar like, they was hawful fond of
gallopin' and jumpin', I can tell ye. Well, we had a
tremenjuoiis day. The pace the 'ounds went was something
to be remembered, I can tell ye, Squire. I got my second
horse just in the nick of time, or I shouldn't have seen the
end of it. Well, Squire Curzon and his brothers, they
rode, they did, as I don't believe any four brothers ever
rode afore. I see at last the Squire's horse was about
done, and I begins a chaffin' of him. The Squire was a rare
one for a bit o' fun and would often give me a turn, saying
his hounds was twice as fast as mine, etcetera. So I says
quietly, ' Well, Squire, are they fast enough for you to-
day ?' I see, just as I said it, the Squire turn from the
fence, and was looking out for a gate ; but. Lor' bless yer,
he was ready for me with an answer directly, he was.

^^^ Fast enough for me!' says he — 'no, not 'a;/ fast
enough, only I'm on a damned cock-tailed brute 1 only
gave forty pound for at Tattersall's last week, and I
brought him out with these Staggers of yours just to see
what he was made of! ' and with that he gets into the lane
and goes straight home, and lucky he did, for we didn't take
the stag for half an hour after that. Well, who should I
come across not many days arter the run I speak of, but
the Squire's stud-groom, Joe Blackbird ; so I says to
him, 'Joe,' I says, 'what d'ye mean by mounting
your master,' I says, ' on a forty-pound screw the
other day when we had such a hawful run with
our hounds ? ' ' Wot ! ' he says, ' the brown as the
Squire rode second 'oss d'ye mean?' ' That's him,' I

24 Tom Tootler.

says. 'The Squire told me hisself he only give
forty pounds for him at Tattersall's, and he was dead
beat — could 'ardly wag, indeed.' ' Well,' says Joe,
a bustin' out a larfin', ' well, you are a old softy. The
Squire must a bin a gammonin' on you to some toon.
Why, now,' says Joe, a gettin' confidential like, ' I'll tell
you something private about the screw in question. The
Squire bought him last week, that's right enough, but he
didnt buy him at Tattersall's, and he didn't give forty
pund for 'im neither, for he bought the 'oss from
Noocome Mason, and he gave the small sum, the small
sum,' says Joe, getting quite sarcastic like, ' of three
'underd and fifty guineas for 'im.' So you see the Squire
got the best of the chaff, after all, didn't he, sir ? " *

"Maybe," continued Tom, "you noticed the Hurl of
Hacklefield out with us, that same day at the Cross Roads.
Very glad to see him I was, and he seemed pleased to see
me too, and came up as hearty as possible. The sight
of him reminded me of a thing that happened, pretty
near the very last time as I saw him, when I was
huntin' them staghounds, and his Lordship kept as he
does now, the Vale of Hogwash. My ! what a day that
was to be sure. My hounds was running, but not
hard, for there was a bad scent — being it was just
the end of the season, you see sir, and the ground
being very dry — when all of a sudden my lord's
pack, after their fox, makes their appearance, and
before you could say Jack Robinson the two of 'em — the
Foxhounds and the Staggers — gets mixed up alltogether. 1

* In relating this little anecdote, no slur is intended to be cast on the good
name of that celebrated dealer, the late Newcombe Mason. The horse no
doubt was a clipper (the Squire was too good a judo^e to buy a bad one), but
was presumably not fit on this particular day.— F. M.

Tom Tootler. 25

must tell you, sir, before I goes on with my story, that my

lord and Mr. , my master, were not at all on friendly

terms — quite the contrary, in fact — though I never rightly
made out the reason why. Anyhow, there is no doubt
about it, they both hated the very sight of one another.
To make matters more confusing, we happened, at the
very moment of the two packs clashing, to be on Mr.

's own land. Hup comes my lord, boiling over with

rage — he'd a hawful temper, sir, when roused.

" ' Stop your d d hounds, sir ! Stop 'em, I say,

directly, do you hear ? ' he shouted to Mr (for old

Bountiful had just hit the scent off again, and we were on
the move).

" ' Stop my hounds, on my own land! ' almost screamed
my master in reply. "■ Why, what do you mean, you red-
topped old wagabone, you?' ( My lord has reddish hair : you
know, sir.) ' What next, indeed ? I never heard of such
impudence in all my born days ! ' Well, sir, at it they
went, 'ammer and tongs, slanging of each other like a
couple of bargees ; such hawful language I don't think
I ever did hear, and all the gentlemen, sitting on
their horses, laughin' fit to kill themselves at the
row, and encouragin' the pair, until I expected every
minute to see 'em pitchin' into one another with their
huntin' whips. 'Owever, just as they had pretty nigh
exhausted theirselves, away went my hounds at score, and
we took the stag twenty minutes afterwards, and very
glad I was of it, I can tell you. I believe my lord and Mr.

made friends with each other since I left that part of

the country, and a good job too, for they was the right
sort, both on 'em ; and thorough sportsmen as well. And
it's a pity when two like that fall out, aint it, sir?"

26

Tom Tootler.

Just as Tom had finished this little reminiscence of his
stag-hunting days, the trim domestic before mentioned en-
tered with a notification that the huntsman was wanted
outside by someone who wished to see him with regard
to the purchase of a horse for hound-consumption, so we
rose to take leave of our host at the same time. '* What is
the time ?"

'' Goodness gracious me ! we've sat here more than an
hour. Tom, I must be off, or I shan't get home until
dark. Ah ! here's the hack just as I wanted him. Good-
bye, Tom. The frost looks like going, I think — it's too
white to last ; so, in all probability, we shall see you and
the hounds next Tuesday, same as usual, at No Man's
Land." Tom, looking up at the sky, agrees with us, with
regard to our forecast of the weather, and bidding us
a cheery good evening, retires into his house, and we,
having lit a fresh cigar, trot gaily along, homeward-bound.

{ ^7 )

THE CHIRPINGTONS OF LARKLEY HALL.

E have hitherto picked out for the gentle reader's
edification only solitary flowers, ''buttonholes,"
so to speak, from amongst the varied assortment
to be met with in the course of the hunting season with
our renowned pack of hounds, but this time we must alter
our programme a little, and endeavour to give a slight
sketch of, not one flower, but a whole bunch, all at once.
For the fact of the matter is, that the Chirpingtons are one
and all such a united family, such a happy family, and last,
but not least, such a "sporting family," that it is quite
out of the question to separate one from the other. We don't
think we shall be going very far wrong, indeed, in saying
that Tom Chirpington is about the most popular man in
the whole county, and his wife the most popular woman.
As regards the latter, a pretty good proof of her popularity
is that not one of her own sex seems ever able or even
desirous of picking holes in her, and that, the reader must
allow, speaks volumes in itself. Why, even Mrs. Babbler,
the bishop's wife, in whose drawing-room at the palace,
half the gossip and mischief-making of the country is

28 The Chirpingtons of Larkley Hall.

brewed, can't find it in her acidulated old heart to say any-
thing bitter of Mrs. Chirpington to her cronies at her five
o'clock tea table. It was Mrs. Babbler who was the
sole cause of the separation for more than a year
between Colonel Sprightly and his pretty young wife.
It was only by the merest chance indeed that the
Colonel at last found out his mistake. When he
did find it out he hastened to make it up with the
poor little woman, you may depend, and they now
live together again the happiest of couples. Mrs. Babbler
says that, in her opinion, the Colonel is but a poor, weak
creature. The gallant officer himself, I regret to say,
is rude enough to express his feelings since the occurrence
in the most open way, and has been heard to aver over
his after-dinner bottle of claret that, if he had his way, he
should uncommonly like to burn that old Jezebel (as he
irreverently terms Mrs. Babbler), for a witch in front of her
husband's cathedral. ''As for the bishop," goes on the
gallant officer, '' why, he's a dashed good fellow, and I'm
sorry for him, begad I am."

No, even Mrs. Babbler can't say a word against sporting
Mrs. Chirpington, though her sense of decorum was so con-
siderably shocked one fine afternoon when out for an airing
in her carriage, by meeting the hounds in the midst of a
run, and beholding Mrs. C, her face red, her hair ruffled,
and her habit torn, come bounding over a big fence into
the road, and then across and over the opposite one, also a
big one, like a flash of lightning, '' before her own hus-
band actually," would say Mrs. Babbler when describing
the incident (Chirpington's second horse had not turned
up at the right moment, and he was consequently a bit
behind-hand).

The Chirpingtons of Larkley Hall. 29

To see the Chirpington family at their very best, you
must look in upon them on a hunting morning. Exactly
as the big stable clock strikes half-past eight o'clock, down-
stairs clanks Tom Chirpington himself. Tom is rising
forty-five, as he says, and is just about as hale and hearty
a looking Briton as you would find in a day's march.
Altogether a man one would rather drink with, than fight
with, any day of the week. He's not so slim by a good
deal, as when a shining light of the 'Varsity Christchurch
drag, he was the very apple of Jem Hill's eye; but the
same spirit is in him still, and though he don't shove 'em
along in the reckless style he was wont to do in the Brad-
well Grove and Sturdy 's Castle days, it still takes a man all
his time to beat him. As a hard-riding friend remarked of
him, you never know how fast Tom Chirpington's going until
you get ''alongside of him." Needless to observe, his
'' get-up " is perfection, and he looks the workman all
over from head to heel. As Squire Tom enters the
bright-looking breakfast-room, with its mullioned windows
and oak panelling, covered with portraits of bygone Chirp-
ingtons, male and female, great is the welcome accorded him.
Comely Mrs. Chirpington, attired in the neatest of habits,
and looking fresh and rosy as only an English woman can
look, smiles at him from behind the tea and coffee at the
end of the table. Two little girls (the very moral of their
mother, as the old nurse says), aged eleven and twelve,
rush forward, nearly tumbling over their habit skirts (for
they are going to hunt, too, mind you) in their eagerness
for a kiss from papa. Young Tom Chirpington, aged
fourteen, the son and heir, a good-looking boy, home from
Eton, rises, blushing, from his seat, for this morning (an
eventful morning, to be marked with red letters in his

30 The Chirpingtons of Larkley Hall.

calendar) he has donned his first pair of breeches and
boots. Certainly the breeches are brown cord, and
the boots are what are commonly called butcher-boots ;
but that don't matter, they are real breeches and
boots for all that. Lastly comes the youngest, con-
sequently the pet of the family, Master Geoffrey, aged
nearly ten. Geoffrey has his mouth full of sausage and a
tear in his eye. Poor little man ! Christmas fare has
had its effect on him, and his mother, noticing his looks,
had an idea of substituting for his day's hunting a dose of
something pleasant and a quiet day in the nursery. How-
ever, old Major Jollyboy, who is staymg at the Hall, in-
tervenes, and Mrs. Chirpington promises to speak to papa
on the subject. And what says Papa ? Why, hunt of
course, you young sinner, and we'll physic you in the
morning, eh, Geoffrey ? The grateful pet grins with de-
light at his friend the Major, who comes second only, in
his estimation, to his father, and pitches into his breakfast
with renewed vigour, whilst the Squire, putting his big
watch down on the table at his elbow, works steadily
away at his. ** Time's up ! Here come the horses ! "
Up get everybody from their seats, young Tom kicking
his legs about with as near an imitation of the Major as
he can command at short notice.

At last everybody is mounted, including the younger
branches of the family, and a start is made forthwith,
the Squire and his wife leading the way, and the young-
sters jogging along behind, in charge of an old groom of
quaint appearance who answers to the name of John. John
Jones is a Welshman by descent, and has been in the
family for years, and has now constituted himself into a
sort of riding master and head nurse to the children, with

The Chirpingfons of Larkley Hall. 31

whom he is, needless to say, first favourite. It is John
this, John that, all day with them ; nothing can be done
without John. John is a great character in his way,
nearly everybody in the country-side knowing him. On
his first visit to town with the family one London season, he
was taking care of the children during their ride one day,
in the Row, when his master, who was sauntering along
came suddenly upon them, and noticed that John touched
his hat to every equestrian who passed him ; his arm, as
may be imagined, being, in consequence, kept in perpetual
motion.

"Why, John," said the Squire, "what on earth are
you doing ? You don't know all those gentlemen and
ladies, do you ? What do you touch your hat to them
for?,'

**■ Indeed, to goodness, I thought they was gentlemen,"
was the old servant's simple reply.

Another day he was sent up to Tattersall's with a
small draft the Squire wanted to get rid of, including a
mare named Post Haste, belonging to Mrs. Chirpington.

" Well, John," said his master, when he returned,
"and how did the sale go off ? Who sold 'em? Were
there many people there, eh ? "

"There was few people till our horses come," replied
John, "and then they did crowd in, in hundreds. Squire.
I did never see nothing like it. Mr. Pain, he sold them,
but when it came to Post Haste, Mr. Tattersall come
himself."

(It must be mentioned here that old John had an affec-
tion for Post Haste, and was indignant at her being sold.)
" Gentlemen," said he, with a knock of his hammer, " this
is Post Haste. You all do know about her, and what she can

32 The Chirpingtons of Larkley Hall.

do. You also know the lady who has been riding her.
Gentlemen, I will say no more."

" Come, come, John, that won't do," said his master,
much amused.

'' I declare to God it is true," replied John, not moving
a muscle of his face, and rubbing away at a curb chain.
Needless to observe, the whole story was pure invention
on the old groom's part, from beginning to end.

And now let us imagine this hunting family arriving at
the meet. Here come the Chirpingtons, announces
somebody ; and it is soon '' Morning, Tom ! " '' Mornin',
squire ! " in every direction. Off come the velvet caps of
the huntsmen and his whippers-in, as the squire rides up
to have a friendly word or two with the former, and a look
over the hounds. My lord by this time having arrived,
and exchanged his hack for his hunter, consults his watch,
and, finding that '' time is up," gives his customary nod to
his huntsman, who forthwith moves off with his hounds,
followed by the large field, towards an outlying cover
belonging to Tom Chirpington, which they have decided
to draw first. It is generally a sure find, but to-day it is
indeed, a case of '' look sharp," and no mistake about it,
for scarcely are the hounds in at one end than the fox is
out at the other.

The huntsman gets his hounds out like lightning, and
away they go, at a pace that looks uncommon like killing
the lucky few who have got well away hugging them-
selves as they note the fact that the majority of the
field have been left in the lurch. We pull up our cob and
proceed to enjoy the fun. Well in the van, alongside of
Lord Daisyfield, we can make out the squire, his wife, and
their eldest boy — the latter admirably mounted on a clever

I .2

< 5
I e

> .t
UJ S
_j &•

^ Co

5 I

-J -k<

u. I
O .

« I

0 c

ii

a. s:

5= §

1 w

o 5

Hi s:

^ . .4

The Chirpmgtons of Larkley Hall.

33

light-weight hunter — all three going as straight as a line,
and throwing the fences behind them like a school-girl does
a skipping-rope.

On come the laggards, powdering along like a regiment
of cavalry, but unless there is a check soon, their chance of
ever catching the leaders seems a remote one, such a rare
start have they got. Here, too, comes that veritable chip
of the old block, the youthful Geoffrey.

^' Forrad ! forrad ! " squeaks the young one, as he passes
us, his pony in a lather. Finally, appear upon the scene
the two little girls, escorted by old John. The little maids^
faces are quite rosy from the exercise, and their glossy hair
is flying in the breeze. They, too, are soon out of sight.
We have seen the last of the Chirpingtons for to-day. So
just the least taste in the world of orange brandy, one
more cigar, and then away for home and luncheon.

( 34)

THE REV. MARMADUKE MERRYTHOUGHT.

THE CHAPLAIN OF THE HUNT.

CHAPLAIN nowadays seems a necessary append-
age to every association of any importance, from
the British Army down to, say, the Gig-lamp
Makers' Company, with whose jovial spiritual adviser,
indeed, we are personally acquainted, and proud to know
him, especially when he invites us, as he sometimes does, to
his worshipful company's hall for a light little luncheon, or
what vulgar people would call a "snack," consisting of the
native oyster, the succulent turtle-soup, and the exhilara-
ting champagne. It's about as good a luncheon as a man
can have, and we swagger along westward after one of
these entertainments feeling as if the whole of London
belonged to us.

Private individuals, too, as well as regiments, societies,
&:c., indulge in the luxury of a chaplain.

Take, for example, Mr. Benjamin Bobbin, of Birming-
ham, who has made a fortune in staylaces. Bobbin thinks
it necessary, in order to show off his '' brass " as he calls
it, to set up as a country gentleman at once, if not sooner,
with which laudable purpose he forthwith buys a bit of
land, on which springs up in less than half a no-time a
huge nondescript sort of mansion, in appearance not at all
unlike one of her majesty's prisons, and which he is
pleased to adorn with the high-sounding name of castle.
*' It only wants a moat to be puffect/' said Mr. Bobbin

The Rev. Marmaduke Merrythought. 35

to an admiring friend, " and," he added, " if it had not
been for Mrs. B. insisting upon it that it would make the
»ouse so damp, blow me if I wouldn't 'ave 'ad one."

Of course he has his Master of the Horse, and his
Groom of the Chambers, and a sort of bailiff, whom he is
pleased to call his Land Steward, notwithstanding the fact
that there are only 300 acres of land attached to the whole
estate, fifty of which belong to the park round the " House
that Bobbin built." He has all these, and, determined not
to be outdone by his next-door neighbour, the ''Dook," as
he calls him, he first of all builds a church in his park,
taking care to put in it an elaborate organ and no
end of painted windows. He next rummages out from
somewhere a poor weak little party, whom he remunerates
with a hundred a year and a room at the top of the 'ouse
— we beg pardon, ''castle" — and who, from that time forth,
is known as Mister Bobbin's private chaplain.

The last we heard of Mr. B.'s private chaplain was that
he had walked off one fine day in company with the
youngest Miss Bobbin (as ill luck would have it, the only
good-looking one of the lot). Whether the ex-staylace-
maker will eventually forgive the errant pair remains to be
seen. We believe that he is now looking out for another
chaplain — an old and ugly one preferred. But, bless me,
how we are digressing ! The readers will say, what on
earth has all this got to do with the Harkawa}- Hunt ?
Well, only this, that, if all these buffers we have mentioned,
these retired staylace-makers, these army soldiers, these
gig-lamp makers' and candlestick makers' companies, &c.,
possess an ornament in the shape of a chaplain, why, we
ask, should not the estimable company of sportsmen
forming the Harkaway Hunt indulge in a similar treasure ?

D — 2

36 The Rev. Marmadiike Merrythought,

And where, I should like to know, would you find a
better man for the post (an honorary one) than the Rev.
Marmaduke Merrythought ? — irreverently called by the
young and frivolous members of the hunt, " The Bishop
of Soda and B."

^* Here's the Reverend ! " '* Hallo, your grace, you're
late!" are some of the exclamations our chaplain is met
with as he arrives at the meet at a hand-gallop, his hack
all of a lather. A fine, hale, athletic-looking man is our
pet parson. A trifle over fifty in years is he, and very
lightly he carries them ; if it were not, indeed, that his
closely-cut hair and whiskers were decidedly grey, one
would not take him for a day over forty. One can easily
believe, on looking over the man, all the numerous stories
there are of not only what the Reverend could do, but what
he can do. Of course he was captain of the Eleven when he
was at Eton ; and you might also be pretty certain that he
made one in the ten-oar. Old Etonians of his time talk
to this day of the great battle he fought with a butcher,
the pride of Peascod Street, in Bachelor's acre, one Windsor
Fair time. The butcher was the bigger and heavier man
of the two by a good deal, but Merrythought, major,
proved his master in the long run. There was a soft bit
in the butcher's heart, and a right-hander in the sixth
round, which floored the knight of the cleaver like one of
his own bullocks, settled the matter effectually, for, to the
disgust of his friends, the butcher turned it up most un-
mistakably, and would fight no more. So Merrythought,
ornamented with a black eye and with a sprained thumb,
put on his coat, and marched off to Eton, accompanied by
his admiring friends.

Oxford and Christ Church followed, where he had not

The Rev. Marmaduke Merrythought. 37

been up very long before he found himself installed as
Master of the Drag. Jem Hills and he soon became fast
friends, you may be sure ; and at last no meet of the
Heythrop or Bicester seemed perfect without the sporting
undergraduate, who was so soon destined for the Church,
putting in an appearance. He was uncommonly fond too of
donning the silk as well as the scarlet, and many a time
was his smart jacket (pink with blackhoops) the first to
catch the judge's eye at Aylesbury, well beloved of under-
graduates. We rather think that it was just about that
period, between leaving Oxford and entering the Church,
that he so distinguished himself by riding his friend Sir
Reginald Rattlebone's brown horse Blueskin in the Liver-
pool Steeplechase. Uncommonly steadily and well the
embryo Archbishop of Canterbury rode, too, and it was
just on the cards that he might have won had he not been
cannoned against and knocked over at Becher's Brook,
the second time round. Captain Coper, who rode the
winner, told him years after that he looked so like winning
up to the time of his fall that he almost gave up his own
chance as lost. ''It ain't generally known," naively re-
marked the Captain with a grin — " it ain't generally known,
don't cher know, that I was not only riding old Peter the
Great, but, by Jove, I was riding the lot, sir — squared
'em allj every mother's son of 'em, by Jove, except you,
Merrythought, and I should have tried it on with you ;
but, to tell you the truth, I didn't think you had the ghost
of a chance, and until I saw you knocked over at Becher's
Brook (it wasn't an accident, Vm afraid, eh ?), I trembled
for my money, I can tell you." That memorable occasion
was our worthy chaplain's very last appearance in cap
and jacket. He took holy orders, and was duly appointed

3

8 The Rev. Marmaduke Merrythought.

to a curacy soon after, and preached his first sermon
with great applause, especially distinguishing himself by
upsetting the pulpit-cushion on to the head of old Betty
Martin, who happened to be fast asleep underneath. Old
Betty hobbled out of church in a great hurry, and could
not be persuaded for a long while that the roof was
not coming down, or that the end of the world had not
come. " Well done, my boy, w^ell done," said the Squire,
clapping the blushing curate on the back, after service,
as he emerged from the vestry-door. ^' Well done, my
boy ! you shall have a mount on Tarn o* Shanter, on
Tuesday, and you don't get such a chance as that every
day, let me tell you." Our friend liked the curacy un-
commonly. The Squire of the parish was a sportsman all
over, and his chief, the rector, was always away, so he
hunted, and shot, and fished pretty nearly the same as
ever, the only difference he made being to wear a black
instead of a scarlet coat out hunting, and to have the
colour of his tops altered from a creamy to a brownish
hue. That, he thought, gave them a more clerical
appearance. He was rather glad to change, too, because
the old Oxford recipe was a very expensive one. We
don't know whether or no apricot-jam and champagne,
formed the principal ingredients (in those days it was a
popular notion that the sporting lights of the 'Varsity
never used anything else for their boot-tops), but anyhow
it was expensive, and he was glad of a change.

At last came the fat living in the gift of an old uncle
that he was lying in wait for ; in fact it was the promise
of it eventually that induced him to go into the Church.
A month or so after and we find him comfortably installed
in the snug Rectory-house belonging to the parish of

The Rev. Marmaduke Merrythought, 39

Wingfield, where, indeed, he has been ever since. Of
course he took unto himself a wife, and under their united
auspices the parish was soon in apple-pie order, for our
Rector, despite his sporting proclivities, knew exactly
how things ought to be, and would have them done
accordingly. The place had been neglected terribly of
late, for his predecessor in office was a very old man, and
was not competent, even if willing, to see about things at
all ; the consequence was that everything had been con-
ducted in the most rough and ready style imaginable
for a very considerable period. Sometimes there was
no service, sometimes there was. Then the poor old
Rector would read the wrong lessons, the schoolboys
played marbles and cracked nuts under his very nose,
whilst a select body of village roughs would amuse
themselves during service by shouting and singing, and
playing leap-frog over the graves outside. The Rev.
Marmaduke very soon altered all that. The yokels out-
side persisting in kicking up disturbances, notwithstand-
ing repeated remonstrances on his part, he just sallied
out one Sunday in the middle of his sermon, stalked
down the aisle, and into the graveyard, where, catching
the biggest of the offenders, he administered a sound
drubbing to him on the spot. There was no more leap-
frog ever again. A new schoolmaster was appointed — a
young man, with a sharp eye and determined mien, a
very different customer to tackle from the last one, who was
stone-deaf and half blind into the bargain. Little Johnny
Stout detected in the act of cracking wood-nuts in
church, got such a dressing next day that he was sore
for a week after. Then the church music. When the
new parson came, there was an orchestra in the gallery,

40 The Rev. Marmadiike Merrythought.

consisting of a double-bass, a violin, a trombone, a bas-
soon, and a clarionet. The Reverend was fond of music,
and the performance in the gallery of a Sunday upset
him terribly (he v^as celebrated at Oxford for his singing,
and the style in which he used to favour the company
with *' Nix My Dolly " and other popular songs would
always bring down the house at supper and wine parties).
The band then was promptly done away with, to its
members' great indignation — their leader, Amos Rose by
name, who played the clarionet, turning Dissenter in
disgust, not that it mattered much, seeing that shortly after
he got five years for taking a pot-shot at one of Lord Daisy-
field's keepers, who happened to come across him just as
he had knocked a fine fat cock-pheasant off his perch on a
fir-tree one shiny night in the " season of the year," as
the poacher has it in the old song. That feat accom-
plished, our energetic Rector proceeded at once to go
round with the hat, with a view to buying an organ, and
got the necessary funds in less than half a no-time,
making up any deficiencies from his own pocket. The
new organ appeared ; the new schoolmaster played it ;
Mrs. Merrythought took the children in hand ; and
very soon the singing was good enough for anything.
Everything then being put shipshape in the parish, for the
Reverend fully recognised the sense of the old saying,
^* Business first, pleasure afterwards," he thought that it
was about time that he began to see to the furthering of
his own amusements ; so accordingly some fresh stables
were built ; two more nags added to those he had brought
with him ; and shortly after Christmas the Reverend
Marmaduke was enabled to make his first appearance
with the Harkaway Hounds in a becoming manner, and

¥

t ^

j-^sa-"

..X

= 1

The Rev. Marmaduke Merrythought. 41

most regular has he been in his attendance ever since,
scarcely ever, indeed, missing a day. In fact, he is a
model chaplain in every way. Watch him now, as, having
changed his hack for a hunter, he moves off to say a
word to the noble Master of the Hounds, and say if the
subject of our sketch don't look like business all over, from
the crown of his hat to the toes of his very perfectly
varnished boots, and, if you only wait until they find, and
you get away with them, taking the " Bishop " as your pilot,
you will be pretty certain to find yourself at the end of
the day recalling to memory those lines of Major Whyte-
Melville's —

When the country is roughest he's most at his ease;
When the run is severest, he rides like a man.
And the pace cannot stop, nor the fences defeat,
This rum one to follow, this bad one to beat.

About a week before the Derby our Chaplain and his
family betake themselves to town for a month or so
for the May Meetings, as he will tell you. Not that we
ever remember seeing him near Exeter Hall, in our life.
When in town the Reverend's programme for the day is
something in this wise : after breakfast he will saunter
down Pall-Mallwards to his club, which is, of course, the
Oxford and Cambridge. Arrived there, he will repair to
the smoking room, and read the paper over a quiet weed.
When he has done that, it is about time for the park. So
he will repair home ; take one or both of his daughters, and
saunter down Piccadilly, stopping on the way, you may
be sure, at Messrs. Fores's to have a stare at the sporting
prints. The park reached, he will sit down and watch
with a critical eye the cavalry as they pass in review be-
fore him — home again to luncheon — club again, and
another cigar, and a talk with a friend or two — go home —

42 The Rev. Marmaduke Merrythought.

dress for dinner, and opera or theatre as the case may be.

You are sure to run against him in the paddock at
Epsom every day of the summer meeting, looking more
like an owner of one of the favourites than a country
parson — his white tie, indeed, knowingly folded in a
diamond shape, and hardly excelled even by that wonder-
ful choker worn by the late "ginger" Stubbs, excites the
admiration, not to say envy, of all beholders. The
Reverend, though not a better as a rule, always likes to,
have his '^tenner" on something for the Derby, audit
would not be very unwise to follow my leader, and do
as he does, for he is never a great way off the winner
when he does take it into his head to back one.
Eton, where he has a boy, of course sees him on the 4th
of June, ready armed with a pocketful of sovereigns, for
he is a rare hand at tipping schoolboys ; and as we find
our way to a friendly drag the first day of Ascot Races,
with a view to luncheon, an eye winks cheerfully at us
from over a huge double-handled mug filled with cham-
pagne cup, which cup, by and by, being removed, with a
prolonged " Ah " of satisfaction, discloses to view the
ruddy face of our reverend chaplain, who is beaming with
smiles, and apparently as happy as a king. After Ascot
the Reverend begins to think about going home again,
where fishing and shooting keep him going until cub-
hunting begins, of which amusement he never misses a
day, getting up at most unearthly hours in order to be at
the meet.

Let us have a quiet peep at our Chaplain in his own
church at Wingfield. It is September, and we are on a
short visit to him for some partridge-shooting. We
are attending the Sunday afternoon service, and that

The Rev. Marmaduke Merrythought,

43

second glass of brown sherry after luncheon, and the
heat of the day combined, have, to say the truth, made
us uncommonly drowsy. The old-fashioned square pew,
too, we are in, is uncommonly comfortable. The hum
of a bumble-bee buzzing around, and the snore of a fat
farmer in the pew behind us, seem to act like lauda-
num upon our senses. In two seconds we are sound
asleep.

A prayer-book suddenly drops off the seat with a bang,
and wakes us up with a start. Have we been snoring, we
wonder? Dear me ! we trust no one observed us. We
must have been asleep a quarter of an hour ; for, as we rub
our eyes and endeavour to wake up, we hear the Rev-
erend's clear voice bringing his no doubt excellent sermon
to a close thus: "And now, my brethren : Mark the
difference between these two men — Esau was a gentle-
man and a sportsman, but Jacob, my brethren, Jacob was
dijewy

(44)

MR. AND LADY THOMASINA CLINKER.

Y Jove ! Tommy, we're floored ; and we're late
too. What on earth's to be done ? These are
awful rails, you know. Will Rufus do 'em
after me, d'ye think ? We are bound to be late if we turn
back. What shall we do, old boy, eh ? "

*' Oh ! Johnnie, we cant turn back, you know, and such
a day, too, as it is ! Oh, no ! Let's have a shy at them,
dear old man. Give me a lead, at once, sir. I dare say
you'll break the top rail."

Now, anyone not being well acquainted with the mem-
bers of our renowned hunt, on reading the above conver-
sation, would naturally imagine that it was being carried
on between two of the male sex, in which case they would
be entirely wrong, for the two speakers are respectively a
remarkably good-looking young gentleman, exceedingly
well got up in hunting-costume, and who answered to the
name of Johnnie — full name, Mr. John Clinker, of Fernleigh
Lodge ; the other, a very charming curly-haired, blue-eyed^
thoroughly English-looking young woman, who answers
to the masculine-sounding name of " Tommy," and who
is no other than Lady Thomasina, the fascinating and
hard-riding spouse of the aforesaid John, commonly called
*' Johnnie" Clinker.

Lord Daisyfield's hounds are on this particular morn-
ing (such a hunting morning as it was, too, as Lady Tho-

Mr. and Lady Thomasma Clinker. 45

masina said with feeling; southerly wind, cloudy sky, and
the rest of it all complete) at Cropperton Gate, one of the
very best meets of his lordship's hounds. Johnnie and
his wife have sent their best horses on, and have duly
started for the meet, taking a short cut well known to
them. Now through this farm, now through that, now-
over a couple of fences to save a mile of road, and so on.
They have done about four miles of the distance, are
through Oakover Wood, and then proceed in Indian file
down the steep and narrow pathway of a little spinney.
Johnnie lifts confidently the latch of the small bridle-gate,
and emerges into the valley.

What horrible sight is this that meets his eye ?
Johnnie and his wife can scarcely believe their senses.
Why,it was only a month or six weeks since they werehere.
What has become then of the fat-looking pasture, with the
prosperous-looking lot of beasts and a horse or two, all
scattered about ? — the rich-looking grass almost seeming
to say, "Now then, my boys and girls, give your horses
their heads, and have a good gallop over us." The pas-
ture is there certainly, but how changed ! The cows and
horses have disappeared, and are replaced by a couple of
hundred or so of that important class of British workmen
commonly called "navvies," with their huts, and theirhorses,
and their carts, and their wheelbarrows, and who are one
and all as busy at work as a colony of bees. Tipping and
shunting, wheeling and digging, measuring and planning,
cussing and swearing ; and all at the instigation of the wor-
shipful body of directors belonging to the Great Smashem
and Crumple-em-up Railway Company.

By way of marking the limits of the land they have ac-
quired for the new line, so that there might be no mistake

^6 Mr, and Lady Thomasina Clinker,

about it, the aforesaid navigators have playfully put up
all along the line for miles, a great strong oak post and rail,
and it is the sight of this formidable obstruction that so ap-
pals for a moment our two hunting friends. At the sight of
the red-coat the navvies are up in a moment, and begin to
chaff. Eh, lad ! " shouts one big fellov^ w^ith a grin, '• ye'll
hev to gan back, arm thinkin'." Johnnie offers half-a-
crown to one of them to pull off the top rail, but
the ganger, a big angular-looking Scotchman, coming up,
sternly forbids anything of the sort. Noo, says Mr. Sandy
MTavish, ^' I wunna giv me consint on ony accoont,
mun, to demegin' the company's prupperty."

^' Oh, you v^on't, v^^on't you ? " replies Johnnie, in answer
to this rebuff, getting out of patience. *' Oh, you won't,
won't you ? Then get out of the way, you ugly Scotch
sinner, or I shall ride over you." And, turning round with-
out more ado, he gives his horse a good run at the rails,
and gets over cleverly, nearly knocking over the big
Scotchman as he lands. His hunter hits the top bar, but
it doesn't so much as bend.

" I'm coming, Johnnie ! " he hears his wife call out
behind him, and before he can say ''Jack Robinson," she
has set her horse going, increasing her pace as she nears
the formidable post and rails, and in another second is at
his side. The navvies are delighted, and cheer with might
and main. Without even being asked, the biggest of them
at once proceeds to break down the opposite rail, much to
the indignation of the tall Scotchman, who vows vengeance
against "yon rackless young faller," as he calls Johnnie,
who, with his wife, is now half a mile off.

" Eh, but yon's as bonny a lookin' lass as iver I see,"
says an admiring navvy as, having watched the pair out

^^^_

< s:

o -^

> 5

< I

-J s

Z
<

Mr. and Lady Thomasina Clinker. 47

of sight, he resumes his work ; a remark that is echoed by
all the company.

To return to our sporting young couple.

The whole hunt were delighted two years ago, when it
was found out that Johnnie Clinker and his newly-
married wife, Lady Thomasina, had taken Fernleigh Lodge,
and intended to hunt regularly with the Harkaway. They
were both well known, and great favourites, for Johnnie's
papa. Clinker, sen., owned a large estate in the county, to
which his son, being the eldest, was, of course, heir ; and
was not Lady Thomasina the daughter of Lord Lovelock,
who lived in the adjacent county ?

Lady Tommy was a favourite with everybody.

She set everybody going (and we think it will be
generally allowed that country people want a deal of
waking up at times).

Who was it urged on and bullied all the bachelors in
the county until they consented to give that capital ball at
the Town Hall of Bullerton, in November last ?

Lady Tommy, to be sure.

Who got up and headed the subscription for the Ladies'
Cup at the Hunt Steeplechase Meeting (the most popular
race of the day, as it turned out) ?

Why, none other than Lady Tommy.

Yes, she is here, there, and everywhere, You'll see
her dancing the very last dance of all at half-past three in
the morning ; and you may go to the meet of my lord's
hounds at Thornmanby Thicket that identical morning,
and there I'll wager anything you'll see Lady Tommy,
accompanied by her faithful Johnnie, chattering like a mag-
pie, and looking as fresh as paint. Johnnie and she talk to
each other more like a couple of boys than man and wife,

48 Mr. and Lady Thomasina Clinker.

to the great amusement of everybody. Her detractors
declare Lady Tommy is bad style, and dreadfully fast.
Perhaps she is a wee bit slangy, but she is none the
worse for that. It is a pleasant sight on a non-hunting
day to see her ladyship turn out for an afternoon amongst
her pet poor, thick-booted and ulster-coated, with a huge
basket filled with good things in one hand, and a thick
stick with a crook to it in the other. She is accompanied
on these occasions by a whole tribe of dogs, ranging in
species from the retriever to a Yorkshire terrier, and,
if he is not shooting, she will probably be escorted by the
faithful Johnnie, who, in that case, carries the basket, and
slouches along by her side in a submissive manner, with
a huge cigar in his mouth. As they enter one end of the
village, the curate bolts out at the other — that good man
is of Ritualistic principles, and mortally afraid of Lady
Tommy, who, as she says, chaffs the life out of him.
** Tally Ho ! Yonder he goes ! " laughs her frolic ladyship,
as she and Johnnie catch sight of his long-coated, squashy-
hatted figure, striding along in the distance. Right glad
are all the people to see her, you may depend. Old
Dame Trot, who lately shuffled off this mortal coil,
was asked by the parish doctor one day whether she
wouldn't like to see the clergyman. No, said the Dame,
she didn't know as she wouldn't rather not, but she would
like one thing, that she would, and that was to see the
little ladyship, as she called Lady Tommy, once again.
" Deary, deary me," said the poor old woman, " the sight
of her curly hair and her purty face seems to do me more
good, it do, than all the doctor's stuff or sermons in the
world."

Particularly well posted in all sporting literature is her

Mr. and Lady Thomasina Clinker. 49

ladyship. On her bookshelves you will find nearly every
v^ork connected with sporting that has ever been pub-
lished— Jack Mytton ; Soapy Sponge; Ask Mamma.
There they are every one of them."

Said little Lord Numskull to her one day (he had just
been plucked, poor young man) : — '' If those old slow-
coaches had only examined me, you know, about Jorrocks's
Hunt, or BeWs Life, or something cheerful, instead of all
that antediluvian rubbish, that, 'pon my soul, no one can
remember, I should have passed all right, Vm sure I
should."

*' Oh, you are, are you ? " replied her ladyship.
"Suppose, now, I examine you a little. Let us. Lord
Numskull, take, by way of commencement, Mr. Jorrocks's
Hunt. Now then. Attention !

''Question i : What happened to Mr. Jorrocks on the
Cat and Custard-pot day ?

"Ah ! you know that. Yes ; quite right ; go up to the
top of the class.

" Question 2 : Describe as accurately as possible Mr.
Jorrocks's great run from Pinch me near Forest." And
on went her ladyship with her questions, until her hus-
band stopped her, saying : " Shut up. Tommy, you bully
you ; Numskull has had enough of examiners lately,
without you, I know."

We left Johnnie Clinker and his wife, just having
cleared in gallant style the post and rails belonging to
the Smashem aud Crumple-em-up Railway. So we
must forrad on, and catch them up. The hounds have
met, and are already off to draw Tinkler's Gorse. Tink-
ler's Gorse lies on a hill — it's a sure find. So, on our
pony we can see a good deal of the fun in a quiet sort of

50

Mr. and Lady Thomasina Clinker,

way. Ah, I thought so ; the hounds have not been in
cover three minutes before Harry the whip's cap is seen
in the air, at the bottom corner, and — '' Tally-ho 1 "
yonder he goes ! The thief of the world gives a flick
of his brush as much as to say, '' If I am to be settled to-
day, you'll have to do all you know, my fine fellows."
Twang, twang, twang, goes Tom Tootler's horn. Here come
the hounds ! My word, what a chorus ! Horses are
mad with excitement ; even our pony begins to fidget
about. We can see the whole that takes place in the
valley below. There goes Lord Daisyfield, close to the
hounds, as usual. There goes Tom Tootler close to
him, and there go, just behind him, Johnnie Clinker and
his wife, Lady Tommy — her horse, apparently a little out
of her hand — leading. And now that we have seen our
friends in a good place in what promises to be a first-rate
run, we will bid them both good-bye.

(51 )

CAPTAIN DABBER.

ISSIS PLUMMER!"
''Comin', sir."

" Have ye got my sandwiches and the ginger-
bread nuts ?"

'' Here they are, Captain," gasps Mrs. Plummer, who
has at last arrived at the top of the kitchen stairs, for Mrs.
Plummer is short and fat, and the stairs are long and
difficult to ascend to a lady of her calibre.

'^ Here they are, Captain, and the sherry-flask's a'ready
in the saddle."

'^And the small brandy-flask, Mrs. Plummer? "
'* Here it is, sir."

*^And, Mrs. Plummer, did ye say there was beefsteak
puddin' for dinner or the leg of Welsh mutton ? "

'^ I'm a keepin' the mutton for to-morrow. Captain.
There's a dozen oysters (the last of the barrel, sir), the
beefsteak pudden, the woodcock you shot yesterday, and
a apple tart to foUer."

'' Very good, Missis Plummer ; pop a bottle of cham-
pagne into the ice pail, about half-past six, and decant a
bottle of the red seal as soon as I'm gone, and leave it on
the mantelpiece, there's a good creature." And, so saying,
Captain Dabber, or as he is generally called by the natives
'^ Charlie Dabber," emerges solemnly from the front door
of his snug habitation, known by the name of Ivy Lodge,
and swinging his fifteen stone of humanity on to the back

E — J

52 Captain Dahher.

of his flea-bitten, Roman-nosed, grey hunter, waves his
hand gaily to his admiring housekeeper, who waits at
the door with folded arms to see him off, and jogs steadily
off to meet Lord Daisyfield's hounds at Tilbury Cross
Roads.

Captain Dabber is a short, stout, powerfully-built man,
with a stubbly beard and moustache of a mustard and
pepper hue, and at the present moment is attired in a
cutaway coat of dark green cloth, with brass buttons.
White cord breeches, and brown-topped boots adorn a
pair of very serviceable-looking legs, and the whole is
topped up with a velvet cap. As he himself expresses it,
he was ^'foaled " in the county, and as he has shot and
hunted, fished and walked, and driven pretty well all
over it in the course of his fifty-five years of existence, why
he may be said to be conversant with every inch of it, and
in return to be pretty well known in it, himself.

Now, it was the original intention of our friend's
parents — as worthy an old couple as ever lived — to send
their hopeful son (who was their only child, by the way)
into the Church, when he had arrived at years of dis-
cretion ; and, with this object in view, they began, of
course, by thoroughly spoiling him. Being a strong
healthy urchin, with a tendency to low company, and
always brimful of the most exuberant spirits, he began
by the time he was twelve years old to get a trifle out of
their hand ; so they sent Master Charles off to school,
with a view to sobering him down a bit. He evidently
possessed no scholarly tastes, however, for he ran away
from the first one, and was expelled from two others, one
after the other.

The two old people were nearly brokenhearted, as may

Captain Dahher. 53

be imagined, when their darling was returned for the
second time on their hands, marked ''incorrigible." There
was no doubt about it, as the old nurse expressed it, the
boy was a regular young '* Rooshian. What to do with
him now was the question. It was no use thinking about
the Church ; it was all they could do to induce him to
occasionally enter one, and then only by bribery and cor-
ruption on his mother's part. The boy was evidently not
a fool. Why should he not succeed if trained for mercan-
tile pursuits? "Who knows?" observed his fond
and ever-sanguine mother : '* perhaps dear Charles may
eventually turn out a second Dick Whittington, and be-
come Lord Mayor of London in process of time." Her
husband shook his head rather dubiously at his wife's
remark ; however, he thought there was no harm in giving
the lad a trial. Accordingly, a seat having been duly found
for him in a large counting-house in the City, and an
arrangement made with a highly respectable family, in
Bloomsbury Square, to board and lodge our hero during
his sojourn in town, with strict orders not to allow him a
latch-key on any pretence whatever, the youth was
launched on his new career, the fact being duly
impressed upon him at starting, that, if he only behaved
himself and worked hard, he was bound eventually to
become a very great man.

Alas! the ''castles in the air" built by poor old Mr.
and Mrs. Dabber were destined before six months
were over to come with a crash to the ground.
One fine day the fond old couple took it into their
heads to go up to London with a view to giving dear
Charlie a pleasant surprise. Having ordered rooms
at the Golden Cross, where the coach stopped, old

54 Captain Dahber.

Dabber, leaving his wife at the hotel, wended his way
into the City to call on Charlie, and invite him to dinner
and the play that very evening,

''How glad the dear boy will be to see me, to be sure,"
thought the worthy old gentleman, as he plodded steadily
along Cheapside ; " I'll ask 'em to give him a holiday to-
morrow, and his mother and me will have him all to our-
selves, and we'll make a reg'lar day of it — do the Tower
o' London and the Monyment — we'll see a little life, in
fact, the three of us. Ha ! ha ! "

'' Mr. Dabber has not been to the office now for three
weeks — laid up with pleurisy at his father's place in the
country. He is expected back, however, to-morrow or
the next day. Who shall I say called ? " '' I — I won't
leave any name, thank you," faintly murmured the poor
old man. " Merely say an old friend of his called.
That will be sufficient. Good morning, sir, and thank
you."

Poor old Dabber, on getting into the street, at once took
a hackney coach and drove straight to the boarding-house
in Bloomsbury. As he expected, precisely the same
answer awaited him here. That was not all, however.
When the mistress of the establishment turned up and
heard from his father's own lips that Master Charlie was
not where he was supposed to be, a sudden light seemed
to dawn upon her, and forthwith such an account of his
son's goings-on was poured into Mr. Dabber, senior's, ears,
as fairly horrified him. When the landlady, tightening
her lips and drawing in her breath, got as far in her
narrative as : ''Now, I think I can guess what has become
of Betsy ! " (alluding to an under-housemaid of a frivolous

Captain Dabber. ^^

disposition and prepossessing appearance who had dis-
appeared oddly enough about the same time that Charlie
had) the old man, gathering up his hat and umbrella, fairly
bolted from the house.

When the prodigal son did return (the poor boy had
been to Margate for a little fresh air, at which vivacious
watering-place, just about the same period, the abandoned
Betsy might also have been seen flaunting about in an
alarming hat and feathers) his father talked to him
like a book, you may depend, and Charlie, struck with
remorse, promised to return to his duties in the City and
be a good boy for the future. But it was no good. In
spite of all his good resolutions he at length came to the
conclusion that quill-driving was not his forte. A hunt-
ing-saddle he liked much better than a three-legged stool
to sit upon, and a "Joe Manton " to handle was infinitely
preferable to the office ruler. Accordingly he discarded
the counting-house in the City, or rather, to be strictly
accurate, I should say, the counting-house in the City
discarded him.

The old folks at home, now, did not know what on earth
to do with him. They tried him at engineering, they tried
him at land surveying, then they tried farming, but finally
Charlie chucked them all up one after another. He
liked farming certainly the best of the lot, for he found
the big grass meadow at the back of the house was the
place of all others to shoot pigeons in, and he amused him-
self and his friends accordingly.

Then he started a steeplechaser or two, and broke
down his own fences and rode over his own wheat with
the greatest pleasure in life, whilst giving them their
gallops.

56 Captain Dahher.

Things at last came to a full stop at the farm, for one
fine day those eminent pugilists, the Whitechapel Wonder
and Curly Bob, with a select horde of ruffians, appearing
in the neighbourhood with a view to settling their little
differences by an appeal to their fists, and casting about
for a convenient spot to bring off their little mill, sud-
denly came across that scamp Charlie, who happened to
be shooting partridges in a turnip-field next the road ;
he, quickly seeing how matters stood, forthwith invited
them to make any use of his land they thought proper,
and accordingly, taking him at his word, the whole lot of
them marched into his eighteen-acre grass field, and
fixed the ropes and stakes without more ado, kindly
giving their host, in return, a seat in the inner ring free,
gratis, for nothing. It was a capital fight, and the White-
chapel Wonder quite put all his previous performances in
the shade, for, getting his opponent on the ropes in the
last round, he half killed him before he let him go.
Though pleasant while it lasted, Charlie found it in the
long run rather an expensive day's work, for, besides
losing fifty pounds on the fight, the mob broke into his
house, and walked off with everything they could lay
hands on, and finished up by playfully setting light to all
the ricks in his stackyard (not insured). To make
matters worse, as he lay tossing in bed at eleven o'clock the
next morning with a rattling headache, who should send
up his card but his infuriated landlord, who, being an
active magistrate, was naturally indignant at such goings
on. High words ensued, the worthy beak telling
Master Charlie that he would not allow such a young
blackguard as he was to remain tenant of a farm of his
any longer ; Charlie, in return, requesting his landlord to

Captain Dabber. 57

go to the devil. The sheriff shortly afterwards walked in,
and collared the redoubtable steeplechase horses. The
following week there was a sale, and then the poor old
Dabbers found their hopeful son thrown on their hands
once again. The last disappointment about finished them.
Not long after, old Dabber died, and was quickly fol-
lowed by his wife, and Charles then found himself
the proud possessor of Ivy Lodge, a snug little house,
with about three hundred acres of land attached to it,
and a nice little fortune of some fifteen thousand pounds.
The fifteen thousand pounds lasted, as the reader may
imagine, having an insight into our friend's mode of life,
as many months. (A bad Cambridgeshire, we rather think,
gave him his coup de grace.) Ivy Lodge was announced
in the local papers as to be let, and its owner disappeared
altogether from the scene. There were all manner of
conjectures as to what had become of him. Some said he
had turned soldier, and had gone to Spain to fight with
General Evans. Someone else heard he had been pressed
for the navy, and was serving as a common sailor before the
mast. Then came a report that he had been in England
all the while, after all ; and a story got about that he had
been mixed up in some ugly transaction on the Turf, and
had been warned off Newmarket Heath. For some years
nothing more was heard of him. Ivy Lodge was tenanted
by two old maiden ladies, and Charlie was nearly for-
gotten. Suddenly, one fine day, he turned up, like a bad
shilling, as " What do you think ? A Master of Stag-
hounds." In the neighbourhood of London, too. His
opening meet was announced with a flourish of trumpets
in all the sporting papers, and it coming to the ears of
some of his friends in the old country, they determined to

58 Captain Dahher.

be at his first meet and see how he did things. It was as
well they did, for, as it happened unfortunately, Charlie's
first meet was his last. It happened in this way : — The
Captain, as he was now called (why or wherefore nobody
knew exactly), like a careful man, had taken the wise
precaution of having all the subscriptions to his hunt paid
in advance — short credit, in his opinion, making long
friends. Our friend, then, was enabled to appear on his
opening day in high feather — brand new coat, brand new
cap, brand new breeches and boots, brand new everything.
Not only that ; fixed in his saddle was a splendid silver
hunting-horn, presented to him by the members of the
new hunt the night before at a big dinner given in his
honour at the Ship and Turtle Tavern. In short, he was
no end of a swell. Well, the sporting Cits were all
assembled at the meet, Charlie, in the centre of them,
sitting on his horse amongst his hounds as cocky as you
please. What a great man he felt that day ! Napoleon
at the battle of Marengo was nothing to him. How his
field admired him ! " What a splendid pack of dogs ! "
exclaimed one enthusiastic old innocent ; " Magnificent
'ounds," cried another. (They had only cost a pony at
Aldridge's, the whole lot.) ''What a splendid hunter!"
remarked another, pointing to the Master's horse. At
last came the cry of '' Here's the deer cart ! " and sure
enough the great lumbering vehicle was seen coming along
in the distance. The Master trotted forward, with a self-
satisfied air, to meet it. Approaching nearer he saw at a
glance from the driver's face that something was wrong.
'' Well, what's made ye so long ? " said he, sharply, as
the man pulled up short. '' We've been waiting ever so
long ; turn him out as quick as you can ; come, look

Captain Dabber. 5g

sharp!'' '^Turn him out/' laughed the driver, scornfully.
'' That's a good 'un. I 'ain't got one to turn out, Master.
I went up to Muster Polecat's in the Marrerbun-road, as
you told me, and he ses, ses he, ^ 'Ave you brought the
money for the stag ? ' ses he. ' No, I hain't,' ses I.
' Veil, then,' ses he, a turnin' short round on 'is 'eel
as he spoke, ' you jest go an' tell your guvner I hain't
a goin' to part v^ith my wallable hanimals until I sees
the colour of 'is money,' he ses, so with that, Master, I
makes the best o' my way to tell ye." Here was a pretty
go. The Captain for once was '' done brown," and he
did not for a moment know what to do. However, he
went back to the assembled sportsmen with the best face
he could command. '' Infernal nuisance ! Stag taken sud-
denly ill ; suppressed gout — a thing stags were very liable
to — excessively sorry ! If he had only have known earlier
would have asked his great friend. Lord Lambswool, for
one or two from his park. Would give it that idiot.
Polecat, for not letting him know earlier, directly he got
back to town. The only thing he could think of to wile
away the day would be to go and draw for a hare. Was
quite sure the farmers about wouldn't mind." The field
agreeing, after a good deal of grumbling, the Captain
turned short out of the road into the first fallow field he
came to, and to the great delight of everyone they had
not been in it two minutes when up jumped a banging
great hare.

Away they all went, the hare just skirting a farmhouse.
The wily and foreseeing Captain, thinking the tenant might
not be best pleased at a stranger coming over his land,
gave his farm a wide berth, and with only two of the
field got well away. Not so the others, who rode into the

6o Captain Dabber.

farmyard to avoid a nasty-looking fence, and were there
and then impounded by the indignant agriculturist, who
declined to let them go until they stumped up a sovereign
apiece. The next day our friend (who killed his hare, by
the way) got a series of most indignant letters from his
stag-hunting friends, some of them indeed being actually
mean enough to ask for their subscriptions back. So he
took the virtuous indignation tack, and gave up the whole
thing, kindly making the Hunt a present of his valuable
pack of hounds.

Charlie was now at uncommonly low water, everything
seemed to go wrong. Jenny Jones, whom he had backed
for as much as he could get on for the Cambridgeshire,
with a view to keeping him comfortably for the winter,
failed to get a place even. His watch and chain, even
the presentation hunting horn, disappeared on a long visit
to his confiding uncle's, and his green coat, his cap, and
his lily-white cords and brown-topped boots, might have
been seen any day in the week airing themselves outside
the fusty emporium of Mr. Solomon Isaacs in Holywell-
street. There is a story told of him about this period,
that, whilst on a visit to a country house, the footman
appeared one morning in his bedroom to lay out his
clothes, &c., when the following dialogue took place
between the two : —

Footman : "Please, sir, I don't see no clean shirt."
Charlie (sitting up in bed) : '' No clean shirt ! Why,
where's the one I sent to the wash on Saturday ? "
Footman (grinning) : " Please, sir, it come in two."
Charlie (subsiding on to his pillow) : '' Came in two,
did it ? I wish to heavens it had come in four then, for
it's the only one I've got."

Captain Dahber. 6i

Our worthy friend didn't know what to be at. He was
too heavy for steeplechase riding, he was too ugly for an
artist's model ; at last, as he turned it over in his mind in
bed one morning, he had just settled with himself that he
would shave off the scrubby moustache and beard he
usually sported, and advertise for a situation as coachman
in a respectable family (wouldn't he rob the cornbin ! he
thought to himself), when rat-tat came the postman's
knock at the front door, and by and bye the dirty servant-
of-all-work appeared bearing a letter for the Captain — a
letter, too, with a black border two inches deep at least.
The worthy Captain's heart beat as loudly as the tick of a
Dutch clock as he opened it. It proved to be from the
well-known firm of lawyers, Messrs. Weezle and Stote, of
Lincoln's Inn, acquainting him with the fact that his aunt,
Miss Tabitha Tipcat, had lately departed this life, and
had left him, with the exception of a few trifling legacies,
all she possessed. Charlie was in ecstasies ; he was set up
again for life. He'd turn over a new leaf altogether, and
be a good boy for the rest of his days, " hang'd if he
wouldn't; he quite made up his mind to that." When he
had dressed himself, he went straight out, and ordered him-
self a capital dinner at a certain snug chop-house he was
aware of. He also ordered a bottle of champagne, a luxury
he had not tasted for goodness knows how long. He
then swaggered off to order his mourning, and draw
the lawyers of a little ready money on account. Over his
coffee and cognac that night after dinner he puffed his
cigar, and arranged all his plans for the future. The old
ladies' lease had just expired, so he would be enabled once
more to inhabit Ivy Lodge. The following week all was
settled. Mrs. Plummer was installed as major domo, and

62 Captain Dahber.

under her able management everything was soon in apple-
pie order, and our friend the Captain found himself
enabled to set up as a country gentleman forthwith. He
farmed a little, shot a little, hunted a good deal, and went
to church as regularly as clockwork. He was church-
warden for a time (fancy that !), in which capacity he was
most energetic — rather too much so, indeed, for the vicar,
with whom he nearly came to blows one fine day in the
vestry.

One personage there is in the county who, as he says,
can't abide the sight of him, and that no other than the
noble M.F.H., Lord Daisyfield to wit, who never tires of
relating how that horrid ^' Mister Dabber," as he calls
him, served him out that time at the county races some
few years back. Now be it known that Lord Daisyfield
in his younger days, when he was the Honourable Regi-
nald Cowslip, was one of the most accomplished gentlemen
riders of his time. Croxton Park would not have been
itself had not the Honourable won a race or two each day.
In fact in every race eligible for the gentleman rider there
was his name to be found amongst the performers. However,
when he succeeded to the title he thought it more becoming
his station to relinquish his favourite pursuit, and the
only occasion he now thought fit to appear in silk was
once a year at the race meeting held in his lordship's
own Park at Wortlebury. Great was the cheering when
Lord Daisyfield, got up to perfection (''Sich a neckcloth
and sich smart boots I never did see, surelie," remarked
Farmer Butterboy on one occasion), would carry off the
Hunt Cup. Well, about the second year after Captain
Dabber had settled down to live quietly at Ivy Lodge,
the races came round as usual, and on the numbers going

Captain Dabber. 63

up for the Hunt Cup it was seen that there were only
two runners, viz. : —

1. Lord Daisyfield's bay horse Sir Marmaduke (Owner), crimson and black
cap.

2. Capt. Dabber's brown horse Lablache (Owner), blue, red belt and cap.

Now, the redoubtable Charlie's steed Lablache was a
confirmed roarer, consequently it looked any odds against
his getting the severe two miles and a half of the Hunt
Cup course ; extravagant odds, therefore, were offered on
his lordship's mount ; not that there was much betting, it
being one of the good old country meetings, where
people came to meet one another more for goodfellowship
than to make money. Down the course they went in
their canter, his lordship first, old Lablache grunting and
wheezing along after him. Now, though Lablache was
such a bad roarer he possessed a good turn of speed, and
was, besides, better bred than Lord Daisyfield's horse, so
accordingly as the pair were on their way to the post old
Charlie sidled up to his lordship, and proposed making a
waiting race of it, and not to really gallop until the bend
for home, by which means they would make perhaps a
semblance of a race so as to amuse the country folk. His
lordship, eyeing his opponent's Roman-nosed steed with
some contempt, agreed to the proposal. ''Most happy,
Mister Dabber, I'm sure," replied he with a polite bow,
for my lord was always the pink of politeness.

The next minute they were off.

'' Whoy, Mas'r's old ploo' mear, Jessie, could go varster
nor that theer," remarked a chawbacon, looking on with
his mouth open, as the pair went lobbing along about two
miles an hour. ''Noo they're a-coomin' along varster,"
said he as they rounded the bend, and, eh ! what ! why you

64 Captain Dahher.

don't say so ! — folks rub their eyes — old Lablache's great,
ugly head is on a level with his lordship's knee, and what
is more, that old sinner, Charlie Dabber, is sitting as still
as a mouse on his horse. Not so Lord Daisyfield, who
sits down to ride in earnest. Memories of Croxton Park
and the Bibury Club, flit rapidly across his brain, and he
does all he knows, which is a good deal you may depend.
No good. They near the Stand. Old Lablache draws
level. His lordship's whip is out, but it is all over but
shouting. Steel and whalebone are not a bit of use this
time ; the despised one shoots out, and wins, hard held,
by a length.

" G^55 him!" gasped Lord Daisyfield to himself as he
returned to scale.

^' Done, old Stiffneck, by Jupiter f' ejaculated the de-
praved Dabber, putting his tongue in his cheek.

So intensely disgusted was Lord Daisyfield that he
vowed he would never ride again, and he kept his word ;
indeed, everyone agreed it was too bad of that horrid
Captain to serve my lord such a shabby trick.

And now we will bid old Charlie good-bye. Let us
suppose the hounds find in Scrub Wood, and go away at
a rattling pace.

"Ah, I thought as much," grunts the Captain. ''Off
to Benderby." So saying, he proceeds to take a
lengthened swig at his sherry-flask, lights a cigar, and
turning his horse's head, makes the best of his way into
the high road. Once there he pounds steadily along in
the direction he thinks the fox is making for, and as he is
right nine times out of ten it is not unusual for him to
very often arrive there before " Sly Reynolds " himself.
Then comes the break up, and the Captain, sticking a

i;

V^v

Captain Dabber.

65

fresh cigar in his mouth, jogs steadily home, with a
terrific appetite for dinner.

Which dinner (not a bad one, we know) we will now
leave him to enjoy.

( 66 )

CHARLIE WILDCATS.

T'S very late, sir ! The'yve nearly finished
breakfast, sir, and the horses are just
a-comin' round. The Squire's sent word up
twice, sir, to me to let you know. Mister Charles
(bawling in the sleeper's ear), it's gone ten, sir; it 'ave
raly."

''' Whatsh matter ? Not time to gerrup, is it ? "

''Yezzir; it is, indeed. You'll be hawful late. Mister
Charles ; you will, indeed, sir."

*' By Jove ! no idea it was so late. Yaw-aw-aw-ah.
Get me a brandy and soda, Wiggins, will you, and tell
my uncle and all of them not to wait, and order the hack
to come round in a quarter of an hour."

And Wiggins, disappearing with a groan of anxiety, the
sleeper once more turns round, with' a grunt, and is fast
asleep again in two seconds.

Five minutes elapse, and re-enter the faithful valet.

"Oh, Mister Charles ! Mister Charles, <i<9 wake up, sir.
They've hall started : they 'ave, indeed, sir. You'll never
get there in time."

'' Lor' bless me, you don't say so ! What do you mean
by not calling me, eh ? Go and get me a cup of tea and
some toast, and tell Tom to bring the hack round in ten
minutes."

Charlie Witdoats. 67

So saying, Mister Charles springs out of bed, and
splashes into his bath, without any more delay.

At the end of half an hour — for, of course, it is out of
the question for such a heavy swell to dress in ten
minutes — the lazy one clanks downstairs. " Yes, it's a
cold morning — very — and a glass of Curasao won't be
amiss. Yes, just a drop of brandy in it, Robert. That'll
do. Wiggins, where the doose are my mittens ? Oh,
all right, here they are." And at last the gay sportsman
gets on his impatient hack, but he's not off yet. '^ Stop ! "
he cries ; " I've left my fusee-box upstairs ; just go and
get it, will you, one of you. Thankee ! "

And now, with a " Cut along, old girl," to his hack,
away goes young Nimrod at a hand gallop, to the great
relief of the servants, who want to be off to a bicycle
match that has been arranged to come off that morning,
whilst the family are away at the hunt, between one of
the footmen and the simple carpenter of the village, the
lacquey in question having ventured a quarter's wages on
the result.

Charlie Wildoats, the subject of our sketch, is one of
those happy-go-lucky erratic young gentlemen one so
often meets. He never seems to know his own mind two
minutes together. Punctuality, it is needless to say, is a
virtue utterly unknown to him ; indeed, his uncle and
guardian, whose heir he is, and with whom he is supposed
to live when he is at home, goes the length of saying, " I
really believe, I do really believe, that Charlie will be too
late for his own funeral, begad ! One never knows
where to find him." One day one meets him at Rome,
throwing confetti at his friends from a balcony in the
Corso. Next week he is flourishing in the Vale of

F— 2

68 Charlie JVildoats.

Aylesbury with the Baron, riding with a loose rein, at the
doubles in the vale, utterly regardless of his own neck and
his horse's, and, probably, in the course of the day coming
to immortal grief in the Rousham or some other equally
celebrated brook. Another day, strolling into your gun-
maker's, you'll find him talking away like a house
afire to the proprietors of the establishment, and
ordering express rifles and other murderous weapons,
regardless of expense. ''Sick of England, old man,"
he will say, "going in for big game — elephants,
tigers, and what not, eh ! Tom Blazer and Billy Camp-
bell, that's the party. Why don't you come too, old
chappy? And, lo and behold, a week after, as we are seated
quietly in the stalls of the Frivolity Theatre, looking on
at the new burlesque, who should come swaggering
in, rather red in the face, with a huge camellia,
as big as a cauliflower in his coat, and late, of course,
but our erratic young friend. "Not going, old man, after
all," he tells us in a hoarse whisper. " Uncle old, and
all the rest of it. Didn't like to leave him, you know —
hard lines on the ancient. What ? " Miss Nelly de Vere,
nee Baggs, who has a part in the extravaganza, is in a
great state of excitement, we notice, directly she catches
sight of him in the stalls. She sings straight at him, and
even goes so far as to wink at him occasionall}^ while
Charlie, who hasevidently been dining, applauds vigorously,
more especially after her walk round and breakdown in
the fifth scene.

We left our young friend at his uncle's front door,
late as usual, just starting off for the meet. The reader
can imagine how he hustles his unfortunate hack
along. Not a soul is in sight as he pulls up at the

Charlie Wildoats. 69

rendezvous except his groom. *' They've drawn Tilbury
Dean blank, Squire Greenfield's man just told me," that
worthy informs him as he gets off the now smoking hack ;
'' and they've trotted horf to Willoughby Wood, where
they're sure to find, they say, and you'll catch 'em up, sir,
if you go through the gate yonder, and along by Farmer
Joskin's." So, taking the servant's advice, Charlie, hastily
mounting, sends his horse along best pace ; through old Jos-
kin's strawyard, into his meadow beyond, over a stile into a
lane, over the fence the other side, and in due time makes
his appearance in the principal ride of Willoughby Wood,
now filled by the members of the hunt. " What a lazy
beggar it is ! " says Tom Larkington. " I wish we had
found and got away without you," adds he. '' Knew you
wouldn't find at the Dene," returns Charlie, ^' so took it
out in sleep, you old muff." Lord Daisyfield and his
huntsman alike look upon our dandified friend with dis-
trust. You might just as well holloa '' hold hard " to a
brick wall as to Charlie, and woe betide the hounds when
he is close to their sterns, for he is extremely likely to be
on the top of some of them if they don't look sharp and get
out of his way. Every hunt in England knows him and
his little ways. How old Squire Rasper, who hunts the
Rummagemshire country, loves him ! Our friend made a
descent on that country last year, and, finding the company
pleasant and the champagne good at the principal inn,
stayed there for five weeks. He was as fit as a buck-rat up
a sink all the time, as he elegantly expressed it, and seemed
to take a glory in riding at all the biggest fences he could
pick out, no matter whether hounds were running or not.
Of course he rode over a few of old Mealymouth's — as he
irreverently called the Squire — hounds. At last one

70 Charlie Wildoats.

day the latter, fairly losing his temper, told him point
blank that he'd trouble him to pay his subscription
like the rest if he intended coming out again. That
very day, as it happened, the hounds had a wonderful
run, the best they had had all the season, indeed;
fifty minutes without a check, winding up with a kill
in the open. Our friend, who, as usual, rode like a
demon, trotted up to the Squire after the hounds had
broken up their fox, and, clapping the worthy gentleman
on the back as if he had known him all his life, said,
"Well, old boy, that was a devilish good run, 'pon my
soul, that it was ; a devilish good run, and does you and
your bow-wows credit ; it does indeed ! I tell you what,
when I get home I'll hunt about and see if I can't find a
pony for you, and if I do I'll send it you to-morrow, by
Jove I will ! " How delighted the old boy was at this
speech may be imagined.

Charlie was considerably sold once, though, when
staying in a certain country house, by one of his
little jokes not coming off at all in the way he expected.
There happened to be staying, amongst others, in the
house, a quiet, demure little old gentleman, Scumbler by
name. Mr. Scumbler was unlike the other guests who
were there, simply for such amusements as the house
afforded. No ; he combined business with pleasure, and
whilst the house party were busy shooting the covers,
driving wild partridges, or pursuing the fox every
day, he was engaged in a temporary atelier, touch-
ing up and restoring a lot of the old family
pictures. At dinner the old gentleman would put
in his appearance, and very pleasant he would
make himself, for he had travelled in many countries, and

Charlie Wiidoats. 7 1

could talk about pretty nearly every subject that cropped
uppermost. In the billiard-room he came out uncommonly
strong, and he astonished Master Charles very considerably
the night he arrived by beating him twice running at
billiards — very easily, too — and Charlie fancied himself
very much at the game. In the smoking-room, with one
of the host's biggest cigars in his mouth, and some brandy
and soda in a glass the size of a stable-bucket at his elbow,
the little old gentleman would come out stronger than
ever. His stories, as the night grew older, waxed fuller
in flavour, and, told very quaintly, in a thin pipy sort of
voice, they what is called '' fetched " the gorgeous satin-
and-velvet-coated young gentlemen vastly. One night
the whole party, having got tired of billiards and blackpool
adjourned in a body to the smoking-room, the conver-
sation forthwith turning on hunting (as it happened the
hounds were to meet in front of the house the following
morning). The artist listened with pricked ears to the
talk, and at last, after a meditative pull at his tumbler and
a long puff at his cigar, he announced his intention of
giving himself a holiday for once and coming out to see
them. '' I haven't seen a red coat or a pack of hounds
for years," said the old gentleman, ^' and upon my word
it will be a great treat to me,"

^' And, by Jove ! you shall/' struck in Charlie, in his
boisterous way; ''and I tell you what, my old cockalorum,
I'll mount you on my chestnut mare Molly Bawn, I'm
blessed if I won't." All manner of questions the artist
asked — "Was she quiet ? Did she rear ? Would she kick ?
Did she pull at all ? " '' Of course not. A baby in arms
might ride her," declared Charles, notwithstanding the fact
that Molly had pla3^ed no end of games with him on more

72 Charlie Wildoats.

than one occasion. Comforted by that announcement, Mr.
Scumbler swigged off the remainder of his soda and brandy,
and, bidding '' Good night " to the assembled company,
took himself off to bed the better to ensure his nerve for
the morning.

'' What a lark it will be ! " exclaimed Wildoats, as soon
as he was well out of the room. *' Molly Bawn's as fresh as
paint, and I don't suppose the old buffer's been outside a
horse in his life before." '' Too bad, Charlie ! " remarked
one of his friends. ^* By Jove ! that brute of yours will settle
the poor old chap — it's not fair, 'pon my soul it ain't ! " said
another. To all of which Charlie simply replied, ''Bosh! "
adding that " the mare would be certam to kick the old
gent off before he had been on her back five minutes, and
being kicked off ain't anything — might happen to him off
a moke at Blackheath — dessay it has before now." So
saying he took his flat candle, and marched off to roost,
as he called it.

The morning broke ; the breakfast came ; the hounds
arrived. There was the usual influx of scarlet coats into
the dining-room ; such gobbling and guzzling, champagne-
drinking and cura^ao-nipping, chattering and laughing.
At last they had all done, and away everybody started to
draw for a fox. The belt round the park being drawn
blank by way of commencement, a move was made for
the Home Wood. " By George, they've found, I do
believe ! " exclaimed Wildoats, who was in a small ride
engaged in a desperate flirtation with Lady Blanche
Fakeaway. For the moment so engrossed was he,
that he had clean forgotten the hounds, the artist,
everything indeed. " Come on. Lady Blanche, I do
believe they've given us the slip." Crash through

//

-C^'-'V^^^^' /

sr

■iv

•<-^

3 I

5 =

CO

V S 1
A O 3

Co

Charlie Wildoats.

73

the underwood they went accordingly, and what a sight
met their eyes when they arrived at the end of the wood !
Four fields off are the hounds, running like smoke, and not
above six or seven people along with them, for half the
field have been left behind in the wood, Charlie forgets
all about poor Lady Blanche, and sends his horse along
as if he was riding for his life ; the hounds making a
turn, gives him a slight advantage he quickly makes
use of; he is within two fields of them — and what!
*' Why, who on earth is that chap in the brown shooting-
jacket and wideawake-hat riding quietly and well close to
the hounds, and taking fence for fence with the huntsman ?
It can't be ; but by Jove, it is ; it's that blessed old artist,
I'll be hanged if it isn't — on my chestnut mare ! By
Jingo, who'd have thought it ? Look at that ! " exclaimed
he, as he saw brown-coat sending Molly Bawn at a great
white gate, which the mare jumped like a bird. Charlie's
horse was getting pumped, and no wonder; his second
horse was nowhere to be seen, and the hounds seemed to
get further and further away from him every minute. At
last it was all up with him. Down came his horse with a
plump in the ditch, the landing side of a nasty fence.
His fun was over for the day. Some yokels helped him
to get his horse out, and, getting into the road, he wended
his way sorrowfully home. In process of time Mr.
Scumbler was seen riding slowly up the avenue on Molly
Bawn, that clever animal done to a turn. Charlie hurried
out to meet him. '* Why, hang it, man," said he with a slight
tone of annoyance, '' I thought you had never been on a
horse in your life, you told me. Why, when I left 'em
you were riding like a bird. Do you always ride like
that ? "

74 Charlie Wildoats,

" Well, my dear Mr. Wildcats," replied Mr. Scumbler,
the faintest vestige of a grin passing over his face, " I'll
tell you all about it. The fact is, / was brought up as a
groom. So I think you'll agree with me that I ought to
know something about it."

How Charlie Wildoats was chaffed in the smoking-
room that night can be imagined. He took it in good
part though, and swore that old Scumbler was a trump.
The bold artist has had many a good day on Charlie's
nags since the Molly Bawn day, for the oddly assorted
pair have become fast friends. In fact, going to pay
Scumbler a visit a short time ago at his studio in Berners
Street, there was Charlie, to our great astonishment, a
huge cigar in his mouth, sitting — red coat, top-boots, and
all — for his portrait, to the worthy painter, which portrait
we hope to see on the line at Burlington House very
shortly.

To return to Willoughby Wood. They find sure
enough, and we, getting outside the covert as quickl}^
as we can, from our pony's broad back watch comfortably
all the vicissitudes of the chase. By Jingo ! the fox has
crossed the river, I do believe. He has, too. The
leading hounds plump in, the rest follow. The huntsman
goes at it full tilt, the field to a man turn away and gallop
in search of a bridge. Stay, I am wrong. One man in
scarlet, evidently rather behindhand, comes straight at it,
a hundred miles an hour, notwithstanding its swollen
state. Who can it be, I wonder ? I seem to know the
figure, too.

" I'll tell you who it be, zur, says a gamekeeper
who is standing on the top of a fence, at our side, as the
horse and rider land with a loud splash right in the middle

Charlie Wildoats,

75

of the river, and are now seen swimming for the other
side. '' I'll tell you who it be — it's that 'ere Muster Wild-
oats, that's who it be."

''Well done, Charlie! " say we.

( 76)

MR. SAMUEL SHRUB.

LL right, squire ! My old horse don't kick," sa3^s
a cheery voice in front of us. We are wedged
in the middle of the crowd of horsemen enter-
ing Raddleton Wood, and as our mare playfully nibbles
the tail of the horse in front of her, we naturally look out
for a squeal and a hearty kick out. The owner of this
well-mannered animal is a jolly-looking, middle-aged'
stoutish man, clad in a green coat, brown cords, and
butcher boots ; his head is covered with a low-crowned
felt hat, a Manilla cheroot adorns his mouth, and he
is none other than Mr. Samuel Shrub, the well-known
sporting landlord of the Daisyfield Arms, the principal inn
of the town of Bullerton.

The Daisyfield Arms, besides being used by all the
county people, is the sporting house of the country-side.
Bullerton, as everyone knows, lying right in the heart of
the Harkaway country, besides being within easy reach
of three other packs of fox, and one of staghounds.

Mr. Shrub, then, is a most important, as well as
popular personage ; nothing, indeed, in the sporting line
being apparently able to take place in the county without
his assistance and advice.

Is there a meeting of the hunt to be held, where does it

Mr. Samuel Shrub.

77

take place but in the largest room of the Daisyfield
Arms?

Where does our race committee arrange the plans for
its annual spring meeting, and receive its entries, forfeits,
&c. ? Why, at the Daisyfield Arms, to be sure.

(Secretary and Clerk of the Course, Mr. Samuel Shrub.)

Then — Should that reckless soldier. Captain Wildoats,
of the Bays ("Timber " Wildoats, as he is called, because
of his partiality for riding over five-barred gates, posts
and rails, and hog-backed stiles whenever he gets a chance),
break a collar-bone, and a rib or two, as is not seldom the
case with him, in the course of his day's amusement — what
becomes of the gallant officer ? Is he conveyed in a faint-
ing state by the next train back to town? or is he taken to
the Swan or the Angel ? Not a bit of it. Mr. Samuel
Shrub takes precious good care of that. It is the ancient
cognac from that worthy man's flask that brings the
captain to after his cropper. He it is, and none other,
who rides in person beside the fly which conveys the
damaged captain back to Bullerton, and, in fact, does not
let him out of his sight until he sees him snugly ensconced
in the funereal-looking, but comfortable four-poster, in the
state room of the Daisyfield Arms. The doctor of the
place and Mr. Shrub then rub their hands with mutual
satisfaction, for it is at least a three weeks' job. Not so
mine hosts of the Angel and the Swan, who abuse freely
that '* dashed impostor," as they irreverently call Shrub,
and his tricks and his dodges, over their brandy and water
that evening.

It is an impressive sight to see the air with which he
carries round the plate in church (for Mr. Shrub is a
churchwarden, and much respected, as they say, by the

"jZ Mr. Samuel Shrub.

Rector), and enough to fill the bosoms of his fellow towns-
men with envy, hatred, and malice,

Diggles, the landlord of the Swan, swells with anger
at the sight (a bad-tempered man is Diggles), and clutches
his great fat church-service as if he would uncommonly
like to brain the excellent Shrub with it. Note too the
scowl he gives as he almost " shies " a crown-piece into
the plate when it comes round. Our wily churchwarden
serves him out, though, by pretending he has not seen
the gift, and then, discovering his mistake, begging his
pardon with much apparent concern.

He's known, too, in London is our sporting landlord,
let me tell you. Let the reader imagine himself, on a
bleak, cheerless afternoon in December in the exceedingly
comfortable smoking-room of the ''Junior Mars and Nep-
tune Club." There he will behold Lieutenant Rag, of the
Lancers, and Captain Famish, of the Roans, soused in a
couple of arm-chairs, smoking their after-luncheon cigars,
and discussing the affairs of the nation. Having settled
everything to their mutual satisfaction — from the arrange-
ment of European difficulties generally, to the great
superiority of the understandings pertaining to charming
little Miss Poppet, of the LoUypop Theatre, over those
belonging to Violet De Courcy {nee Sniggs), of the
Frivolity — the lower limbs of the latter being contemp-
tuously described as '' like broomsticks, by Jove ! " they
turn their attention to hunting.

Says Lieutenant Rag to Captain Famish, lazily puffing
a huge cloud of smoke from his lips, and watching it dis-
porting itself as it curls itself away in a variety of rings
towards the ceiling, '' I say, ole f ler, do you think
hounds'U go to-morrow, eh ? "

.-SKSC^

^

L

•L.

ti^..

Mr. Samuel Shrub. 79

''Ton my soul, I dunno," replies Famish, removing his
cigar from his mouth, and turning a very bloodshot look-
ing pair of eyes towards the v^indow. " Let's go down
into the hall," continues he, rising and giving himself a
hearty stretch. " Let's go down into the hall and see if
there's a telegram from that 'old wascal ' Shrub there."

Accordingly the pair descend, and sure enough there is
the expected telegram staring them in the face.

From To

Samuel Shrub, Hall Porter,

Daisyfield Arms, Junior Mars and Neptune Club.

Bullerton,
Frost breaking up fast. My Lord sure to hunt to-morrow.

" Hooray ! " exclaims Rag, in great glee, thinking how
he'll shove that chestnut five-year-old of his along.

" Ha-hum ! I don't know, reely," says Famish, pulling
his moustache meditatively. " I don't believe they can
hunt to-morrow. Frost cant have got out of the ground
yet awhile. B'lieve it's a dodge of old Sammy's to get us
down there and drink his infernal champagne. No, no, I
shall wait a bit afore I go down. Rag, my boy."

The fact is, if the truth must be told, that though a
hard man enough, when fit and well, the bold Captain
Famish's nerves are just now not quite the thing, don't
you know, and he can't help thinking how disagreeably
fresh his two nags will be on the morrow. He did not
bargain either for the frost breaking up quite so soon ;
consequently for the last ten days or so he has been making
freer with sodas and brandy, and the small hours of the
morning, than is conducive to riding with comfort, to say
nothing of boldness, over a country.

Old Shrub is in his element on a hunting morning.
" Mornin', squire, mornin'," or " Mornin', captin', mornin' "

8o Mr. Samuel Shrub.

is his greeting to a stranger. If without hair on his face in
the shape of a moustache, he addresses him as if he took in
at a glance that he is a deputy-lieutenant, chairman of
Quarter Sessions, and owner of no end of broad acres.
How delighted little Joe Figgins (Figgins and Blobbs, St.
Swithin's-lane, E.G.) was, on his first appearance with
our justly-celebrated pack, at being addressed by the wily
Shrub as " squire ! " He has affected the country gentleman
ever since. To hear him talk of the weather and the
crops to his friends in the City is a caution. He even
dresses the part — double-stitched Melton coat, with long
skirts, birdseye necktie folded three times round his neck
and terminating in a bow, and drab gaiters over his
double-soled boots.

To the stranger adorned with a moustache is given the
military appellation of captain, sometimes even major, or
colonel — a compliment greatly appreciated by no end of
Mr. Shrub's chance customers.

'^ All gone on, squire," says he, as we trot gaily up to
his door {en route to the meet), and pull up for a moment
for a chat with old Sammy. " All gone on, squire.
Not 'untin' myself this mornin' ; got a touch of the old
complaint, squire. Just seen Lord 'Enery '111 and Lady
H'eva off in the fly. All the 'ard ridin' division down
from town. Colonel Somerville, the great hauthor, squire
— wrote Melton Mowbray, you recollect ; Major Box ;
Honerable Robert Brimstone — 'arder than ever, they
say, with the stag; Mrs. Slyboots, j^oz/ know, squire (here
Mr. Shrub, lookmg very sly, puts his fat forefinger to the
side of his nose, and nearly winks the left side of his face
off).

''And some of them 'n-a-a-rsty Jews' — Cart't abide

Mr. Samuel Shrub.

8i

them Jews I " winds up Mr. Shrub, who has probably
been hit hard by some one or other of the fraternity at one
time or another.

Such is a slight sketch of this jolly-looking Boniface,
who is good enough to press his hunting flask on us (with
something good in it, you may depend), with the remark,
" Nothin' like a little jumping powder, squire, is there }
And it's cold work standing about in a big covert, such
as Raddleton Wood, here, on a bad scenting day, like to-
day, ain't it ? "

82 )

THE HON. ADOLPHUS LIGHTFOOT.

THE YOUNGER SON.

ALLO ! " suddenly exclaims our friend, Charles
Wildcats, who on foot, busily engaged in
tightening his horse's girths, looks round, from
beneath the saddle-flaps, with a red face and a very large
D on the tip of his tongue, to see whose approach it is that
causes his horse suddenly to fidget about. " Hallo ! " why
here's the old original 'Younger Son,' I declare ! bless his
old heart ! Stand still, do, you idiot ! " (this to his horse).
'' You've seen old Dolly often enough before, I'm sure."
''Well, you old sinner you," goes on Charlie, as a slim,
well-dressed man, much moustached and whiskered, whose
age might be anything between fifty and sixty ; a certain
haggard look about the region of the eyes telling its own
tale, and probably making him appear older than he really
was, now rode up and joined the group of sportsmen
assembled in one of the big rides of Oakapple Wood, one
of the largest covers in the Old Harkaway county, and
which Lord Daisyfield's hounds were now drawing for a
fox. " Well, you old sinner you, who'd have thought of
seeing you ? Why, I thought you were larking about in
Paris or some other equally naughty place, and here you
are, turning up in Oakapple Wood, looking as virtuous as

The Hon. Adolphus Lightfoot. 83

if you'd never done anything wrong in your life. What do
you mean by it, eh ? "

The Honourable Adolphus, or, to give him the name he
is best known by, Dolly Lightfoot, is one of the most
popular characters in the county. A brother of the
present Viscount Trottup, he lives when he is at home,
which is not very often, by the way, in a pretty little house
called The Pre, bequeathed to him by an elderly aunt some
years before. Artful Dolly is extremely fond of informing
people that he is, what he is pleased to term, a poor devil
of a younger son. Thus, when asked, say by some good
clergyman, for a subscription to a new organ for his
church, or perhaps tempted to buy something very sweet
in the way of horseflesh by a silver-tongued dealer, he
will reply to the former in the most open-hearted manner
imaginable : '' My dear sir, nothing, I assure you, would
give me more pleasure than subscribing handsomely to
your new organ. I dote on music. I positively adore it,
I do, indeed ; and the organ, in my opinion, is the grandest,
the very grandest instrument in the world. You will
scarcely believe it, but when I was a boy at Eton — a
happy boy at Drury's (you have read Praed, of course)
I constantly on a half-holiday, when my schoolfellows
were devoting themselves to football and other amuse-
ments, used to rush up to St. George's Chapel, at
Windsor, to attend afternoon service, for the sake of
hearing the anthem, and if I could only succeed in getting
up into the organ-loft, my happiness was complete."
(Dolly forgot to add that on one memorable occasion he
got into the organ-loft before the organist arrived, and
amused himself in the interval with sticking the keys of
the instrument together with beeswax, so that playing on

G — 2

84 The Hon. AdolpJms Lightfoot.

it was impossible during the service.) '* I feel sure you
will understand me and enter into my feelings when I tell
you that, having only a younger son's portion, it really is
as much as I can do to make both ends meet. But if five
shillings, or say half a sovereign — half a sovereign — is any
good, why, here it is, don't you know." And away will go
the worthy rector with Dolly's half-sovereign, or, what is
more likely, the promise of the same, in his pocket, quite
impressed with that elderly reprobate's conversation,
telling his wife, indeed, when he reaches home, that he
don't believe half the stories they tell of that gentleman's
goings-on.

To the horse-dealer our friend takes a different tone,
though the principle is the same. *' No, dash it all !
Snaffle," he will say, '^you must draw it mild, 'pon my soul
you must ; that's an uncommon nice horse and I'll take all
you say about him as gospel ; but three hundred guineas,
you know, to a poor devil of a younger son like myself
will never do. Quite out of the question, in fact. I'm not
one of those chaps rolling in money, who buy their nags
just in the same way they do their boots and gloves, and
when they do get a good 'un, don't appreciate him. No,
I'm different. A good horse is a luxury to a pauper like me,
and, if I was to buy this one you're now showing me, I
should laud him to the skies, and never tire of telling
people all about him, and who I bought him of. Why,
you'll hardly believe it, but here am I at this moment
actually reduced to smoking Mexican cigars " (Dolly was at
that identical moment smoking one he had paid Benson
ten guineas a pound for) ''at threepence a piece — three-
pence a piece, I give you my word ! — obliged to retrench in
fact, all round. Come now, Snaffle, you and I have had a

The Hon. Adolphus Lightfoof. 85

good many dealings together, and I should like to buy the
brown horse, 'pon my soul I should. But the price is
positively prohibitive ; it is, really. I know you like to
see me well mounted, SnafQe, so I'll tell you what I'll do.
I'll write you a cheque for two hundred for him, and I'll
give you a couple of dozen of champagne and the best tip for
the Lincolnshire Handicap you ever had in your life, in.
And the daal was pretty sure to end in our friend getting
the horse at his own price or nearly so. As Mr. Snaffle
said, he had such a pleasant way with him, there really
was no resisting him.

The '' poor devil of a younger son " dodge, in fact, was
a very paying one, though not strictly true, for, though the
Hon. Doll3^'s younger son's portion was not a large one,
and had indeed been longsince got through, hehada very nice
little income of some three thousand a year, derived from
the same beneficent aunt who had bequeathed him the
Pre, every sixpence of which, probably a little over,
its lively owner carefully lived up to. Well might he
say of himself, that he was a '' man of pleasure."

Dolly's existence indeed was one perpetual holiday. And
there really was no vice about him, not one bit. He was
simply one of those men — and there are some few of them
about — who possessing an admirable digestion and an
unlimited capacity for enjoying life, go in steadily for
making a business of pleasure. People shook their heads
when they heard of our friend's goings-on, and remarked,
'' Ah ! it's all very well while it lasts, but a time will come."
The time, however, in Dolly's case, seems a long time
coming, for there he is, getting on for three score, and
still '' going strong," as the racing people say. Then it
must be owned that, though he takes his full whack of

86 The Hon. Adolphus Lightfoot,

pleasure and denies himself nothing if he possibly can help
it, he takes great care of his constitution, for, the moment
he feels that he has been overdoing it, he leaves off and
retires gracefully to the Pre for a v^hile. This is v^hat he
pleasantly terms " taking a pull." '' Nothmg like a run in
the country, and a course of new-laid eggs, fresh milk,
early morns, and all that sort of thing, if you're a bit off
colour," says he. And, after a fortnight or so of voluntary
rustication, Dolly, being tired of country life and feeling
that '' Richard is himself again," will once more hie away
to the pleasures of the town.

How in the world he manages to do all the things he
does in the course of the year, without breaking down, is
to us, and numerous other people, a perfect marvel.
Cosmopolitan in his tastes to ^a degree, nothing ap-
parently can go on in the shape of amusement without
his being there ; he is one of those men, in short, that
you are perfectly certain to meet wherever you go. We
really believe if we were to make a journey to the North
Pole to-morrow, we should find Dolly there before us.
You'll meet him at eleven o'clock p.m. at a reception at
the Foreign Office, and an hour afterwards you will
find him assisting at a glove contest between two aspiring
novices at Billy Daw's well-known crib off the Haymarket.
We never yet went to Cremorne on a fine summer's night
without seeing him, and the only time we ever ventured
inside the Casino in Great Windmill Street, which we did
at the instigation of a graceless nephew, who was anxious
to initiate us into what he called "life in London," the very
first person we came across was naughty Dolly, who was
whirling what the police-court reporters call a "■ stylishly-
dressed " young lady along at the rate of a hundred

The Hon. Adolphus Lightfoot, 87

miles an hour, in the wind-up galop. At all the prin-
cipal races he puts in an appearance, you may be sure.
Cowes knows him; so does Scotland, on the 12th of
August.

He comes south about Doncaster time, and from that
right away to Christmas he visits in turn, and is
welcome in all — for he is capital company — the best
country houses in England.

One July, wanting a little change, we took it into our
head to run over to Boulogne for a few days. We went
accordingly, and, not being able to get a room at the
Hotel de Paris, put up at another hostelry, whose name
we forget, situated exactly opposite the famous Etablisse-
ment. The day after our arrival, betaking ourselves to
the little restaurant on the pier for the purpose of
luncheon, who should we find, presiding over the very
noisiest party of ladies and gentlemen we ever came in con-
tact with, but Dolly Lightfoot ! Nothing would satisfy him
but that we must join his party at once. And we are bound
to say we never enjoyed a dejeuner more than this particular
one. The ladies — English actresses all of them — were over
at Boulogne taking holiday — high holiday indeed — and
were apparently, one and all, enjoying themselves to their
hearts' content, so much so that it was quite a treat to
see them. How they pitched into the soles a la Normand
and the sweet champagne, and laughed and chaffed ; bless
their little hearts ! Dolly, too, was in his element. Al-
together, it was about the cheeriest meal we ever sat
down to, and one we recall to our minds with pleasure.
That evening Dolly engaged himself to dine quietly with
us at our hotel, to hear all the news from Buttercupshire,
as he said. Now, opposite to us at the table d'hote were

88 The Hon. Adolphus Lightfoot.

seated about the most serious family it was ever our lot to
contemplate. It consisted of papa, mamma, two cubs
of sons just merging into manhood, three girls in their
teens, and their governess.

There they sat, without opening their mouths except to
eat. Mamma looked crushed, the boys looked sulky, and
the girls, who were pleasant, rosy-cheeked damsels enough,
were evidently kept under. We very quickly decided that
it was

" The father, who was so grim a guffin
He never liked no fun nor nuffin,"

who was the cause of all this, and we pitied his family ac-
cordingly. He was, indeed, a morose-looking party. The
words of the ballad-writer applied equally well to the said

family, for

"They each had a face as long as a ladder,"

and certainly

" Father and mother, sister and brother,
Never spoke a word to one another."

except when any of them wanted anything, when the word
was passed down in a whisper to the poor little governess,
being the only one of the party who understood the lan-
guage of the country, with orders to ask for the article
required. Miss Brown's (that was the little governess's
name) face would then be suddenly suffused with blushes
until she looked like an animated peony, and she would then,
conscious that not only were the eyes of the Serious Family
on her, but the whole of the table d'hote as well, murmur
forth a request to the waiter to bring '' du pang " or '' der
I'eau " as the case might be. To which the gargon would
invariably reply in a condescending tone of voice, " Zom
brad? yas ; won mineet, mademoiselle !"

Now, the volatile Dolly, who, never being able to be
serious for two mnu.es together himself, had a natural

The Hon. Adolphiis Lightfoof. 89

abhorrence of serious people of any description, took a
violent dislike on the spot to the father of the family oppo-
site. He said he gave him the blues and spoiled his dinner.
''I say, old fellow," whispered Dolly in our ear, ''it is
as plain as a pikestaff that the head of the family opposite
is a remarkably fine specimen of that very destestable
animal known as ' The Domestic Tyrant.' I can see with
half an eye that that poor wife of his is ' crushed,' if ever a
woman was in this world, and as for those three poor girls
(not half bad-looking, are they ?) and the heavily-handi-
capped little governess, the way that they are 'kept
down,' when I know they are positively bursting to enjoy
themselves, is quite heartrending — now, isn't it ? I can't
stand it any longer, 'pon my soul I can't, and I shall take it
upon myself to wake 'em up a bit, and I'll begin with the
old 'un. Here goes ! " And, suiting the action to the word
without more ado, Dolly, leaning across the table, paved
the way for conversation with a polite request in French to
the serious father to pass a dish of olives, which was
placed opposite him. As that gentleman only stared hard
and gave a sort of gasp in reply, for he did not understand
(as Dolly did not intend he should) what he was asked for,
Dolly repeated the request in English. The olives were at
once passed, and the recipient forthwith commenced a con-
versation with the serious father. He began by informing
that gentleman what great pleasure it gave him (Dolly)
to find himself seated at dinner in a foreign seaport town
amongst so many of his compatriots. Then, turning in a
deferential way to the serious man's wife, he ventured to
express his own opinion that she would not find the " filet
de bceuf a la jardiniere " they had just been helped to a
portion of, so succulent as the rump-steak of her native land.

96 The Hon. Adolphus Lightfoot.

Nothing like the good roast-beef of Old England !
Don't you agree with me, ma'am ? " inquired Dolly. And so
he went on. Two minutes more and he was taking wine
with the parent birds (having ordered a bottle of cham-
pagne for the purpose), and by the time the '^ poulet au
cresson " stage had arrived, not only Dolly, but we our-
selves into the bargain, were, to our unbounded astonish-
ment, on the most familiar terms possible with the whole
family, including little Miss Brown.

When we rose from dinner, cards were exchanged
between Dolly and the serious gentleman, and to see the
former's face as he handed his bit of pasteboard to the
other, with an elaborate bow, was worth a good deal. It
was plain to the naked e3^e that the name worked wonders.
Dolly, in fact, had it all his own way, and (to use his own
words), walked over the course.

The Simpsons (that was their name) had intended to
take a quiet stroll on the sands, and then to bed ; but
Dolly would not hear of it. There was a dance at the
*' Etablissement," and to it they must all go. And to it
they did go, Dolly leading the way with Mrs. Simpson on
his arm.

It certainly was a case of what Mr. J. L. Toole would
call " Going it " with the Simpson family that night. I
am sure they had never had such a lark before, and possibly
not since. Notwithstanding Mr. Simpson, senior's, stern
admonition to his son of " No gambling, George, mind ! "
we, in the course of the evening, beheld that youth and
his brother investing their pocket-money like men at the
'' little horses." The quadrille, too, with the entire Simp-
son family, shall we ever forget it ?

Dolly, knowing several young Enghshmen present,

The Hon. Adolphus Lightfoot. 91

trotted them out for the Misses Simpson's benefit, and the
consequence was that those damsels danced away to their
hearts' content. Judging by his looks the "Domestic
Tyrant " did not half like the look of things ; however, for
once in way he was not allowed a voice in the matter.
Finally, at the end of the entertainment, instead of going
quietly home to bed, our volatile acquaintance insisted on
the whole family accompanying him to the famous tart-
shop in the town, an attention highly appreciated by the
younger branches of the Simpson family, you may be
certain. Heavens ! how (incited thereto by Dolly) they
pitched into Madame's insinuating pastry. It did one
good to see them. In short, if ever that gay specimen ol
a philanthropist, Dolly Lightfoot, deserved well of his
country, it was on that eventful evening. No wonder that
poor, crushed Mrs. Simpson expressed her opinion to
us in confidence, as we walked home at two o'clock in the
morning, that the Honourable Mr. Lightfoot was the most
perfect member of the aristocracy she had ever beheld.

Dolly is, in fact, popular wherever he goes, and no-
where more so than in his own county of Buttercupshire.
The ladies all like him (he is such fun, they say, and so
delightfully wicked) ; the men swear by him as the best
of good fellows ; and children positively adore him. Dogs,
too, always take to him at first sight ; a good sign, in our
humble opinion.

With dependants also he is a great favourite. Tom
Tootler's cap comes off with a sweep and his whippers-in
grin double, when Dolly canters up to the meet ; the game-
keepers, too, always take care he is put in a ''good place "
at their masters' battues. He can shoot uncommonly
straight, and no doubt he is a " good tip," but we fancy it

g2 The Hon. Adolphus Lightfoot.

is the pleasant way he has with him, as they say, that
works the oracle for him as much as anything. With
regard to his hunting, the Honourable would have you be-
lieve that he had long ago lost his nerve and now never rode
a yard. This, however, is altogether wrong. He is some-
what erratic in his behaviour in the hunting-field, it is
true ; that is to say, sometimes he may be seen when the
hounds find and go away, instead of following them,
piloting a whole lot of little boys and girls along a line of
gates and gaps, and sending all of them into fits of
laughter with his fun as they gallop along. Another day
he will have a fit of the blues on him and will go straight
home after the meet.

Two days afterwards, perhaps, he will be caught in the
right humour and will ride like a demon, showing more ot
them the way than will show him, you may depend. In
fact, he really is a very fine horseman. In former days no
one was better known in all Leicestershire than the
Honourable Dolly, and though, owing to his means, his
stud was but a limited one compared to most of the others
there, there were very few could beat him, even there.
As a gentleman rider, too, both in steeplechases and on
the flat, he made his mark. The former amusement he
has, of course, long since abandoned ; but occasionally,
even now, he will make his appearance in a hunters'
race, on the flat, and he nearly always figures in
silk in the one gentlemen-riders' race of the day, at
the BuUerton annual meeting. It is a great sight to
see Dolly, got up regardless of expense, white kid
gloves, irreproachable breeches and boots, etc., kissing
his hand to the ladies as he walks his horse past the
grand-stand.

^^v^

8 i

Q S

< ^

2 ^

0 «:

1 =5

¥ I

♦J
o

The Hon. Adolphus Lightfoot. 93

Practical joking is a favourite amusement of his, and his
little bachelor dinners at the Pre usually finish up with some-
thing of that sort. In one notable case, however, Dolly's little
joke came off the wrong way, it was a regular case of '' sold
again," in fact. This is how it was. Old Captain Dabber,
whom we have already had the pleasure of introducing to
our readers, whenever he dined out in his immediate
neighbourhood always made a practice of driving over in
a chaise of antique pattern, drawn by a sturdy black pony
of mature age. Mrs. Plummer, the Captain's fat house-
keeper, often protested against this arrangement, telling her
master that she was sure that some night or other he would
be waylaid and robbed, besides which, it was not at all the
correct thing, in her opinion, for a gentleman of his position
to drive about like that without a liveried servant. To
which the Captain replied that he feared no man ; which
was true, for old Charlie, besides being what they call
a stiff-built fellow, was a rare hand with his fists, on
occasion, as a poacher whom he once caught redhanded
one day could have testified ; he rather liked a "breather,"
indeed, than not. And as for appearances he added, " I've
got too old to care for appearances, Plummer." So the house-
keeper, finding her remonstrances of no use, held her peace
for the future, and left her master and the black pony to
"gang their ain gait," as the Scotch say. Now it so
happened that our volatile friend, the Honourable Dolly,
also possessed a black pony, not at all unlike his neighbour
the Captain's in appearance, though intensely unlike him in
manners and general deportment. He was best described,
in fact, as not a bad one to look at, but decidedly a
rum 'un to drive, for, having a very capricious will of his own,
if he took it in his head not to go in the direction he was

94 ^^^^ Hon. Adolphits Lightfoot,

wanted, no power on earth could make him. You might flog
him until you were black in the face— move he would not.
His owner, though, was fond of the brute in spite of his
faults, and though he was always vowing he would shoot
him or sell him, he never did, and the black pony conse-
quently passed his time very pleasantly, his principal
work being to go backwards and forwards to Bullerton
whenever things were required for the house, such as fish,
or parcels from the station and such like. There was one
thing that old Satan — that was the pony's name — had a
more rooted aversion to than anything else, and that was
water. Knowing that peculiarity of his, Mr. Lightfoot's
men never dreamt of attempting to cross a ford with him.
They had all of them, including their Honourable master,
had a try at various times, but it was no go, and at last
having stopped, dog-cart and all, with the Honourable's
swell stud-groom in the middle of a river, and kept him there
for three mortal hours before he would stir, they gave it up
as a bad job. Satan was pronounced incorrigible, and for
the future was allowed to run loose as far as water was con-
cerned. The younger son then, feeling rather bored and
cudgelling his brains as to how he could have a bit of fun at
someone else's expense, suddenly bethought him of a plan.
Now, old Charlie Dabber, whenever he drove that way,
either by day or night, instead of coming along the road like
an ordinary mortal, was in the habit of using a cart-path
that ran through a neighbouring farm and brought him
down to the river-side. He would then, by crossing a
couple of fords, succeed in savinghimself nearly two miles,
and— what he thought a good deal more of— a pike into the
bargain. Now, the Honourable was well aware of this
practice of the Captain's, and it struck him that it would be

The Hon, Adolphus Lightfoot 95

great fun to ask that worthy over to dine — getting, of course,
some congenial spirits to meet him— fill him as full as he
could possibly hold of good wine, and finally instruct his
people to harness Satan the incorrigible to the Captain's
shandry-dan-rattle-trap, instead of his own respectable
quadruped. The pair were very much alike, and Old Charlie
Dabber, with his skin full of wine, would never twig the
difference, even if he looked, which was highly improb-
able. '' By Jove ! " exclaimed Dolly, '' that is a happy
thought, and no mistake ! " Accordingly he proceeded to
issue invitations to Captain Dabber and a few choice spirits
for one of those snug Httle bachelor dinners for which the
Pre was so justly celebrated. Well, the eventful evening
(a dark one in November) arrived, the guests came, the
dinner went off remarkably well, as there was every reason
why it should, the cooking and wines being simply perfect ;
and finally, at one o'clock in the morning, the venerable
Dabber, with fifteen pounds in his pocket (his winnings at
brag) and one of his host's largest cigars in his mouth,
got into his elegant conveyance, tucked himself com-
fortably in, and, giving the reins a shake, disappeared
into the darkness of the night. It was a dark night too,
dark as pitch — no moon, no stars — and a slight rain
falling.

'' We'll wait here," said Dolly to his friends, as they
stood in the porch ; ''the first ford is at the bottom of the
hill, not a quarter of a mile off, and we're sure to hear
old Charlie shout when Satan stops short in the middle
(which he's safe to do), and then we'll go down and see
the fun. I've sent one of the men down there, too, so
there can be no mistake.

Well, they waited and waited, but no shout came, and

96 The Hon. Adolphus Lightfoot.

finally the stableman told off to reconnoitre came back with
the intelligence that the Captain had driven straight
through both fords, and by this time was nearly home. A
roar of laughter went up at the news. '' Well ! " ex-
claimed the disappointed Dolly to his laughing friends,
" hang me, if that ain't the rummest go I ever knew !
After that we had better go to bed." As he lit his
candle, he could not resist making an exceedingly bad
joke. '' What the Devil does old Satan mean by it ? " said
he. When the gallant Captain Dabber came down to
breakfast in the morning, and was informed of the change
of ponies, he chuckled hugely to himself, for he had heard
all about Satan's peculiarities, and having promptly
'' Olivered," as he called it, to the trick they had attempted
to play upon him, he, without loss of time, dispatched the
following note by one of his men : —

Ivy Lodge,

Wednesday.
Dear Lightfoot,

You are evidently too liberal with the strong beer in your servants
hall, for your fool of a man popped your pony, instead of mine, between
the shafts of my trap last night, and I did not discover it in the dark,
though I thought the beggar was uncommon slow. I now send him back.
Kindly return my beast by bearer.

Yours truly,

Charles Dabber.

P.S. — I've told my man to be sure and stick to the road, as I know
your pony doesn't as a rule care about facing water, though he came
through the fords last night as pleasant as possible with fne. But
there, I always had a wonderful way with women and horses.

To the Honourable Adolphus Lightfoot.

"There, that'll fetch him ! " said old Charlie, with a grin,
as he fastened the envelope down with a lick of his great
tongue and handed it to Mrs. Plummer to give his man.

The Hon. Adolphus Lightfoot.

97

There was no doubt about it, the Captain had the laugh
entirely on his side, and Dolly, for once in a way, found
himself hoist with his own petard. '' Confound you !
you old brute, you ! " said he, shaking his fist at the
unconscious Satan, who was pegging away at his corn in
his loose-box as unconcernedly as possible. *' It's all your
fault ! I've a devilish good mind to have you shot, 'pon
my soul I have, for making such a fool of one ! "

( 98 )

THE HARKAWAY HUNT BALL.

ROM the number of carriages of all sorts that
come rolling into the usually quiet little town
of Bullerton, on this bright January afternoon,
a stranger of an observant nature would at once come to
the conclusion that something out of the common was
going on. Little Tommy Blobkins, traveller to Messrs.
Mulleygrubs, the celebrated pickle merchants, scuttling
briskly along from one grocer's shop to another in quest
of orders, is so struck by the general commotion and the
unusually busy look of the High Street, that, pulling up in
front of a smart-looking groom just emerging from the
stable-yard of the Daisyfield Arms, he accosts him with :
'' What's up to-day, do you know, Mister?"

'"Arkaway 'Unt Ball, to be sure," was the reply, in
somewhat sneering tones, as much as to say, *' I should
have thought everybody knew that."

"A once-a-year splash, I 'spose ? " said Tommy, as he
prepared to resume his walk.

''Yes, it's a h'annual affair," replied the groom,
lighting his pipe, preparatory to a stroll through the
town.

Next to the Hunt Steeplechases, the Hunt Ball, given

The Harkaway Hunt Ball. 90

every year at Bullerton Town Hall, is unquestionably the
most popular institution of the year in the county of Butter-
cupshire ; in point of fact, we don't think we should be
far wrong in saying that with the fair sex generally it
takes precedence, in point of favour, over the former
amusement. The men like it too, more especially the
dandy element ; the scarlet coat and white silk facings,
the recognised Hunt uniform, in their opinion having the
effect of making them positively ''killing." It is won-
derful how men fancy themselves in a red coat. It is our
firm opinion that if everybody was compelled to wear
black out hunting, the fields all over the country would be
decreased in point of number to a marvellous extent.
It's the bit o' pink makes the Nimrod in very many
cases, depend upon it.

The hotels at Bullerton, as may be imagined, are one and
all full to the muzzle, especially the Daisyfield Arms, kept
by our old friend Mr. Samuel Shrub. That worthy Boni-
face is in his glory to-day. Attired in his favourite bottle-
green coat, with the black satin stock and diamond pin only
worn, as he says, on high days and holidays, and bonfire
nights, he bows low to Lady Tozer, as she descends
majestically from her carriage, at the door of his hotel,
and proceeds with her two daughters to the rooms pre-
pared for them. The next minute he is exchanging
pleasantries with his great favourite. Lady Tommy
Clinker, who drives up in her mail-phaeton, her fond
husband by her side as usual. The arrival of that lively
gentleman Charles Wildoats, at this juncture, is of course
the signal for more chaff — chaff, too, of a most boisterous
description, judging from the sounds of laughter emanating
from old Sammy's sanctum, whither Ladv Tommy insists

H — 2

I oo The Harkaway Hunt Ball,

on going to indulge in a cup of tea, in preference to her
own apartments, needless to say to the intense gratifi-
cation of its jolly owner.

Darkness sets in, and with it some snowflakes make
their appearance, leading those ballgoers who have elected
to put up for the night at Bullerton, instead of undergoing
the martyrdom of a long drive home, to congratulate them-
selves on their good policy.

Nine o'clock comes, and carriage after carriage now
make their appearance in the town, and, having deposited
their precious burdens at the Town Hall, disperse to
the different inns, the snug taprooms of which are soon
full, almost to overflowing, of Jehus and Johnnies of all
shapes and sizes, from Lady Sheepshanks' magnificent
London coachman, twenty stun if he's an ounce, to Mr.
and Mrs. Hardup's shrivelled-up little old retainer, who
is not only the family coachman but looks after the
poultry and the pigs, does the garden, and on emergency
waits at table, and all for a consideration that would
scarcely keep the London man in '' baccy."

Ten o'clock, and the principal room of the Town Hall
is filling rapidly. The ball-room is decorated with the
usual festoons of artificial flowers, pink muslin, sporting
devices, and mottoes — " Floreat Scientia," etc. — without
which of course no Hunt ball would be considered perfect.
The noble M.F.H. (Lord Daisyfield) and the rest of the
stewards are busy welcoming everyone as they enter the
room. Little Joe Trimmer, the mighty ^' We " of the
Bullerton Gazette, is seated at a table at the top of the
stairs, busy putting down the names of the visitors for
insertion in Saturday's paper. (It was the learned Joseph,
if we recollect rieht. who last year, in reporting: the

The Harkaway Hunt Ball, loi

Bachelors' Ball for the edification of his readers, spoke
of it as having been given by the '' Benedicts " of the
county.)

''Sir'Arry and Lady 'Otspur — Lord George Spratt,"
bawls the waiter stationed at the doorway of the ball-
room. Cunning little Joe shakes his head. '* No, no,
that won't do — that's an 'oax, that is," exclaims he. "Lord
George Spratt indeed ! — there's no such name as that in
the Peerage, I'll go bail."

Lord George, a tall good-natured dandy, late of one
of Her Majesty's regiments of footguards, hearing his
name mentioned, turned round to find out what was
the cause. Needless to say he was highly amused.
'^ I can asshaw you my name is Lord George Spwatt,"
said he, "at least so I was cwistened ; so, if it's wong,
don't blame me, dontcherknow." Many and profuse were
the man-of-letters' apologies, but for all that he was far
from being convinced that the Peerage contained the name
of Spratt within its aristocratic pages.

And now, the room being pretty full, Messrs. Tootle
and Binney's renowned band strike up the opening bars
of a quadrille, and Lord Daisyfield, taking pretty Mrs.
Tom Chirpington under his scarlet wing, makes his way to
the far end of the room; Dolly Lightfoot and Lady Thomas-
ina Clinker follow as their vis-a-vis. Before you can say
Jack Robinson, fifty couples of dancers have taken their
places, the leader of the band stamps his foot, his merry
men strike up the music, and the ball begins in down-
right earnest. The quadrille over, waltzes, polkas, and
gallops follow one another in rapid succession, and the
fun gets fast and furious. Not a Flower of the Hunt is
absent. One would have thought a ball-room would be

I02 The Harkaway Hunt Ball.

hardly the place to find old Charlie Dabber in somehow,
but here he is nevertheless, hovering round the doorway,
and making tender inquiries as to where the oyster-room
is, and when it will be open. For, as Charlie well knows,
one of the institutions of our Hunt Ball is a small room
set apart for the consumption of the native oyster and
the brown stout of the period, and mighty popular this
particular apartment is, especially with the elderly
gentlemen, some of whom don't leave the room until the
oysters have run out. How many dozen old Dabber
manages to swallow during his stay, we should be afraid
to say, but we should imagine that, what with the natives,
the supper he subsequently disposes of, and the quantity of
champagne he consumes in the course of the night, he must
have more than paid for his ball-ticket. Of course.
Lord Daisyfield resents the presence of Captain Dabber
very warmly. He has never forgiven him and never will
for the way he jockeyed him on that broken-winded screw
of his at the Hunt races some years ago. ''The fellow is
not a gentleman and has no business here ! " says his
lordship in his most emphatic manner, to a friend in the
supper-room, eyeing his unconscious enemy pegging away
at a cold turkey as if he had had nothing to eat for a week.
The Captain, looking up by-and-by, with his mouth full,
and catching my lord's eye, makes him a polite bow, a
piece of civility the noble M.F.H. takes not the slightest
notice of. *' Impudent rascal ! " he mutters to himself as
he leaves the room. '' Pompous old ass ! " says the shame-
less Dabber, holding out his glass for some champagne.

*' Champagne, sir ? " says a waiter, addressing an elderly
gentleman in the Badminton Hunt uniform, who has just
strolled up. '' Champagne, — well, upon my soul, I scarcely

The Harkaway Hunt Ball. 103

know. I wonder where they get it ? " mutters the stranger
in an audible voice.

The Chaplain of the Hunt, the Bishop of Soda and B,
who is refreshing his inner-man close by, happens to over-
hear the stranger's sotto-voce remark, and promptly eases the
latter'smind byinforming him that the wine comes from the
renowned cellars of Messrs. French, of St. James's Street.
*' Quite right to be cautious though, all the same," adds the
reverend ; ^' nothing so deleterious as bad champagne —
nothing." Needless to say the man from the Badminton
country promptly has his glass filled, and he and the Rector
are soon hard at it. The last good things with the
Duke's and the latest doings with Lord Daisyfield are
discussed con amove, and it is not until the pair have
made the bottle of champagne a '^ dead man " that they
leave off, and go once more to see how things are going
in the ball-room. The Lancers is going on as they enter,
and one set in particular, in which Master Charles Wild-
oats and Lady Thomasina Clinker are conspicuous, judging
by the noise and laughter arising therefrom, seem to be
enjoying themselves thoroughly.

One of the party, a young guardsman from Town, has
a pheasant's tail, extracted from a game-pie by Dolly Light-
foot, sticking out of his coat-tail pocket, and the fact of his
being unaware of the trick that has been played him, makes
the laughter louder than ever.

" Perfectly disgraceful, I call it," says Mrs. Meagrim,
who, with her three plain daughters, is ornamenting the
side of the room. '' I don't know what would have been
said when I was a girl," she adds with a spiteful snifT,
" if people calling themselves ladies and gentlemen had
deported themselves in that noisy fashion." That ancient

I04 The Harkaway Hunt Ball.

virgin (or ''capering elder," as Dolly Lightfoot calls
her), the Honourable Miss Caradoc, who is sitting next to
her, whose withered old cheeks are painted and powdered
like those of a clown in a pantomime, and who at the present
moment is extremely put out because no one has been
gallant enough to take her down to supper, cordially
agrees, and adds a few especially spiteful remarks on
her own account, having reference to the curly head
and appearance generally of the merry Lady Thomasina.
In another minute though — and we are really delighted
to record it, as we are all good deeds — the hungry old
lady's face brightens up, for who should suddenly present
himself but the ever-popular Tom Chirpington, who, if the
truth must be told, has just been sent across from the
opposite side of the room by his ever-thoughtful wife.
''What!" exclaims he in apparent horror, "not been
down to supper yet, my dear Miss Caradoc? Don't tell
me that ! please don't ! What have all the men — including
myself — been about ? Take my arm this moment, and
come along." And it is an odd thing, but when the
gallant Tom leads the now-satisfied spinster back to her
old position against the wall, she seems quite a different
person altogether ; her old eyes sparkle, she smiles
benignantly round ; and, adjusting her pince-nez, she
declares that, in her opinion, dear little Lady Thomasina,
who at that moment has just whirled by in the arms of
young Courtly of the Blues, is quite the prettiest person
in the room. After that, who will doubt the efficacy of the
glorious vintage of Champagne ?

It is now getting latish, and some of the Flowers of the
Hunt, such as dear old Mr. Grimboy, as Mrs. Chirpington
calls him, have had about enough of it. Pretty little Miss

The Harkaway Hunt Ball. 105

Bluebell has actually managed, after a deal of persuasion on
her part, to inveigle the old gentleman into dancing a quad-
rille with her in the course of the evening, and the Father
of the Hunt, nov;^ it is over, is immensely proud of the feat,
and goes off to his carriage as pleased as Punch, not only
with himself but all the world in general, more especially
the pretty little Bluebell, on whom he would certainly have
bestowed a fatherly kiss, had he had the chance. If it is
true, thinks he, what Miss Mouser confided to him not
long since — that it is a case of a match between her and
Charles Wildoats — he'll give the dear little girl such a
present as never was.

The room is now beginning to thin rapidly, rumours of
a nasty night and snow falling are rife, and people are
getting to their carriages before it gets worse.

Half-an-hour more, and the Harkaway Hunt Ball is an
event of the past. The indefatigable members of Tootle
and Binney's band, having fiddled away all night with
only port wine to sustain and keep them going,
are now enjoying a hearty meal, well earned if ever a
meal was, with plenty of champagne to wash it down, in
the supper-room, which they have all to themselves. The
champagne they could have had before had they wished,
but, on its being offered to him at the commencement of
the evening, by one of the stewards, the leader of the band
replied that they would prefer port wine while they were
playing, as being better to work on, but that, if agreeable,
they would wind up with some '' sparkling " at the finish
of the entertainment.

There is no mistake about it, it is a very nasty night, a
very nasty night indeed, making the good folk who are
driving home wish they had taken up their abode for the

io6 The Harkaway Hunt Ball.

night in the town, and those lucky ones who had elected
to stay where they were — including Charles Wildoats, now
an engaged man (for Miss Mouser's surmise confided to
Mr. Grimboy turned out to be correct), and just then
occupied in playing nap and drinking gin-sling with a
select company of friends as noisy as himself, in old
Sammy Shrub's sanctum — congratulate themselves that
they have not a long drive in the snow before them.

And those ballgoers snoring away comfortably after
their exertions in the cosy old-fashioned bedrooms of the
Daisyfield Arms and the other Bullerton hotels, certainly
have the pull over their homegoing friends ; for numerous
are the disasters to be heard of the next day to some of the
latter division.

Miss Mouser's horses fell over a donkey fast asleep in
the middle of the road — the only one not damaged or
frightened in any way being the donkey. Jock Merri-
man, better known as the Bullerton Post-boy, and the
independent Jimmy of the neighbourhood, managed to
upset Captain Glanders, Mrs. Glanders, and the two
Misses Glanders, into a deep ditch, three miles from home,
and, the pole being broken, to say nothing of the traces,
the unhappy quartette had to make the best of their way
home on foot.

The Captain's language, needless to say, was quite equal
to the occasion, and his equanimity was not improved by
Jock informing him that he had upset 'ould Admiral
Trimmer that night week, and Major and the Honourable
Mrs. Mousetrap the week before that. " They're both on
'em greeter folk than yNOlyoii be," said Jock coolly lighting
his pipe, "and they didna say hef the hard words as
you hev." The Captain walked on after his family, all

jsi^mi^^^^g^t

< ^

3 5

>■ §

< o

<i

I ^

^ 2

The Harkaway Hunt Ball. 107

the time growling like a bear with a sore head. A
sudden happy thought occurred to Jock. "• Hi ! " shouted
he, when the angry Captain had gone some fifty yards.
'* Hi ! You mun hev the carriage to sleep in, if you like
till mornin' ! Yis or no ? " '' Go to the devil ! " roared back
the now furious Captain, " and tell your dashed master
if ever I get into one of his dashed conveyances again, may
I be dashed."

" Ah, well, there's some fules in this warld as don't know
wot's good for 'em. Good-night, Cap'n, and better man-
ners to 'ee." And so saying Jock, having previously tied the
two old screws to a neighbouring gate, coolly opened the
door of the carriage, shut himself in, and slept away com-
fortably until morning.

That was an uncomfortable adventure, too, that befel
the Stuffys that snowy night, or rather morning. The
occupants of the Stuffy equipage consisted of Mr. Stuffy
(an extremely fuss}^, irritable old gentleman), Mrs. Stuffy
(an excessively nervous lady), Miss Stuffy, and a young
gentleman from town, supposed to be engaged to that young
person. The parent birds were both fast asleep, and the
engaged couple were pretending to be, whilst they
squeezed each other's hands and made the best eyes they
could at each other in the dark, when the carriage
suddenly came to a full stop. *'Pa! wake up! Oh,
Adolphus, do wake pa! I'm sure something has hap-
pened ! " ejaculated poor little Miss Stuffy in imploring
accents.

And Pa being woke up with a good deal of difficulty, at
last let down the window, and, putting his bald head out,
bawled out, *' What's matter now ? What's matter ?
What are you stopping for ? " A voice, thick in utterance

io8

The Harkaway Hunt Ball,

and beautifully scented with rum, replied, ^' Imsureidon-
knowwhereweare (hiccup)." Here was a pretty go ! — eight
miles from home ; the coachman drunk as an owl ; the
footman (a new one) not knowing a yard of the way ; and
snowing like fun ! There was only one thing to be done,
and that was for poor old Stuffy to turn coachman
himself, which he did, solacing himself by abusing the
coachman all the way home, and discharging him in the
morning. Small consolations for being laid up for a fort-
night after, with a violent cold and an attack of gout,
brought on by exposure to the elem.ents.

If the weather, however, was not all that could be
desired, the Harkway Hunt Ball was, as it always is, an
unqualified success — as all such cheery reunions should be.
So, long may it flourish, say we.

j^

LJ '^

^'^^/^^^^^ *

( 109 )

MR. METAL.

HAT'S a fox, for a ' ponyy remarks, for the
benefit of the scarlet-coated, cigar-smoking
crowd assembled in a ride in Oakover Wood,
a sharp-looking, grizzly-haired, middle-aged man of
rather prepossessing appearance, attired in a well-cut black
coat, white cords, and brown-topped boots, the said boots
being extremely thin, and looking more adapted for the
steeple-chase than the hunting-field. His hat is stuck in
a knowing manner rather on one side of his head ; a
cutting whip, instead of the orthodox hunting-crop, is
grasped in his dogskin-gloved hand ; and he is mounted
on a weedy-looking thoroughbred bay, possessing
a pair of exceedingly doubtful-looking forelegs, and an
extremely wicked eye.

" That's a fox, for a monkey,'' exclaims he, rising in his
price, and looking round as if to say, " Who'll take me ? "
This time the melodious voices of three or four hounds in
the deep dell to his right are heard, giving tongue in a
more decided manner than before, bringing all their com-
rades to their side at once to find out what the matter is.
See ! Bellman and Boisterous come up in a deuce of a
hurry, jealous of some of the younger members of the
pack ; and Ravager too — steady old Ravager — bristling
with impatience. " Hooick to Ravager, hooick I " cheers

no Mr. Metal.

Tom Tootler. " Have at him, old man ! By Jove, it is a
find for certain this time ! " The ancient Ravager, whose
opinion is thoroughly to be depended upon, gives vent to
his feelings in one prolonged note, which in a second is
taken up by the eager pack.

^^ There's a ^coal-box' for you," exclaims our cheery
but slangy young friend, Charles Wildoats, just arrived,
late as usual, with a grin of delight, as he chucks his
cigar away, and gives his mare a hearty slap on her
glossy neck, which the mare, who is trembling with
excitement, acknowledges with a playful bite at the toe of
his highly-varnished boot. Surely that's a halloa ! Yes,
there it is again ! An unmistakable " Tally ho " this
time comes wafted on the breeze to the ears of our sports-
men in the ride. Lord Daisyfield comes crashing and
smashing through the hazel stems in a desperate hurry,
and gallops down the ride as hard as ever his horse
can lay legs to the ground. There is a rush of
cavalry after him, headed by Charlie Wildoats, who,
as he says, always likes to be "all there when the
bell rings," and lastly comes our friend in the black
coat and steeplechasy boots, whose vicious-looking
thoroughbred had stopped to kick for a minute or two,
but who now goes along smoothly enough ; his rider
with his hands well down and his feet stuck out in true
Newmarket style. Mr. Metal, for that is the name of our
black-coated friend, is by vocation a bookmaker, in his
case apparently an uncommonly profitable profession, and
a great sensation he made when three years ago he made
a sudden descent on the county, bought what was called
by the auctioneers the Binfield Estate — which estate
comprised about 700 acres of land — pulled down the ex-

Mr. Metal. in

tremely dilapidated mansion situated thereon, and, with
the help of an aspiring architect, built a hideous-looking
yellow-coloured, slate-roofed, plateglass-windowed house,
which he dignified with the high-sounding but somewhat
eccentric name of " Cockamaroo Hall," so called because
a horse of his of that name won the Cesarewitch, or,
as he himself would call it, '' Seizerwitch," a few years
ago.

The builders and painters, and plumbers and glaziers,
painters and decorators, upholsterers, and such like
having at last all taken their departure, Mr. Metal
one fine day, with his daughter, Arabella, his thorough-
bred nags, his Racing Calendar, and his Ruffs
Guide, arrived by the midday train at the little out-
of-the-way station belonging to the Great Smasham
and Crumple-em-up Railway, called Sleepyfield, and was
soon installed comfortably at Cockamaroo Hall. The news
of the arrival of course spread like wildfire, and many
were the conjectures as to what the Metals were like.

Mrs. Blenkinsop, their next-door neighbour, went
about asking everybody what sort of a person a " Black-
leg" was. She had heard the poor dear Major, she said,
often speak in terms of horror and disgust of them. The
late Major Blenkinsop, we have heard, was uncommonly
well qualified to pass an opinion, for a little bird once
whispered to us that it was during that gallant officer's
sojourn in that distinguished regiment, the 40th Lancers
(The Queen's Own Blusterers), that that ugly card-playing
scandal arose, winding up with a duel and a court-martial
to follow, in which occurrences the Major played one of
the principal parts, rumour said, with anything but credit
to himself.

112 Mr. Metal.

The Major's relict then, looked on the Metals, pere et
fille, in the light of a species of social vermin, and, in con-
sequence, she took especial pains to warn her hopeful son,
Bloomsbury Fitzfoodle Blenkinsop, a youth of singularly
mild and tame-rabbity disposition, goodness knows how
many times a day, on no account ever to cultivate, on
any pretence whatever, the acquaintance of either Mr. or
Miss Metal.

Their appearance at church, too, on the first Sunday
after their arrival, caused great excitement amongst the
natives. Mrs. Blenkinsop and her friends had pictured to
themselves a stout, coarse, vulgar-looking man, with a
tendency to tight trousers and horse-shoe pins, accom-
panied by a snub-nosed flashily dressed damsel. Instead
of which they were quite flabbergasted to behold in Miss
Metal a remarkably good-looking, ladylike girl, uncom-
monly well dressed, from the top of her pretty French
bonnet to the tips of her very neat boots ; and in Mr.
Metal, the blackleg, the turfite, the everything bad, a par-
ticularly quiet-looking, sedately-attired person, who might
indeed, from the solemnity of his attire, have passed as
pretty nearly anything one chose to fancy — a great
London merchant, for instance, a lawyer in large practice
— anything, in fact, but a betting man. His well-cut
Poole-made black coat contrasted most favourably with the
baggy, ill-fitting garments belonging to Mr. Turtleton, the
rich banker, who occupied the pew opposite. Mr. Bleater,
the curate, looking up from reading the lessons, caught
pretty Miss Metal's eye, and was so struck all of a heap,
that he lost his place on the spot, and blushed in a pain-
ful manner under his spectacles. Bleater arranged with
himself forthwith that he would call on the morrow at

Mr. Metal. 113

Cockamaroo Hall, and as for Bloomsbury Fitzfoodle
Blenkinsop, he was a gone coon from the first moment he
set eyes on her. He also determined to make acquaint-
ance with the newcomer's charming daughter imme-
diately, if not sooner, in spite of mamma and everyone else.
How nice it would be, he thought, chasing butterflies and
hunting for stag-beetles, with her for a companion.
( Bloomsbury was a great entomologist.) He wondered, too,
if she liked tame rabbits, and guinea-pigs, and bees. Yes, he
thought she looked as if she did. How delightful it
would be to get her over to luncheon some day, and take
her with him afterwards — all by herself of course — to feed
his numerous pets. Oh, sly, sly Bloomsbury !

Mr. Bleater, the curate, called the next afternoon, and
was asked to stay and dine, which invitation he accepted.
He did not, it is true, quite understand the horsey talk
and racing reminiscences told him after dinner by his
host, but he did understand that the claret he drank a
skinful of quite came up to its owner's description of it,
when he called it " first chop." A stiff brandy and soda
and a big cigar about did for the curate, whose utterance
was a trifle thick as he said, '^ Goori ! Mr. Metal ; goori,
sir ! Very pleased, indeed, to make your (hiccup) ac-
quairansh." The rector then called. Would it be asking
too much if Mr. Metal could give him a few flowers and
evergreens for the purpose of decorating the Church for
the forthcoming harvest festival ? '^ Not a bit ! Go to my
'ead gardener," replied Mr. Metal, ^' and ask him for what-
ever you want, and welcome." The Rector thought, as he
was about it, he might as well produce his subscription
list for the new organ. He did so accordingly, and Mr.
Metal, instead of, after a lot of haggling and cross-ques-

I

114

Mr. Metal

tioning, and grumbling, producing a miserable half-a-
sovereign from his waistcoat-pocket — like that stingy old
dog Turtleton (who has forty thousand a year at the very
least) did the other day — simply observing that he liked a
horgan in a church uncommon, just sat down and wrote
the rector a cheque for a '' pony," as he called it, on the
spot. Mr. Metal thus "stood in," to use a slang expres-
sion, uncommonly well with the church, but the ladies in
his neighbourhood would not have him or his daughter at
any price, notwithstanding; so they had to depend
entirely on their own personal friends from town, and
sundry gay bachelors, like Captain Dabber and Charlie
Wildoats (the latter an old acquaintance of the book-
maker's), for company. Mr. Metal used to come out in
great force on those festive occasions when he had a few
friends to dinner. On those occasions nothing was too
good for him and his guests. The meiioo, as he called it
was written in his daughter's very best hand, as taught at
the very exclusive school at Brighton, in which she had
passed several years, and an uncommon good menoo it was,
for Metal possessed a cook who had received her educa-
tion under no less a personage than the great Francatelli
himself. Old Captain Dabber, who knew what was what
as well as any man living, would have two helps of
Supreme de Volaille, and give a growl of satisfaction as
he gobbled away at it, like a dog over a good bone. The
haunch of venison would have a history — ^just sent
him by Sir Charles Flutter — (Sir Charles owed
Metal a bit). The grouse came from a prominent member
of the Jockey Club's moor : and the claret — wasn't there a
history about the claret ? '' Poor Lord Dreadnought — it's
his claret," would say Metal, heaving a sympathetic sigh,

Mr. Metal. 115

as the second bottle made its appearance. ^' Poor
Lord Dreadnought ! Fine, honourable young fellow,
gentlemen — owes me seven thou', he does ; and I give you
my word I don't care whether he pays me or not.
Brass and Stitch, the bookmakers treated him uncommon
bad, warning him off the Heath as they did — too bad it
was. I had a bet with him on the Middle Park one year
— 6 to 4 in thousands he laid me on his mare, Jane Heyre,
who was such a blazin' favourite that year, you recollect.
Now, he never put it down in his book, but / did in mine,
and the mare lost, and the poor Marquis he dropped a
heap o' money — a heap o' money — over it. Well, I
reminded him of it afterwards, and instead of shufflin' over
it and disputin' it, as a lot I could mention would have —
not having it down in his book, mind you — what did he
do ? Why, he hup and said, ' Quite right, Metal — quite
correct. I'll pay.' And pay he did ; and he's a honerable
feller, gentlemen — a honerable feller, that's what I call him.
'Ere's his 'ealth ; and may he soon get round, and long be
a h'ornament to the British Turf! "

Metal owns and runs a few horses on his own account,
but, good judge though he is, he is extraordinarily unlucky
with his own cattle. If he has one well in in a big handi-
cap, it is sure to go wrong the day before ; or a promising
youngster makes his first appearance in a two year old race
at Newmarket, and Metal, striding into the ring to back him,
finds he has been forestalled, and has to take a short price
about him. He has three or four of his thorough-breds that
are not much good at racing, up for his own and Arabella's
riding, and nice games that young lady has with them
sometimes. She is a good horsewoman, with one excep-
tion— her hands — which, as her father says, are like Kiron.

I — 2

Ii6 Mr. Metal.

*' Well, Mr. Metal," say we, as we come across him in the
paddock on the Derby Day, gravely looking the favourite
over. '' What do you think of him, eh ? " " Well, he's a
race-horse, that's about what he is," is his reply ; " and
what is more to the purpose in my opinion, mind ye, he's
a consistent little 'oss. There hain't much on him, but
what there is of him is good." Volumes could not express
more.

Shooting he patronises a little now he is a real landed
proprietor, but we are bound to say he is but a numb hand
at it, and how reckless !

*' Mr. Metal, Mr. Metal, good Gad ! your gun's at full
cock ; are you aware of it ? " we exclaimed to him one hot
September day, as we came up to him, leaning over a gate,
with his chin resting on the muzzle of his breechloader,
both barrels of which are at full cock !

^' Ah, so they are," was all he said, coolly looking down,
and seeing we were right, and resuming his former
position. We fully expected to see his brains scattered
over the next field every minute. An elaborate luncheon
would be sent out on these shooting expeditions, and
sometimes our metallic friend would be extremely puzzled
by the wonderful productions of the artist in his employ
— the afore-mentioned pupil of Francatelli. One fine day
in September we recollect watching the luncheon being
turned out of the basket. Out came no end of good things,
amongst others a raised pie of majestic proportions,
Visions of enormous truffles as big as walnuts flitted
through our mind. Our mouth watered. (We are passion-
ately fond of truffles.) Metal did not view the production
in the same light.

*' Hallo !" he cried, " why, what the blazes does the cook

Mr, Metal.

117

mean by sending me and my friends cold pie to h'eat !
Take it back and 'ave it 'otted this minute."

People who pretend to know declare that Metal, in his
earlier days, once occupied the important post of a " boots "
at a country inn, and the story goes that an impecunious
party whom he had sometimes given assistance to, being
refused on one occasion, taunted him with the fact of his
having himself once served in that menial capacity.
He is reported to have answered, ''Yes, you're quite
right. I was once a boots, and I'll tell you what it is,
my fine feller — it's my private opinion that \iyou had been
Boots like me, twenty years ago, you'd never have riz an
inch. Youd ha' been Boots now,''

-^^^^^^^

'.-^^

( ii8 )

WILLIAM WAGGLETON.

O along with yer, do. Mister Waggleton. I
never see sich a man in all my born days,
never. Oh, I 'umbly beg pardon, sir," says, all
in a breath, the pretty chambermaid belonging to the
Furzefield Arms at Chorlbury, as on our entering the
coffee-room of that snug hostelry, about half-past nine
o'clock, one fine winter's morning, she, in a great state of
giggles, cannons against us in the doorway leading thereto,
evidently fresh from an interchange of lively badinage
with somebody within.

As we walk into the apartment in question, we behold an
elderly gentleman, attired in a dressing-gown and slippers,
with nothing else of importance on, warming himself,
in a gentlemanly manner, in front of the fire, and par-
taking of a cup of coffee and some buttered toast.

" Hallo ! who are yon ? " is the rather startling question
he puts to us, as, wishing him politely good morning, we
edge up to the fire. '^ Ah, don't know you," he goes on,
after we had informed him, looking us up and down
with, as we thought, a somewhat supercilious air. " Think
I saw you at the ball last night. Came with the Slow-
boys, didn't you ? D — d bad ball as usual it was, too.
Been to it every year for the last twenty-five years, so I
ought to know something about it, eh ? Old story. Bad

William Waggleton. 119

champagne. I know where they get it, and what they pay
for it. Thirty-six shillings a dozen, and dear at the price.
Sherry, worse, if possible. I'm up to trap though. I don't
drink it. Not /. Don't you believe it. No, I bring
some claret in a medicine-bottle, and, what is more,
drink it under Furzefield's very nose — under my lady's
nose — and under the Dowager's (who's the best of the lot)
nose, too. The late lord was a screw — so was his father ;
but the present one beats 'em all. Wouldn't have come
this year, but wanted to hunt this morning. None of the
other fellows are up. Poor devils ! hot coppers. What ?
Bye, bye. Meet again." And, so saying, this extraordinary
personage, who has quite taken my breath away, walks
off, and I presently view him from the window, crossing
the stable-yard, evidently on a visit to his hunter, his airy
attire apparently causing great delight to the servants of
the house.

Lord Furzefield gives every year a grand ball at Furze-
field House, to the elite of the county, and having been
honoured with an invitation for the first time (for we had
not long taken up our abode in the Harkaway country)
we had come to the Furzefield Arms for the double
purpose of attending the ball, and going with Lord Daisy-
field's Hounds the next morning, there being a lawn meet
at Furzefield House. We presently remembered noticing
the eccentric personage who had just left the room, at the
ball, he having attracted our attention the more particu-
larly from the fact that he was attired in a scarlet dress-
coat — the only garment of that colour there was in
the room.

" What is that gentleman's name, waiter ? " we ask, as
that worthy enters with our breakfast. "The gentleman,

I20 William Waggleton.

sir, who's jest gone hout, sir ? Oh that's honly Mister
Waggleton, sir. Nobody minds wot he says, sir. Wery
picoolier gent, sir ; don't mind wot he does, sir. Comes
'ere hevery year he do for this wery ball, sir, same as you
'ave and the other company. Great sporting gentleman,
sir ; yessir, great sporting gentleman, sir."

This was our first introduction to the very eccentric
subject of our sketch. Since then we have seen a good
deal of him, rather more, indeed, than we particularly
care about, for, as the waiter at the inn very justly re-
marked, his habits of life are, to say the least, very
''picoolier," and in consequence his room is very often a
deal pleasanter to quiet and sedate personages, like myself,
for instance, than his company. In our case, too, it was
rather unfortunate that, very soon after we had made
acquaintance with one another, William Waggleton should
for some reason or another have taken a very decided
liking to us. Why or wherefore we could never make
out. The consequence being that we were honoured by a
good deal more of his company than we cared about.
Like the renowned Soapy Sponge, when once you got
him into your house it was extremely difficult to get him

out.

Once, indeed, on our return from the Continent, we
found him, on our arrival at home, comfortably installed
in our house, having been there just ten days. Our man
told us he had ridden up one Friday — he lived about
fifteen miles off — and on being told we were away, all he
said was, "Oh, never mind; he supposed he could have
a bed that night." The servants accordingly put him and
his horse up. He unfortunately took a fancy to some
claret the butler brought up for him ; and the next day,

William Waggleton. 121

to that domestic's astonishment, not to say disgust,
announced his intention of staying until our return,
which intention he carried out to the letter.

*' The first time I ever met him — confound him ! "
relates old Colonel Bludyer, " was one September, sir,
many years ago, and I was going up to town by the after-
noon coach that used to run in those days from Bullerton
to London. Well, we stopped to take up Waggleton,
who was waiting by the roadside, with a pointer dog at
his heels, and a gun in his hand. The inside of the coach
was empty, so he and his dog got in. Well, sir, we were
going down Brockley WiW— you know Brockley Hill, and
what a devil of a steep hill it is, eh ? Well, we were going
down steadily enough, the two chestnut leaders (rum uns
to drive, sir, I can can tell you), for a wonder, going as
quiet as sheep, when, bang, bang ! went two loud reports
from inside the coach. Away went the horses, frightened
out of their wits, and no wonder. It's only a mussy we
weren't upset, and all killed or drowned, for there was
a thundering great pond at the bottom of the hill in those
days. It's done away with now. Well, as soon as Tom
HoUystick, the coachman, could stop 'em, he pulled up to
see what was the matter, and what do you think it was, sir ?
Why, that dashed fellow, Waggleton, had loosed off his Joe
Manton out of winder — both barrels — to clean 'em, as he
said; and he then had the audacity, dash him, to ask
what the devil we were stopping for, and told Tom to
look sharp and make up for lost time, as he was going to
the opera that night, and didn't want to be late."

Everybody in the county, indeed, has got a story of some
sort to tell of our friend's sayings or doings. Even those
two dear old things, the Misses Primleigh, sisters of the

122 William Waggleton.

Dean of Maryborough, who live in a red-brick house, over-
looking the river, just outside the town of Maryborough,
never tire of relating how shocked they were, one hot
summer's day, as they were sitting under their big mul-
berry-tree on the lawn, when they suddenly saw a fiend
in human shape, who turned out, on inquiry, to be none
other than the depraved William Waggleton, deliberately
undress and betake himself to the water, for the purpose
of enjoying a swim. How they would have thought
nothing of that, for it was only natural, but when it came,
*' when it came," said Miss Penelope, with a shudder, "to
that dreadful person running round and round the field
with nothing on, literally nothing on, to dry himself, be-
cause I suppose he had no towels, it really, you know,
my dear, became beyond a joke." One can well imagine,
indeed, the two poor old ladies, hastily snatching up their
books and shawls, and fairly bolting into the house as our
friend was seen coming round for the third time.

There is, indeed, scarcely a soul in the county whom he
has not roughed up the wrong way, either by word or deed ;
even cheery Tom Chirpington can't stand him, and, if he
catches sight of him riding up the avenue towards the house,
retires to his sanctum, and locks himself carefully in, until
he finds the unwelcome guest has departed. Did he not,
too, liken that worthy and energetic magistrate, Mr. Slow-
man unto an " Owl," only " without the wisdom " ? It was
not a bad simile, for, to say the truth, the worthy beak, as to
his countenance, is not at all unlike that sagacious-looking
bird, more especially when he is occupying the throne, as
chairman of the bench of magistrates. Of course, what
our eccentric friend had said came round in due time to the
ears of the great J. P. himself, and Mr. Slowman ever since

William Waggleton. 123

speaks of him in conversation as that "beast Waggleton."
Another prominent member of the bench of magistrates,
too, did he manage mortally to offend not long ago. None
other, indeed, than Mr. Yellowboy, of Fatfield Park, the
great City banker. Mr. Yellowboy is a stiff, pompous
personage, with a very great opinion of himself — perhaps
a better one indeed than other people have, for in the first
place folks, as a rule, don't care about the throaty, conse-
quential air he generally assumes, added to which there
are nasty stories about of dead foxes having been found in
his coverts, and large steel traps seen lying about in
different places on his domain. Yellowboy professes,
notwithstanding, to be fond of fox-hunting, and in fact the
hounds meet at Fatfield once every season, on which
occasion there is always a terrific breakfast, or dejeuner
as Mrs. Yellowboy calls it. The local reporter comes out
with uncommon strength, you may depend, that week in
that wonderful journal, to wit, the Bullerton Chronicle^
and four whole columns are filled with his glowing account
of the display, headed in large letters, *' The Grand Hunt
Breakfast at Fatfield Hall."

Last year Yellowboy outdid himself, for to add to the
general effect he had enlisted into his service the volun-
teer band from Bullerton, who were installed on the
lawn in full uniform. They only knew three tunes —
two marches and a polka — it is true, but the morning
being cold, inclining to frost indeed, and there being no
end of champagne about, they blew, and snorted, and
banged about in splendid style.

" What an old ass it is ! " remarked our young friend
Charlie Wildoats, as his mare shied at the band.
" Blowed if it ain't like a fair. However, it only happens

124 William Waggleton.

once a year, so why shouldn't the old muff enjoy himself
eh ? So let's go in and pitch into his pop."

The breakfast over at last, to Lord Daisyfield's great
delight, the hounds proceed to draw for a fox in a plan-
tation in the park, where old Yellowboy says he knows
there is one. He ought to know certainly, seeing that
the noble animal in question only arrived the night before,
and was only turned out half an hour ago. Sure enough,
scarcely are the hounds thrown into covert when a halloa
from the far end proclaims the fox is away. Three times
round the park the poor half-stupefied brute goes. At
last he makes for the kitchen-garden, to the head-
gardener's great annoyance, and finally takes refuge in
one of the hot-houses. Old Yellowboy is delighted — like
the little dog in the nursery rhyme — to see such sport,
and the farce ends by the unfortunate fox being lugged
on to the lawn and broken up, amidst the plaudits of
Yellowboy and Co. — the band, who are now in a glorious
state of champagne, celebrating the event by a grand
performance of "See the conquering hero comes." A
thick voice in the crowd here cries out for three cheers
for Muster Yellowboy, and these having been given, that
worthy acknowledges them with a series of bows. He
would like very much to make a speech, but that Lord
Daisyfield, who has had more than enough of it all, bids him
good-bye just as he is clearing his throat to begin, and
trots his hounds off best pace to Cocklefield Spinney, to
try for a fresh fox.

To return to our friend and the Banker. They met
one fine day at the usual weekly gathering of the magis-
trates, and, as they were discussing different matters in
their private room, it chanced that William Waggleton

William Waggleton. 125

asked if anyone had a pencil. '' Who's got a pencil ? '*
quoth he. " Here is one, very much at your service,"
replied Mr. Yellowboy, in his pompous manner from
the top of his black and white checked, stiff-looking neck-
cloth. '' Here is one, very much at your service, Mr.
Waggleton," handing him, as he spoke, an elaborate,
heavy-looking gold one, with his crest on a large onyx
on the top. '' Pah ! " said William, with a sneer, taking
it up and sniffing it with an air of the deepest disgust.
'' Pah ! stinks of Lombard-street ! — stinks of gold ! Who
the dickens would use a thing like that ? Here, give
me another, somebody."

Mr. Yellowboy turned pale with anger. " Well, Mr.
Waggleton," said he, after a pause, " after that speech,
either you or I must leave the room."

''Very good. You leave it then," rejoined Waggleton.
''I shant, that's very certain." And the infuriated
banker, whose hair stood on end at such behaviour to
one of his importance and wealth, actually did leave the
room there and then, to the secret delight of the other
beaks.

Another of his great delights is to get hold of some
stranger out hunting who can't ride much, and pilot him.
And pilot him he will too, to such a tune that the novice may
think himself remarkably lucky if he gets through the
day without coming to grief, for William Waggleton is a
consummate horseman himself, and seems to be able to
creep and crawl (if he can't jump over) through any con-
ceivable place. He wears out hunting a high-collared
scarlet coat, a large yellow handkerchief is folded round
his neck, and he sports a velvet cap. There is not a field
or a fence in the country that he does not know. In a

126 William Waggleton.

run he takes a line of his own ; wide of the hounds, but
still never very far off, for his wonderful hands seem to have
the power of shoving his horse just wherever he pleases-
Besides being a good and bold rider he is a good sports-
man in every way, whether whipping for trout, following
the hounds, or ranging the stubbles with dog and gun.
William Waggleton, in short, would be, to use Tom
Chirpington's words, a '' devilish good fellow if he were
not so confoundedly quarrelsome." ** But it is his nature to,"
as Doctor Watts has it, so we suppose he can't help it. .
. . . . . The hounds are not running. Everybody
is going over a gap in a large fence, and we are preparing
on our pony to follow suit. Not so Waggleton, who is on a
new horse he has just bought, and means to have the
fence — a large one. We hear him soliloquising to his horse
thus : *' Now look here, you fool, here's a big ditch this
side, and I think there's a big ditch on the other — there's
a good big fence, as you can see, between. If you make
a mistake you'll come to grief and hurt yourself. Come
up, you brute ! "

I

z ^

o ^

O "*

O s

< S

( 127 )

MR. BENJAMIN BOBBIN.

COUPLE of years ago the Great Smashem and
Crumple-em-up Railway Company — having pre-
viously obtained the permission of Parliament to
do so — proceeded to start a line from London to the
North on their own account, they having, up to that
time, been merely associated with another company, pay-
ing them, in fact, very heavily for permission to run
their own trains over the other's line. As anyone can see
by looking at the map, their new line of railway goes
twisting and turning right through the very heart of the
Harkaway countr}^

Now, there is not a more charming place in the whole
county than Oakley Hall, the home for I don't know how
many generations past of the Gooseys. The Gooseys are
descendants of the celebrated Godfrey de Goosye, who
came over with the Conqueror. Goosyes by the score
are buried in the little church in the park — Dame Mar-
garet de Goosye, Dame Constance de Goosye, Hugo
Malvoisin de Goosye, his son, Reginald de Goosye, and
heaps more too numerous to mention. It was during the
period when that merriest of monarchs, Charles II., occu-
pied the throne of England that the name of de Goosye
became altered to that of Goosey, and we believe it came
about pretty much in this way : The head of the family
at the period mentioned was a Colonel George de Goosye

128 Mr. Benjamin Bobbin.

one of Prince Rupert's most roaring cavaliers, a bosom
friend of wild George Goring, and a great favourite with
His Majesty. The Colonel, aristocrat as he was, was as
ignorant a dog as you'd meet on a day's march anywhere,
and as he had a playful habit of drinking hard all day —
glasses of this, and stoups of that (what a stoup was
we don't exactly know, but suppose it to have been a
sort of article answering to the soda-water tumbler of our
time) — besides consuming at dinner enough claret and
Burgundy to satisfy ten ordinary cavaliers, he was gener-
ally in a state of fuddle, and when he was in his cups the
spelling of his name would puzzle him very considerably.
So on a hot night at the club, when the jolly Colonel had
lost all his ready money, and his I O U's in consequence
began to circulate, he would sign his name simply George
Goosy, or Goosey, the ''y" and "e" of the last syllable
and the ''de" in front proving too many for him. His
friends who were honoured with his correspondence natu-
rally thinking that he was the best judge as to how to spell
his own name, followed suit, and so that's how it was done,
as the conjurers say.

Now the richly-timbered and beautifully-undulating park,
as the glib-tongued auctioneers delighted to call it in their
advertisements, belonging to Oakley Hall, happened to
come right in the track of the new line of railway, and
accordingly one fine morning Colonel Algernon Goosey,
the then proprietor, received formal notice from the
worshipful board of directors that they were going to run
their line right through the bottom of it. The Colonel
was at first furious. He was particularly cock-a-hoop just
then as it happened, for had not his horse Gil Bias just
won the Two Thousand Guineas, upsetting all the favour-

Mr. Benjamin Bobbin. 129

ites, his gallant owner having thereby landed a pot of
money, and did he not expect as a natural sequence that
the same noble animal would win the Derby ?

Never was such a favourite as Gil Bias. The
Colonel looked upon the Derby and its profits in bets and
stakes as already in his pocket, and the idea of a beastly
railway running through his park was really one too many
for his feelings ; and he snorted, and puffed, and swore,
and wrote abusive letters to the company every day in
the week. The railway people were so impressed with
his language that they actually sprang ten thousand more
than they had first offered as compensation. But no
go. " Hang their money ! " would exclaim the Colonel in
his wrath. The Derby Day arrived. The Colonel started
from his lodgings in St. James's Street on the eventful
morning, his drag loaded with heavy swells, culled princi-
pally from his old regiment, the Grenadier Guards. The
Colonel's whiskers and moustache were curled with extra
care, and his face wore a look of the greatest confidence
as he took hold of the ribbons to tool the party down to
Epsom. The Downs are reached. The favourite is visited.
Nothing looks so well in the paddock, and five minutes
before that terrible bell rings the Colonel makes his last
bet — 5 to 4 in thousands — with Lord Fiddlededee, Gil
Bias against his lordship's horse. Jack in the Box, in their
places.

The bell rings. They're off. What a start ! Gil Bias
leads round Tattenham Corner. Gil Bias wins in a
canter! No he don't! What about Jack in the Box?
''Now, then. Jack in the Box wins for a 'monkey!'"
shouts the biggest man in the ring at the top of his voice.
My eye, what a race ! Nobody names the winner ! It's a

130 Mr. Benjamin Bobbin.

dead heat ! No it ain't. Jack in the Box has won! Up
goes his number — 4 — on the telegraph board, the favour-
ite second, beaten by the shortest of heads. '' Capital
race, was it not ? " and '' Come across to the drag and
have some lunch, old fellow," says the Colonel, who is a
rare plucked one. The Colonel was hit hard, there was
no denying it ; so confident had he been that he had not
hedged a shilling of all the money he had backed Gil Bias
for. He had no children, and the old place was heavily
mortgaged. Why not sell it outright, now this railway
was going to spoil it in a picturesque point of view ? His
next-door neighbour, too,old Admiral Hunks, he knew got a
tremendous price for his place since the railway had come.
Why shouldn't he go and do likewise ? Thus reasoningwith
himself, the Colonel accepted the railway company's terms,
and forthwith proceeded to put Oakley Hall into the hands
of Messrs. Puff and Butterwell, the well-known auctioneers,
with a view to sale, and soon there were such advertise-
ments in The Times and Field as never were seen. What
an earthly paradise they made it out to be ! The
Garden of Eden was nothing to it. Messrs. Puff and
Co., in fact, gave it as their private opinion that had Adam
seen it he would have let Eden at once to a moral certainty,
and taken up his abode at Oakley.

Our friend the Colonel was sitting over a late breakfast
one fine September morning, and had just ordered his
butler to tell the keeper he would shoot that day, when a
noise of carriage-wheels in front of the house announced
the arrival of an early visitor. Tingle, tangle, tingle went
the hall-door bell. ''Who can it be at this time o' day ?"
thought the Colonel, laying down the Morning Post,
and stopping on the way a piece of devilled kidney he was

Mr. Benjamin Bobbin. 131

about to put into his mouth. In came the footman, bear-
ing a card on a silver salver.

'^ Come to see the 'ouse and grounds, sir," said the man,
handing the card to his master.

The Colonel, taking it up and glancing at it, found
printed thereon —

MR. BENJAMIN BOBBIN, J.P.,
HOLLYHOCK HOUSE,

BIRMINGHAM.

'^Show him in," said the Colonel, and in another
minute the servant re-entered the dining-room, ushering
in Mr. Benjamin Bobbin, and, bows being exchanged, the
two proceeded to business.

" First of all you must be hungry and thirsty after
your railway journey. Won't you take anything ? " said
the host.

'^Thankee, sir," replied Mr. Bobbin, " I think I z£;/7/pick
a bit, if you've no objection, for, to tell you the truth, the
drive in the fresh morning hair has made me uncommon
peckish — -downright hungry, in fact. But don't order
hanythink 'ot. No, pray don't! A bit of cold partridge,
and a mossel of that fine-looking 'am I see on the
sideboard yonder '11 just do me, thankee, and, if it's
'andy, I shouldn't mind a glass or two of Shammy,
just to wash it down, yer know. (Mr. Bobbin had an idea
that it was quite what he called the '' cheese " in polite
society to drink champagne on all occasions.)

" Certainly," said his host, smiling. '' Bring a bottle
of champagne," said he to the butler.

K- 2

132 Mr. Benjamin Bobbin.

Mr. Benjamin Bobbin having eaten and drunk to his
satisfaction, proceeded to business. '* He had made a
'eap of money," he said, confidingly, to his host, *' a 'eap
of money in the iron trade, and he was now about to re-
tire and live in the country.''

He was accordingly looking about for a property to
suit him, when Messrs. Puffor's magnificent advertise-
ment attracted his attention. "An old h'ancestral 'ouse like
this is just the very harticle that me and Mrs. Bobbin
was on the look out for," said he, looking round, as he
spoke, at the portraits of defunct De Goosyes, which
covered the oak-panelled room; "and if," added he, "there
should be such a thing as a ghost on the premises, I don't
mind telling you, between ourselves. Colonel, that it will
be an additional indoosement to me to purchase ; not that
I'm at all hanxious myself, but i'ts an obby of Mrs. B.'s,
you hunderstand."

" Well, the house is old enough, in all conscience," re-
plied the Colonel, thinking what a rum chap Bobbin was ;
" and I dare say there's a ghost knocking about some-
where, though I can't say I ever saw one myself. How-
ever, come and look round, Mr. Bobbin, and see the
place for yourself."

Mr. Benjamin Bobbin was a fat, vulgar-looking man, of
about fifty-five or so. Dressed in what he thought the
height of fashion, his necktie was fastened with a sailor's
knot, stuck in which was a huge pearl as big as a walnut,
surrounded by brilliants. He wore a white waistcoat ; a
massive gold chain kept guard over his extensive stomach ;
black trousers, with a stripe, covered his extremities, and
his rather nubbly-looking feet were encased in the patent
leather boots of the period ; he sported lavender-coloured

Mr. Benjamin Bobbin, 133

gloves, and a gold-topped stick, and his hat was about
the glossiest you ever saw. Altogether he looked what
he was — Brummagem all over. " And now," said the
Colonel, having taken him all over the house, *^ let us go
outside and see what there is to be seen. First of all, I
will show you my ' ruin.' People come for miles to see it.
You have heard of it, no doubt — the old ruined chapel of
the De Gooseys, have you not ? "

Mr. Bobbin was not quite sure, but thought ''he 'ad."

'' Now," said the Colonel, with conscious pride, as they
reached the ruin in question, '' what do you think of that,
heh ? "

*' Why," replied Bobbin, straddling his legs and picking
his teeth with a gold toothpick the while. "■ Why, I don't
think much of it, do you know. It strikes me as being
pretty much the same sort of place / shoot my coals in at
'omey

The disgusted Colonel turned away to conceal his in-
dignation,

*' Dashed snob," muttered he, '' he and his coals, indeed
— curse his impudence ! I'll stick on ten thousand for
that speech, hang me if I don't. Daring to compare my
ruins to his filthy coal-hole. Never heard of such
impudence."

Mr. Bobbin, of Birmingham, at length took his leave,
and the result was that, after the usual haggling and bar-
gaining and disputing between the Colonel's and Mr.
Bobbin's respective lawyers, the bargain was closed ;
the purchase money paid over ; and the ancestral halls
of the Gooseys passed out of the Colonel's hands for
ever, into those of Mr. Benjamin Bobbin, of Birmingham.

The Bobbin Family, consisting of Mr. and Mrs. Bobbin,

1^4 ^^- Benjamin Bobbin.

Master Bobbin (a plebeian-looking youth just leaving
Harrow), and two Miss Bobbins (*' Fifty thou' down my
gals '11 have when they marry," their parent informs every
one) — in due course of time settled down in their new
home, and instead of the manly figure of the Colonel,
walking his fields, gun in hand, might now be seen the
vulgarly-attired Mr. Bobbin, puffing and blowing through
the mangold-wurzel, in search of partridges, missing every
shot, to the keeper's great disgust.

About the first thing Mr. Bobbin did after his arrival
was to affront our friend. Lord Daisyfield, mortally. He
had only been out hunting once, and that was with the
Brookside Harriers, on which occasion the huntsman came
round with the cap. So being, as he said, fond of 'orses
and 'ounds, and wishmg to do the right thing, he penned an
epistle to Lord Daisyfield, enquiring if his was a sub-
scription pack ; or, did his huntsman come round
at the end of the day with his cap the same way that
the huntsman of the harriers did ? My lord was
furious of course, and never took the trouble even to answer
his letter, which he threw into the fire on the spot. Nothing
daunted, Mr. Bobbin proceeded to lay in a stableful of
horses, quite regardless of expense. Nothing under three
hundred guineas would tempt him, and the dealers giving
each other the '' office," some uncommon dear bargains he
got hold of. The swell stud-groom he got afterwards,
straight from Melton, when he saw the nags, expressed
his opinion that there were only two in the whole lot
worth their hay and corn. These, of course, he kept aside
for his own use. ^' It's no use. Tommy ; it's no use," said
he, one market-day at BuUerton, to his friend, Sir Charles
Brusher's coachman, as they were having a friendly glass

Z o
CO o

o -^

Mr. Benjamin Bobbin. 135

together, *' I can't make a gentleman hof 'im. I 7nust give
*im up at the end of the season, for I raly can't stand his
wulgarity any longer."

Early in November Bobbin proceeded to give a house,
warming, in the shape of a dinner party, followed by a
ball. His house was crammed to the muzzle, for people
will always cotton to anybody with lots of money nowa-
days. Two or three hard-up baronets and one noble lord
even honoured him with their presence. Charlie Wildoats,
too, made one of the house party, and great fun he had
— he at once constituted himself adviser in general to Mr.
Bobbin. The day of the ball there was to be a grand battue,
so our mischievous friend promptly told Mr. B. con-
fidentially that it was always the correct thing for the
host on these occasions not to shoot himself, but to come
out in his Sunday best and simply direct the proceedings.
Accordingly Mr. Bobbin appeared at breakfast in frock
coat, light trousers, and patent leather boots, as if he was
going to walk down Bond Street. Wildoats frightened
him out of his life on several occasions by shooting
rabbits close to him. Once he very neatly dropped a
rocketer right on Mr. B.'s glossy Lincoln and Bennett.
This last event finished the new Squire, and after
luncheon — a hot one, with no end of champagne — which
took place in a tent, he took his departure.

Dinner-time came, the guests arrived, and Bobbin led
the way into the dining-room, with old Lady Foodie on
his arm.

" Ah! my lady," said he (he had been the night before
to a great dinner party at the Mansion House) — '' ah ! my
lady, this time last evenin' I was a ' harmin' ' a Duchess
downstairs."

136

Mr. Benjamin Bobbin.

The dinner party and the ball were tremendous suc-
cesses, and the Bobbin family decidedly scored. Mrs.
Colonel Bluebottle, who was one of the leaders of fashion
in the county, expressed her opinion that " The Bob-
binses, my dear, are parvenoos — mere parvenoos, of
course, but worthy people, on the whole, really ve-e-ry
worthy people, indeed."

Mrs. Bluebottle herself, of course, was qualified to be a
judge, being a daughter of a ham and beef shop proprietor
in the Borough. Bluebottle had come across her at a
table d'hote at some German watering-place, and finding
out that she had got lots of stuff, as he elegantly called it,
he quickly popped the question, and soon after married her.

Mr. Benjamin Bobbin, though hardly what one would
call a sportsman, is a Flower of the Hunt for all that, and,
in fact, he has written to ask us to be sure to include him
in our sketches.

He adds, in a postscript, that his friend, Charles Wild-
oats, has promised to use his best influence with Lord
Daisyfield to try and induce his lordship to bring his
hounds to meet at Oakley Hall one day soon ; and if they
do, winds up Mr. Bobbin, " what a flare up I will have to
be sure!"

fy-

( 137)

RALPH DUCKWORTH OF THE WILD FARM.

F we were called upon to-morrow to point out the
best specimen, in our opinion, of the typical
sporting Yeoman (we like the word) amongst the
many good fellows of that class who hunt with Lord
Daisyfield's hounds, we should, without a moment's hesita-
tion, name old Ralph Duckworth, of the Wild Farm.

The extent of the said Wild Farm is not more than five
hundred acres, at the very outside, neither is the house a
very large one, as farmhouses go, at the same time it is
exceedingly comfortable inside, and picturesque out, and
well in keeping with its cheery and prosperous-looking
tenant. It nestles down in a little corner of its own, close
by the riverside, so close, indeed, that, standing at the back
door, you could throw a fly into it if so inclined. Altogether,
it is a very snug place ; bright in summer, with its little
flower garden, gorgeous with scarlet geraniums and yellow
calceolarias, and cheerful-looking even in winter. The men
about the place, too, all look — as, indeed, they are — well
fed and contented, and most of them, you would find, on

138 Ralph Duckworth of the Wild Farm.

enquiry, have lived on the farm from early boyhood. The
land, too, is well done by. It is fine rich soil, and always
seems to produce finer roots and wheat than elsewhere.
And yet old Ralph does not seem to pay much personal
attention to farming operations, but appears to leave most
matters of detail to his men. Indeed, his principal occu-
pation apparently, when not hunting or coursing, is gallop-
ing about the country (he is hardly ever seen out of a
gallop — and a devilish good pace, too, as he once observed
to someone who twitted him on that score) on a certain rat-
tailed horse of his. A bachelor, Ralph's establishment is pre-
sided over by a widowed sister, as comfortable-looking a
woman as her brother is a man, and just about the very
best hand at making cherry brandy, or orange gin, you
ever met. Having partaken of a countless number of
glasses of those seductive cordials at various times on our
visits at the Wild Farm, we are well qualified to give an
opinion. We should add that Ralph, like Mr. Sponge's
horsedealing friend, Mr. Benjamin Buckram, possesses
a snug little independence of his own ; consequently he is
well able to maintain the hospitaHty it is his delight to
extend to everyone, and indulge in his favourite sport to
his heart's content, without any qualms of conscience on
the score of undue extravagance.

" W^hat is this pet farmer of yours like in personal ap-
pearance ? " we fancy we can hear the reader exclaim at
this point.

Well, he is a stout, hale-looking man, of middle height,
standmg on a pair of rather bow legs ; possessing a large,
round, pleasant face, a complexion the colour of port wine,
and white hair. He has never been seen in anything but a
chimney-pot hat — felt on weekdays, silk on Sundays ; and

Ralph Duckworth of the Wild Farm. 139

he swings about '' sixteen stun," into the saddle, whenever
he mounts his hunter. We must add, that his port-wine
complexion is in no wise attributable to drink, for though
fond of conviviality, and social to a degree, Ralph is really as
temperate a man as ever breathed. To sum him up : his age
is sixty, more or less — probably more ; he is a sound
Churchman ; whilst in politics he is the staunchest of
Tories. Finally, he probably has not an enemy in the
world — certainly not in Buttercupshire. Ralph, though
nothing like so keen about it as hunting, is very fond of a
day's coursing in a quiet sort of way — he usually has a
brace of fairish greyhounds somewhere about the premises
— and it is a favourite game of his to assemble some of the
neighbouring farmers who are fond of the sport (it is a
curious fact, that farmers, though they are always enlarg-
ing on the mischief done by hares, are nearly all lovers of
the leash) and have a course over his farm, always prohfic
in hares. The old man on these occasions always acts as
judge, and, the moment the dogs are slipped, rides to them
like a man. He does not go in for red or white flags in
the orthodox style, but to hear him shout, ** The black
dog's won ! " or, '' The fawn's got it ! " and to view his
jolly old face, positively beaming with pleasure, as he
rides back to the coursers, is worth going miles to
witness. His judgment is never cavilled against, you
may be sure.

Though he possesses the right of shooting over his
own farm, he is no gunner himself; indeed, whenever he
wants his birds killed, he is good enough to come gallop-
ing up to ask us to do it for him, at which we are always
delighted, as it is a remarkably good farm for birds,
even in bad breeding seasons, the hedges being of the

I40 Ralph Duckworth of the Wild Farm,

old-fashioned straggling order, affording plenty of shelter,
and the cover invariably being good. On these occasions
v^e are expected to take lunch at the farm (to bring our
own grub would cause dire offence, you may be sure) ;
and, seeing that the lunch is always of a most substantial
nature, finishing up with dessert, and port wine of a fruity
character, combined with a good deal of body, and of
which you are almost in duty bound to partake, it may be
easily imagined, that after lunch we feel much more
inclined to sit down under a hedge and smoke a cigar,
than to tramp the fields after partridges. Knowing,
therefore, what we have to expect on these occasions, we
take very good care to get well into our birds before one
o'clock. The name of Ralph Duckworth will always be
green in our memory, if it was only for one circumstance.
We were riding one hot September afternoon along a
bridle-road that went through his farm, when to our
astonishment we suddenly saw the farmer himself,
attended by one of his men, working a turnip-field, gun
in hand.

Transfixed with astonishment we pulled up. By-and-
by he saw us, and walked up. '^ I'm uncommon glad to
see you," said he, "for I've got a friend coming down
from town to-night, and I want a brace of partrid-
ges very bad. So I took this old gun of mine, and
started out, but, lor' bless you, I can't hit 'em, how-
ever hard I look at 'em. Will you get off your pony,
and kill us a brace? I shall take it so wery kind if you
will ? "

This was an appeal impossible to resist, so down we
got, and proceeded to handle the old gun. It was a queer,
old-fashioned- looking weapon, but well balanced, and very

Ralph Duckworth of the Wild Farm. 141

handy, with a pistol-handled stock, and — wonder of
wonders — -flint-locked !

Quite delighted, away we went, and were lucky enough
to kill old Ralph his brace of birds almost immediately.
And exceedingly proud we are of being able to say that
once upon a time, in the course of our career, we have
shot game with a flint-gun.

But it is in the hunting-field that Ralph is seen
at his best. He takes the same position amongst
those of his own class that Mr. Grimboy, hunting
with Lord Daisyfield (the Father of the Hunt), does
with the gentlemen, and lays down the law accord-
ingly. Like all great men, though, his proud position is
not altogether a sinecure, there being two Richmonds in
the field in the shape of a pair of elderly sportsmen,
named respectively Harry Goldacre, formerly huntsman
to the Old Harkaway, and old Joe Jollikins of Crabtree
Farm, in both of whose ancient bosoms lurked a long-
planted feeling of jealousy towards our friend of the Wild
Farm, which showed itself on every available occasion.
He achieved so great a triumph over them, though, on a
certain occasion not long ago, that we cannot help relating
it here. So decisive a victory was it indeed, and so
thoroughly did his great mind assert itself, that we doubt
very much whether his two rivals, crushed and pul-
verised as they were, will ever succeed in rivalling
'' Phoenix," and rise again.

The hounds had just drawn a wood of moderate size —
some twenty or thirty acres perhaps — blank apparently,
and, leaving that, proceeded to draw another covert
belonging to the same owner, which was separated from
the former wood by only a narrow six-acre field ; the two

142 Ralph Duckworth of the Wild Farm.

woods, in point of fact, all but joined each other. Well,
they had not been in covert ^v^ minutes before a holloa
from the far end announced that the fox had been viewed
away, and in a trice the first whip, who was hunting the
pack in the absence of Tom Tootler (rendered temporarily
hors de combat from a fall the last day they were out, and
consequently " staying out " as the Eton boys call it),
brought the hounds up, and away they went, best pace.
Guessing pretty well the point the fox would make for,
away we pounded in that direction, accompanied, as usual,
by a whole lot of dear little boys and girls, and one or two
old boys and girls, too, for that matter, who, relying on
our knowledge of the country, and (so they tell us) our
well-known sagacity as regards the run of the fox, are
good enough to honour us with their company on these
occasions. Well, away we all went, now down this
lane, now down that, then a short cut through a
farmyard, and a line of gates, anon pulling up to
listen, and so on. It was during one of these stoppages,
on this particular day, that, hearing a clattering of boys
behind us, we turned round, when, to our surprise, who
should gallop up but our ex-huntsman, old Harry Gold-
acre, and his friend Joe JoUikins. '' Hallo ! " said we,
"why, what brings you two young fellows along the hard
high road, eh ? Have some of 'em pounded you, or are
you thrown out ? " " Neither the one nor the other,
squire," replied Harry, with one of his woodenest grins.
" We was havin' a hargument with that silly old fule of
a Ralph Duckworth ; he would hev it as the hunds had
got separated in them two woods, and that one lot was a
runnin' their fox in the fust, at the werry same identical
moment's the rest on 'em was drawin' at the t'other, and

Ralph Duckworth of the Wild Farm. 143

that they killed and left him directly they heard Ned's horn.
We both on us see half-a-dozen hunds leavin' the wood,
that's right enough ; but as for havin' killed, as he ses,
that's all nonsense, and so I told him. The old man
betted of us a new hat apiece that he's right, which Joe
and me accepted, and I'm blessed if we didn't leave the
poor old feller a pokin' about the wood, and vowin' and
swearin' as he wouldn't leave it until he found the dead
fox. I told him that he and his old rat-tailed 'oss 'ud lose
themselves if they didn't mind, like the babes in the wood,
and that some'un 'ud coom in the mornin' and find 'em
both covered with leaves by the robin-redbreastesses
doorin' the night." '' Haw ! haw ! haw ! " laughed the
hoary narrator, slapping his thigh with intense relish of
his own little joke.

^' You see, sir," broke in old Joe, "■ Tom Tootler being
hill, and Ned Stumps not being quite in the way of it like,
the 'ouns I 'xpec' got a little out of his hand, and when
silly old Ralph heerd 'em, they was a runnin' hare, no
doubt. That's what they was a-doin', depend upon
it."

Two days after this conversation, it chanced that we
made one of a shooting party engaged in beating these
identical woods. We had told the story of old Ralph and
his hunt for the dead fox to our host, who was much
amused thereat. His keeper, of course, knew all about
it, and had assisted, indeed, in the search, which, by his
manner, he evidently looked upon as a ''wild-goose chase."
Well, we were walking in line, beaters and all, in the
course of the morning, through some young wood, when
suddenly our host, who was on my right, shouted out to us
to '' come here !" We went accordingly, and there to our as-

144 Ralph Duckworth of the Wild Farm.

tonishment was the body of a dead fox, who evidently, from
the signs about him, had met his death in the legitimate
way. All the other guns came up to have a look, and then
the cry went forth of '' Bravo, Ralph ! "

''Leave him just as he is," said our host to the keeper,
"and one of you run up to the house and tell somebody to
start off on a horse at once to the Wild Farm with this
note. The Squire tore a leaf out of his memorandum
book as he spoke, and scribbled a few hasty lines to
Ralph. We then resumed our shooting. One o'clock
came, and we had just sat down to enjoy that which
was certainly not the worst part of the day's entertainment*
namely, our luncheon, when the sound of a horse galloping
was heard, and in another minute our jolly old friend
Ralph Duckworth appeared, his rat-tailed horse in a
lather, and he himself with his jovial countenance more
rubicund than usual from the haste he had made. When
he heard of our find, the old fellow's delight knew no
bounds. Nothing would serve him but he must go and
look at the fox with his own eyes that very instant. He
would neither bite nor sup, he declared, until he did ; and,
seeing there was no help for it, the head keeper forth-
with took him away to where lay all that remained of
poor Reynard. By-and-by the worthy pair returned,
bringing the fox along with them, and then, quite satisfied,
old Ralph, having given his rat-tailed favourite to one ot
the beaters to walk about, wanted no more persuasion, but
sat down with us and set to at the good things put before
him with the air of a man who felt he had thoroughly
earned his food. We omitted to add that at the same
time that our cheery host despatched his messenger to
the house to send off a mounted man to fetch Ralph he

Ralph Duckworth of the Wild Farm. 145

also sent word to his butler to send some champagne out
for lunch instead of the usual bottled beer. '' I don't hold
much," said the Squire, '' with champagne and all that
sort of thing, out shooting, as a rule ; but this is a special
occasion, and I feel that our friend P. J. (his pet term for
Perrier-Jouet) must flow in duty bound." So, accordingly,
when old Ralph and the keeper returned with the fox
between them, ^^ pop'' went a magnum of '74. We had
quite a set to, in fact. Old Ralph was fond of champagne,
and sucked it down like mother's milk ; and, what with
drinking to fox-hunting and to each of us, and himself,
several times over, to say nothing of a glass or two of
Curasao, thrown in, by the time the old man mounted
Rat-tail again, he was about as cheerful as they make 'em,
as our host dryly observed. Having lit a huge cigar, he
went off at a gallop as usual, amidst a volley of hunting
cries from all of us, and the last we saw of him was diverg-
ing from the ride, and taking the fence out of the wood at
a fly in his usual impetuous manner. " And now, you fel-
lows," said the master of the sports, ''if we haven't driven
every pheasant and rabbit out of the place with the noise
we've been making, we'd better make a start again, for it
will be dark in another hour and a-half "

Lord Daisyfield, as we have mentioned in our sketch
of him, is a bad hand at blowing up an unruly field,
having a great aversion to the use of strong language.
He is in the habit, therefore, when anyone offends him in
the field, instead of calling the culprit over the coals him-
self, of setting Ralph Duckworth, who always has a fine
natural flow of language at his command, at him.

Some years ago his lordship was exceedingly put out
at the conduct of a London horse dealer, who ought to

146 Ralph Duckworth of the Wild Farm.

have known better, who, putting up a lot of horses at
Bulletron, was in the habit of mounting all his rough
riders on them, and sending them out with my lord's
hounds, with orders to ride over everything they came
across, with a view to sale. The farmers very naturally
objecting to having their fences broken down and their
wheat ridden over when hounds were not running, com-
plained to Lord Daisyfield, who spoke to the dealer on
the subject, declaring if it happened again he would take
his hounds home. Mr. Dealer, being a bumptious young
cockney of the most aggressive type, was not a bit put
out, and fairly staggered my lord by his impudence.
There was no alternative but to set Ralph Duckworth at
him. This he did, the result being a slanging match
between the two, in which, we are bound to say, the
cockney dealer got far and away the best of it. Ralph,
however, was not to be done. Later on in the day, the
dealer himself was riding leisurely at a fence, when who
should cannon up against him (accidentally, of course) but
Ralph Duckworth, with the effect of nearly sending him
horse and all into the ditch. A fresh interchange of
compliments took place, the affair ending by the irate
farmer fetching his adversary such a crack between the
eyes with the butt-end of his hunting-whip, as caused
that worthy to vacate his saddle and roll on to mother
earth in an insensible condition. The victory was a
decisive one, for the dealer removed his horses from
Bullerton shortly after, and Lord Daisyfield's hunt con-
sequently knew him no more.

Let us now bid adieu to our old friend ; and long may
it be before that stout old figure in the roomy black frock-
coat, very open at the chest, the Bedford cords, and the

Ralph Duckworth of the Wild Farm, 147

jackboots is absent from the covert-side. When that
time does come, as it must eventually to all of us, it
will be a long while before Lord Daisyfield's hunt finds
such a good specimen of a representative British Yeoman
of the old school, as Ralph Duckworth of the Wild
Farm.

I.— 2

V 148 )

MR. AND MRS. SPARKLER.

HEN it came to the ears of the good people of
Buttercupshire, that Crackleton Court, one of
the numerous country seats of that well-known
ornament to the peerage, Viscount Stififnecke, which has
been shut up for many years, and consequently was a
dead loss to the county in the way of festivities of any
sort, had at last been let for a term, together with its
first-rate shooting and fishing, to a wealthy young gentle-
man, of the name of Sparkler, a thrill of joyful expectancy
ran through their midst. Fond matrons marked him
down at once as an eligible mate for Rosey, or Blanche,
or Violet, as the case might be ; whilst fairy visions of
balls and garden parties on a large scale disturbed the
natural rest of all the young ladies themselves.

'' He is extremely good looking ; quite young, has only
just attained his majority, indeed — and so rich ! " thus
spoke Mrs. Gapeseed, the great purveyor of news, and
champion gossip of that part of the world, who was
making an afternoon call at the Timmins's, clasping her
hands ecstatically, as she spoke, and turning up her eyes
until you could see nothing but the whites, or, to be
strictly accurate, the yellows ; for Mrs. Gapeseed, being
what the doctors call rather a '' livery " subject, did not,
in consequence, possess that clear skin and bright optic

Mr. and Mrs. Sparkler. 149

that one always associates with a clean bill of health, and
a good digestion.

'' You really think he is as well off as they say, do
you ? " said Mrs. Timmins, in a careless, indifferent, sort
of manner, as if it was quite immaterial to her one way
or the other, though in reality she was at that moment
turning over in her mind which of her girls would be
most likely to suit the young millionaire.

" Pooh ! " replied Mrs. Gapeseed, pursing up her lips
as she spoke, *' I know it for a fact — a pos-i-tive fact, my
dear. Oh, yes. As I was on my way here, I met Mr.
Sheepshanks, Lord Stiffnecke's agent ; so I immediately
pulled the check string, stopped the carriage, and asked
him all about it, and he very kindly gave me e-very
information, full particulars, in fact, I may say."

*' Really !'' replied Mrs. Timmins, "I merely asked,
you know, for people do exaggerate so about that sort of
thing, that one hardly knows sometimes what to believe."

'* Yes ; he is even richer than we gave him credit for,
according to Mr. Sheepshanks. His father, who died
some few years ago, left behind him an e-normous fortune ;
every penny of which came to this young fellow when he
attained his majority, only a few months since. About
two hundred thousand pounds, Mr. Sheepshanks thinks.
Two — hundred — thousand — pounds! Think of that!''
exclaimed Mrs. Gapeseed, once more exhibiting her
gambogey eyeballs to the assembled company.

" Has Mister Sparkler ' h\-ewe ' blood in his veins —
that is to say, is he of good family — well-born, in
fact ? " simpered Mrs. Timmins, in her most affected
manner.

(Not possessing a very large quantity of the particular

150 Mr. and Mrs. Sparkler.

brand she mentioned in her own person, the worthy soul
was, of course, very particular about it in other people.)

'' Well, no-0-0," replied her friend, '' I should hardly
imagine that he had^ you know, judging, at least, from
what Mr. Sheepshanks was good enough to tell me. His
father, it seems, made his money by manufacturing boot-
jacks— or, stay," said Mrs. Gapeseed, tapping her fore-
head and considering a moment, '' stay, I rather think it
w^as bootnails or Ao^nails, not bootjacks, he said ; or was
it boot blacking ? Any how," she continued, brightening
up ; '' it don't matter. I feel certain though it was
something to do with boots, so, of course, that woidd be
rather vulgar, wouldn't it ? "

In similar fashion to this, young Mr. Sparkler and his
money bags were discussed in half the drawing rooms in
Buttercupshire, a^nd ;the latest intelligence, regarding his
movements 3^^as sought after by Mesdames Gapeseed,
Timmins, & Co., with the greatest anxiety.

" When was .he coming ? " was the question they all
asked each other, fifty times a day.

Now the editor of that old-established paper, to wit,
the Bidlerton (Chronicle and Buttercupshire Gazette, has
a playful habit eevery weel^ ^when short of what is called
"copy" (which circumstancq, by-the-way, we should
imagine to be of tolerably frequent occurrence), ol filling
up his vacant spaces -with extracts from the various
society papers of the day. In fact, the contents of his
valuable journal always seem made up as follows : —
The two outside sheets, back and front, advertisements ;
emanating principally from auctioneers, money lenders,
quack doctors, and vendors of patent medicines. The
inside : two leaders ; one political, the other on some

Mr. and Mrs. Sparkler. 15 1

subject of local interest, such as the painting by night, in
broad red and yellow stripes, of his worship the mayor's
front door, by some irreverent wag, or wags, of cheerful
temperament ; or the stoppage of the clock at the Town
Hall. Then come a couple of columns or so devoted to
police news, and two more to the goings on at the
villages round about, such as penny readings, rows at
vestry meetings, between the vicar and his churchwardens
(the latter, of course, headed '' Disgraceful Scene in a
Church "), or some such exciting items. Then there
are letters to the editor (usually on the subject of
drains). There is a ''poet's corner," and there is a whole
column headed " Wit and Humour," which possibly might
be found amusing, if the reader had not already been
made familiar with most of the bon mots contained therein,
through the medium of one Joseph Miller. The editor
has still plenty of space, and this he fills up in the way
we have described, viz., with cuttings from the different
society journals.

There was no one probably in the whole of Buttercup-
shire with whose views this little arrangement on his
part fell in with better, than our friend Mrs. Gapeseed
That estimable lady, besides being an ardent lover of
gossip, for gossip's sake — life, indeed, would not have been
worth having without it, in her opinion — was still better
pleased at getting it on the cheap as it were. It gave it a
sort of extra relish, getting for a penny what she would
have otherwise had to give eighteen pence or two shillings
for ; for the editor of the B utter cupshire Gazette did not
confine himself to extracts from one journal, but went
boldly in for all the sixpennies, the whole bilin\ in fact.

Every Saturday morning then Mrs. Gapeseed, after her

1512 Mr. and Mrs. Sparkler.

usual visit to the kitchen to give her orders for the day,
was wont, with the " Gazette " in her hand, to retire to
her little morning room, where, having ensconsed herself
in an easy chair, she would assume a pair of spectacles, and
with a placid smile upon her countenance, forthwith pro-
ceed to enjoy a quiet morning with her favourite literature.

On the Saturday following her visit to her friend, Mrs.
Timmins, Mrs. Gapeseed, according to custom, had
settled herself down with toes on the fender and the
paper in her hand. She had primed herself with all the
latest on-dits anent the Royal family, and was now
well into the tittle-tattle concerning folk in a less exalted
station of life, when she was suddenly brought up short
by the following '' par " :

" The jeunesse doree of the period are certainly, as
Mr. J. L. Toole would say, 'going it.' Last Thursday
we alluded in our columns to the recent marriage of the
youthful Viscount Mudlark, eldest son of the Marquis of
Greenwich, to Miss Nelly Bligh, of the ' Hilarity '
Theatre. This week we have to make a similar an-
nouncement, Mr. George Sparkler, the wealthy young
commoner, whose name, owing to an occasional overflow
of animal spirits, has been rather frequently before the
public of late, having on Monday last led to the hymeneal
altar, Miss Dot Golightly, well known at the Music Halls
as a serio-comic singer of great versatility and verve.
She is best known by her song of the ''Boy with the Even-
ing Papers," her characteristic rendering of which ditty
took the town by storm some six months ago. The
happy pair left in the afternoon for Paris, where they
propose to spend the honeymoon, after which they will
settle down at Crackleton Court, Lord Stiffnecke's beauti-

Mr. and Mrs. Sparkler. 153

ful place in Buttercupshire, which they have leased for a
term from his lordship.

''As both the youthful Benedick and his bride are partial
to the chase (the lady especially being a capital horse-
woman, and very well known with both her Majesty's
Staghounds and the Brighton Harriers), we shall, no
doubt, hear of them * showing the way ' during the
coming season, with that celebrated pack, the ' Old
Harkaway.' "

''There now," exclaimed Mrs. Gapeseed, starting up
from her chair, her face scarlet with indignation, " that's
the most shocking piece of news I've heard for a very
considerable time. To think of the many charming girls
there are in this very neighbourhood (in this very house
she might have added, for there were five Miss Gapeseeds,
all, as David Copperfield's friend, Mr. Barkis, would say,
' willin' to marry the first eligible suitor that came their
way), any one of whom would have made that wretched,
infatuated young man a most excellent wife. And then
to go and fall headlong into the net of that bad, bold-
faced, golden-haired hussey (I feel certain she's golden-
haired) — with all his money, too ! it's really too horrible
for words. Nobody, of course, will notice them. / most
certainly shall not call," said Mrs. Gapeseed, with a
virtuous shudder, nearly pulling the bell-rope down in
her wrath as she rang for some more coals.

When Mrs. Gapeseed and her friends had got over the
excitement caused by the news of this terrible marriage,
the next question of course was what this dreadful young
person whom the volatile youth had taken to himself for
better or worse, was like. They were all dying to look
at her. Consequently when it oozed out that Mr. and

154 ^r. and Mrs. Sparkler,

Mrs. Sparkler were expected to arrive at Crackleton
Court on a certain day, and were pretty certain to attend
the meet of Lord Daisyfield's hounds at No Man's Land,
the morning but one after, the universal cry of the neigh-
bours was : " We will be there.'''

And they were there, too, to some tune, as the hunts-
man, Tom Tootler, who had not been honoured with so
large a field for some time, declared. Mrs. Gapeseed was
there, you may depend, occupying, indeed, a seat in her
friend Mrs. Timmins's barouche (Mrs. G., herself, only
sporting a nondescript sort of vehicle of the '' one 'oss
shay " order), and, to insure an extra good view of the
bride, that enterprising lady had taken the precaution to
bring her opera-glasses along with her. All eyes, with
one accord, were turned towards the point whence the
party from the Court were bound to come, and at last,
after much straining of eyes, a cry came forth from the
carriages of '' Here they come ! " — reminding one somewhat
of the murmur that goes up from the crowd on a race-
course when the favourite for a great event emerges from
the paddock to take his preliminary canter. Up went
Mrs. Gapeseed's glasses to her eyes. '' I can see her ! "
exclaimed she.

'' Can you ? " said Mrs. Timmins, clambering up on to
the seat in her excitement, and secretly envying her friend
the possession of her opera-glasses. " What is she like ?
do tell me," she exclaimed, quite unable to restrain her
curiosity.

'' She — no ! I surely must make a mistake. Impossible !
It is, I declare ! I do declare ! " exclaimed Mrs. Gapeseed,
sinking back into her seat, with a horrified countenance,
and handmg the opera-glasses to her friend. '' I do de-

I ^

a: »>

lu "s

CO s
to

i I

< &

2 S

Mr. and Mrs. Sparkler. 155

clare she has got a scarlet coat and a velvet cap on, and
she is smo — king a — cig — ar just like — a — man ! Oh-h-h !
my dear/' faintly murmured Mrs. Gapeseed, giving a
shudder and a wriggle, as if someone had poured some
cold water down her back ; '' for mercy's sake tell the
coachman to drive home at once ! This is no place for
us:'

Mrs. Gapeseed's eyes, or rather I should say her
glasses, did not deceive her. Little Mrs. Sparkler, when
she cantered gaily up to the meet, wore — as the former
estimable person very truly observed— a scarlet habit, a
velvet cap, and was smoking a cigar with great apparent
satisfaction to herself. More than that, she was, as all the
men present declared, an uncommonly pretty little woman.
And so she was, if a bright face, a retrousse pert little nose,
a pair of laughing blue eyes (that had, though, a habit of
looking anyone uncommonly straight in the face on occa-
sion), a row of very pearly teeth, and a luxurious crop of
glorious chesnut curls, go for anything. Her husband,
too, — Doddy, as she called him, and whom she evidently
worshipped — was one ofth ose cheery-looking, '' happy-
go-lucky " sort of young men, of whom his fellow-men
would be pretty sure at first sight to say, *' He looks
a good sort." And they would have been quite correct
in their surmise. Reckless and extravagant to a degree,
he might be, and no doubt was, but there was no harm
in " Doddy " Sparkler, you might take your oath. Only
one person at the meet knew him, and that was our
friend Charles Wildoats, who arrived late, as usual, and
shook hands cordially with the new arrival. His cor-
dial '' How are you, Doddy ? " was heard all along
the line, you may depend, and '' It's all right if he's a

156 Mr. and Mrs. Sparkler.

friend of Charlie's," was the immediate remark amongst
the men present, The hounds immediately after moved
off ; a fox was found in the very first cover they drew, and
one of the best runs of the season the result.

Little Mrs. Sparkler went like a bird ; in fact, she and
Lady Thomasina Clinker, their respective husbands, and
Charlie Wildoats, had the best of it throughout. The lat-
ter gentleman, after dinner that night, informed his uncle,
— with whom, as we have related, Charlie '' hung out," as
he called it, when he was at home — in answer to an en-
quiry as to what the new comers were like — for the old
gentleman, having met Mrs. Gapeseed one fine day, had
heard what that veracious journal. Truth, would call some
" Queer stories " about them — that '' Doddy Sparkler was
a capital chap. Knew him at Eton, don't you know ?
Shoddy, of course ; but what the doose does that matter if
a feller's a good feller ? And as for his wife, why she's a
dear little woman, 'pon my soul, she is, Uncle John; and,
I can tell you what it is, sir, she can ride like the devil."

Of course it was the old story : the men all swore by the
poor little woman, but their wives would not have
her at any price. They would not go near her, in fact.
However, she seemed perfectly happy with her horses and
her dogs and her birds, and above all her '* Doddy." She
was a perfect Lady Bountiful too in the parish, as the
rector could and did testify, and probably did more good
to her poorer fellow-creatures in a day than Mrs. Gape-
seed, with all her ostentatious charity, would in a lifetime.

As for Lord Daisyfield, he was charmed with the little
ex-music hall singer.

She asked him, in her usual ofi'-hand manner, one day
out hunting, to come and dine with her some night.

Mr. and Mrs. Sparkler. 157

and to the great astonishment of everybody, not
only did he smilingly assent, but he went, and Charles
Wildoats, who was one of the party, declared the next
day that he could not have believed that old Daisyfield
could have laughed as he did when, in the drawing-room
after dinner, Mrs. Sparkler dressed up in the old
familiar war-paint, and sang for his lordship's especial
benefit her celebrated song of the '' Boy with the Evening
Peepers.''' When between the verses, in the style that
always brought down the house at the music halls in the
old days, she rushed up to my lord with a bundle of
newspapers in her hand, and thrusting them under his
nose, screamed out, '' Here y' are, sttr ! Speshul 'dish-
un ! Strange pro-ceedings hin ther Di-vorce Court this
day ! The co-respondent diskivered hunder the Grand
Pianner ! " the delighted old peer laughed until the
tears ran down his face, and, as Wildoats declared, until his
white choker (a very formidable affair) became positively
limp. Though, as we have before observed the Sparklers
— or rather, Mrs. Sparkler — don't go down with the
ladies of the county, they are amazingly popular with
everyone else for all that. The pair of them, I feel quite
sure, might ride over all the wheat in the county, and
smash every gate that came in their way, and not a
farmer would be found to say them nay. Mrs. Gapeseed
having heard sundry rumours of this little attempt of
ours at portrait painting, taxed us with it at a dinner
party at the Timmins's one fine night. " Of course, Mr.
Finch Mason," said she, puckering up her mouth into what
no doubt she thought a most captivating grin ; ''of course
you won't include amongst your portraits those very
dreadful young people at Crackleton Court ? Such

158

Mr. and Mrs. Sparkler,

goings on (here she closed her virtuous eyes and pro-
ceeded to fan herself) I'm told there are as never were !
I feel quite certain that if poor dear Lord Stififnecke
had only had the slightest idea what sort of tenants he
had got hold of, he never would have let the place to
them. That dreadful woman will burn the house down
one of these fine nights if she don't mind." '' Indeed, I
shall though," we replied, ''for you must recollect, my
dear Mrs. Gapeseed [dear Mrs. G. indeed ! we can't
abide the old woman), that with the internal economy of
Crackleton Court I have nothing whatever to do, they will
appear in my little book simply as ' Flowers of the
Hunt,' and as both Mr. and Mrs. Sparkler wear scarlet
out hunting, they ought to be rather brighter flowers
than usual, don't you think so ? "

( 159 )

THE HARKAWAY HUNT STEEPLECHASES.

T is a lovely spring morning in April. The sun
is shining brightly ; the sky is at its very
bluest. The air is redolent of primroses and
''them stinking violets," as John Leech's huntsman
called those most charming of wild flowers. Wood
pigeons are cooing amorously to one another in the woods,
whilst the song-birds — more especially the thrush, the
blackbird, and the lark — are carolling, one and all, as if
their little throats would burst, as much as to say,
" Hurrah ! my boys and girls ! the horrid cold weather
has gone, and now we can enjoy ourselves to our hearts
content " — in short, it's the very day of all others that
the cheery-minded person would choose for a merry-
making of some sort or another.

So, apparently, seem to think the good Buttercupshire
folk residing within the limits of Lord Daisyfield's renowned
hunt, for they one and all seem out and about in their best
clothes this fine spring morning. " And why all this un-
wonted gaiety on the part of the natives ? " Ask the first
person you meet, when he will tell you that '' To-day
take place the Harkaway Hunt Steeplechases, to be sure,
one of the most popular institutions in the year, and a
day always set apart for keeping high holiday, by
everyone in the County, both of high and low degree."
The roads are positively crowded with foot-people
and vehicles of every sort, and as there is plenty of

l6o 77?^ Harkaway Hunt Steeplechases,

dust flying about — one might almost imagine oneself
on the road to Epsom. Here comes Lord Daisyfield,
in. his well-appointed mail phaeton ; here comes Johnnie
Clinker, tooling a heavily-laden coach, with pretty little
Lady Thomasina, looking her brightest, on the box-seat.

Wildoats is close behind on his, the roof filled with
dandies of the same pattern as himself. Then comes a
barouche, drawn by four horses, with postilions to match.
It is the Bobbin equipage, and the foot-people shout
'* Hooray ! " as it passes, much to the delight of old Bob-
bin, who bows in return, and rewards with a shilling a
ragged little Arab who is turning a series of catherine-
wheels at the side of the carriage.

'' Hi, there ! " Another coach comes along, tooled by
that lively millionaire, Doddy Sparkler ; his wife, with a
cigar in her mouth, by his side, and what old Ralph
Duckworth, who is jogging along on the turf at the side
of the road on his rat-tailed nag, aptly described as rather
a mixed lot on the roof. Conspicuous amongst them is
that volatile gentleman Dolly Lightfoot. The "younger
son " is in splendid form to-day, and is the cause of much
hilarity amongst the occupants of the drag, judging from
the noise and laughter that emanate from it. '' Wo-ho !
my boys," from the youthful Jehu, followed by," Why don't
you get out of the way, stoopid ? " from his lady wife, as
the leaders are all but atop of Bill Spriggins, the flying
higgler's spring-cart, which has suddenly lurched across
the road, its owner being already in a very advanced state
of inebriation, and in the very best of tempers. Need-
less to say, he is not a bit put out ; on the contrary, he
points to a large stone jar between his legs, and yells out
to the delighted Mrs. Sparkler, "Will you hev a drop,

The Harkaway Hunt Steeplechases. i6i

my dear?" The whilom pride of the music-halls is now
'thoroughly in her element ; for the moment, indeed, she
almost fancies herself back again at the hall, over on theSur-
rey side, exchanging pleasantries with the gallery. Need-
less to say, the disreputable Spriggins is no match for her
when it comes to '' chaff," and retires, utterly defeated, after
a very short bout of it, and on goes the drag rejoicing.

Of course all the houses in the neighbourhood are
filled with visitors. Every inn, too, in the town of
Bullerton is crammed to the muzzle. The secretary and
.clerk of the course, Mr. Samuel Shrub, of the Daisyfield
Arms, arrayed in the glossiest of new hats, smartest of
neckcloths, and brownest of top-boots, is in his glory.
The innkeepers, one and all, are doing a rare trade ; in
fact, the whole town is in a state of excitement. The
Daisyfield Arms is, naturally, the centre of attraction, for
it is the headquarters of the hunt committee.

Horsey-looking men, clad in down-the-road-looking
coats and knowing-looking hats, hang about the front
door, and talk to one another with such a mysterious air
as to give one the idea that they are concocting some
deep-laid scheme of the utmost importance to the nation.
Vagabonds of all sorts, from goodness knows where,
pervade the streets. No steeplechase meeting can
seemingly take place without their assistance. The
mighty Ginger is there, too, having arrived overnight
band and all, and has spent, so he says, a very pleasant
evening — profitable as well, no doubt — enlivening the
company at the Daisyfield Arms with his ditties. He is
telling everyone to be sure and back Lord Daisyfield's
horse Cock a Bondy for the Hunt Cup, who is to be
ridden by our friend, Charles Wildcats.

M

1 62 The Harkaway Hunt Steeplechases.

*' A true gentleman, sir, a true gentleman. God bless
'im!" says Ginger, feelingly. "Well, I knew 'im, I did,
when at Cambridge, sir. No, sir, I do not play the
banjo," says the distinguished minstrel, turning round,
and replying with much dignity to a young farmer who
has called on Ginger for a " toon," as he calls it, on that
favourite instrument. " No, sir, I do not play the banjo ;
it's vulgar. I perform only hon the Spanish guitar," at
which grand speech the country bumpkin, who thought
it fine to chaff Ginger, retires, much abashed, amidst
the jeers of his comrades, and wishes he had not spoken.

Who's this with the battered-looking visage, attired in
a frockcoat, apparently much too tight for him, and wear-
ing a particularly tall, rather greasy-looking hat on his
head ? Can it be Billy Daw, professor of the noble art of
self-defence, the once well-known champion of the light
weights ? Yes, it is indeed that distinguished ornament
to society, and no other.

How is it he is here ? Why, the fact is those trouble-
some gentry, the Middlesex magistrates, having somehow
or another heard of Billy's somewhat disreputable goings^,
on at his little crib, as he calls it, in the neighbourhood
of the Haymarket, have, in a playful humour, amused
themselves by taking away his license, so the redoubt-
able Billy, being at present lying idle as it were,
goes from race meeting to race meeting, hunting up
former patrons, and reciting his woes as an excuse for
appealing to their pockets. *' You couldn't lend us a fiver,
sir, could yer? " says he, insinuatingly, sidHng up to
Wildoats, who has just emerged from the hotel, and is
now lighting a huge cigar on the steps. '' You couldn't
lend us a fiver, sir, could yer ? I'm desperate 'ard up, sir,

The Harkaway Hunt Steeplechases, i6

J

ever since them blessed beaks come down on me, that I
h'am. Lor' bless me, if the Dook was 'ere, and I h'asked
'im for a fiver, why, he'd say, ' A fiver ! ' he'd say, * why,
d — n yer eyes, Billy,' he'd say, 'here's a pony for yer,'
that he would."

'^ Well, d — n your eyes, Billy," politely rejoins Wild-
oats, who is quite equal to the occasion, '' here's a
sovereign for you, then. I aint a dook, don't you see ;
sich is life, eh, William ? " and Billy Daw, pocketing his
sovereign, a grin pervading his unprepossessing counten-
ance, moves off in quest of a fresh victim. But we must
jog on or we shall be late. The races are held about two
miles from the town. The course is nearly all grass, and
under the great Mr. Shrub's superintendence a temporary
stand has been erected, so that all is thoroughly business-
like. A piece of ground enclosed with hurdles does duty
for a paddock; there is a steward's stand, a saddling-bell —
in short, everything all complete ; and Lord Daisyfield's
huntsmen and whips keep the course.

All the world and his wife seem to have collected to-
gether. Such eating and drinking is going on, such
chaffing and laughing. Tom Chirpington has got a tent
pitched, to say nothing of the luncheon on the top of the
drag, and it's — ''Do have another plover's ^gg, Miss
Brown," ** You bet me a dozen gloves against Mr. Wild-
oats ; that's it, is it not, Captain Smith ? " " I'll take a
wing, please." ''What, Jack, you here! Come up, old
man. How's the mare ? Take a pull at the cup. Put some
more cura^oa in. Where's the sherry? " " Take you two
ponies to one." *' Jolly day, ain't it ? " — all over the
place.

The numbers are up for the Innkeepers* Plate, and

164 The Harkaway Hunt Steeplechases.

there is a fairish field — seven, eight, nine, ten runners
— capital ! Tinkle, tinkle, goes the saddling bell.
The voices of the betting men are heard from the ring.
'' I'll take odds ! " '' I'll take seven to four ! " '' Odds
I'll take" ''Will h'anyone back a outsider?" ''Won't
nobody back one ? " yells one fielder, as if in despair.

There is a hottish favourite, seemingly, and it turns out
to be Mr. H. Walker's bay horse, Tipperary Joe, ridden
by Mr. Jack Tomkins, a well-known local performer.
Jack is a broken-down ne'er-do-weel. He has tried pretty
nearly everything by way of profession — farming, auc-
tioneering, horsedealing ; he has had a turn at them all,
but has failed, and now gets a living, nobody knows
exactly how. At all events, this is certain, at the present
moment he is entrusted with the mount on Tipperary Joe,
and as the horse is a good one, and he himself is a first-
rate horseman, the talent forthwith instal him a hot
favourite, and commencing at two to one, in a very short
time it is a case of odds on. In short, the public won't
hear of anything else but Tipperary Joe. But hark ! there
is a row in the ring. " What's it all about ? " Why,
old Shrub, who owns the second favourite, Betsy
Baker, is objecting to our friend Jack, as not being
a properly qualified gentleman rider. " He amt a
gentleman rider, I don't care what you say," says Mr.
Shrub, " and if he wins I objects, that's all, and what's
more," says the doughty landlord of the Daisyfield
Arms, " I objects to his starting." " Hooray ! Here's a
lark." " Refer it to the stewards," is the cry. " Here,
Mr. Wagg, what do you say?"

"Jack not a gentleman rider! Oh, nonsense," says
Tom Wagg, thus appealed to. " I say he is a gentleman.

The Harkaway Hunt Steeplechases. 165

I know his sisters, I tell you ; see 'em every Sunday in
church. His sisters wear silk stockings, therefore they
must be ladies, and if they're ladies, why it stands to
reason Jack must be a gentleman."

A roar of laughter followed Mr. Wagg's decision, at
the end of which old Shrub retired in high dudgeon,
amidst the chaff of the company.

That little argument settled, the horses emerge on to
the course, headed by the redoubtable Jack Tomkins ; Tip-
perary Joe looking and going so well in his canter that he
is made a hotter favourite than ever.

''Theyreoffr ^^ A capital start ! " ''Oh, isn't it pretty?"
say the ladies. ^' There's one down ! Oh, dear, I hope
he's not hurt ! " '' Tipperary Joe wins ! " is the cry, as
the horses are seen coming to the last fence but one.
" He's pulling hard ! Why, he can't hold him ! But,
what's this ? He's pulling him ! " '' No, he ain't ! " ''I
tell you he is ! " And, sure enough, amid the execrations
of the crowd, that scamp of a Jack Tomkins (pulling
hard at his horse) allows Shrub's mare to come along-
side, and to beat him by a length. Never was such a
deliberate case of roping. A perfect rush is made by the
infuriated populace to get at the rider of the favourite.
Jack Tomkins is off his horse, and in a twinkling makes a
rush for the weighing-room, amidst a shower of sticks and
stones. He is pale in the face by this time, and just gets
in in time, whilst the door is promptly shut in the faces of
the enraged mob. What a row to be sure ! '' Where is
he? Come out, you warmin!^^ shouts one, ''and
we'll murder you, blowed if we won't ! " " Break the
door down, mates, and let's limb him," holloas
another. Bang ! bang ! bang ! crash ! and in goes the

1 66 The Harkaway Hunt Steeplechases.

door, notwithstanding Wildoats and the stewards were
trying with might and main, their shoulders against it, to
keep the mob out. Down it went at last, the foremost of
the mob tumbling, in his haste, right over the body of old
Charlie Dabber, who had been hurled down in the charge.
Charlie, whose breath was nearly squeezed out of his
body, promptly seized the ear of his enemy in his teeth,
much in the same manner a terrier would a rat, and
held on like grim death until the ruffian yelled with pain.
Meanwhile, there is a free fight going on. Wildoats, who
is ready dressed for the next race, is mistaken by the mob
for Jack Tomkins, and a rush is made for him. He and
Tom Chirpington, shoulder to shoulder, knock the mob
down as fast as they come up. Down they go like nine-
pins. The Bishop of Soda and B. too, rushes to his friends*
assistance, and comes just in time to floor a cowardly
fellow who is aiming a blow at Charlie's head with his
stick. " Ah ! you would, would you ? " says the parson
again, coolly knocking his man down with a straight one
from the shoulder as he rose from the ground, and came
at him. And now a valuable ally suddenly makes his
appearance in the shape of Billy Daw, who elbows his
way into the room with more force than politeness.
'* Now then, wot's all this here about ? " is his polite
inquiry, *' and what the blank do you all want in here,
you rumbustical wagabones ? Git hoiit, will yer ? and
don't come a treadin' on my patent-leathers. Oh, you'll
do it again, will yer ? — take that then. Where do you
like it, mister? — in the bread-basket or the tater-trap,
which ? Come on, my bloomer, do 'ave some more, please
do. Wot ! you won't. Well, I really h'am surprised."
And, using suchlike playful badinage the while, the Pro-

The Harkaway Hunt Steeplechases, 167

fessor, whose hat had never even been displaced, and
who had not even troubled himself to remove the flower
that adorned his mouth, kept hitting away right and left
at the faces of the angry mob until at last they turned and
fled, the garrison sallying forth after them, just as the
police, collected from all parts of the course, arrived to
their assistance. Billy, indeed, made a capital morning's
work of it, as a subscription was got up for him on the
spot, and forthwith presented to him.

The disreputable Mr. Jack Tomkins bided his time, and
whilst the next race was being run, took advantage of it
to make his exit, and, getting into a fly, made the best of
his way back to Bullerton.

The Farmers' Race is over, and then comes the impor-
tant race of the day, the Hunt Cup. There is tremendous
excitement amongst the ladies, of course, and as the
twelve competitors emerge on to the course, and trot and
canter past the fair occupants of the carriages, many are
the conjectures as to what will win. Little Miss Blue-
bell declares for the blue and white sleeves and black cap
of Lord Daisyfield, worn by Charles Wildoats, and backs
that gentleman accordingly for all the gloves she can get
on. She will receive half the contents of Givry's shop if
Charlie wins.

Our sporting friend, Mrs. Tom Chirpington, again, is
backing her husband through thick and thin, and Tom,
though considerably larger and heavier than in the old
'Varsity days, when he was wont to take his own part so
well over the Aylesbury fences, looks like business all
over, as he puts his horse, Jack o' Lantern, at the gorse-
topped hurdles in front of the Stand. Lots of the yokels
put their crown-pieces on the Squire, as they call him, foi

1 68 The Ilarkaway Hunt Steeplechases.

Tom is immensely popular with the natives. Who
comes here on the flea-bitten grey ? — why, it can't be- —
yes it is — who'd ha' thought it ? — why, it's actually our
old friend Charlie Dabber — none the worse for the fracas
in the weighing-room — that Mister Dabber as Lord Daisy-
field calls him. The Captain's fat housekeeper, Missis
Plummer, is there, having been driven over by the gar-
dener in a gig, borrowed specially for the occasion. She
waves a handkerchief encouragingly to her master as he
canters down the course after the others.

They're off at last. Out with the glasses, and let's
look at the Flowers of the Hunt for the last time this
season. The first fence is cleared without a mistake.
The second, a big one, brings two of them to grief, and
now they come to the water-jump. Now for it. Charlie
Wildoats is making the running, Tom Chirpington, riding
steadily and well, next. Over they go. Well jumped !
Now for the Captain. Go it, Dabber ! The old grey
is out of it, that's very clear, but the Captain rides
valiantly at the brook for all that. Ha-ha-ha ! roars the
crowd, for the grey comes flop into the middle of the
brook, chucking the Captain over his head. "Oh ! Cap-
tain, dear, deary Captain, say you're not killed — do say
you're not killed," screams fat Mrs. Plummer, rushing up
to the dismounted sportsman as he emerges from his cold
and muddy bath, and embracing him most fervently
amidst the uproarious mirth of the company. *' I knew
no good would come o' this nasty 'oss-racin' at your time o'
life. Come, 'ome along wi' me, come now, there's a
good man, do." Up with the glasses again, for the
horses are in sight once more. " Four of 'em in it."
'Mt's a race, it's a race!" cry the excited lookers-on.

CO

lU

w ::

< sJ.

O 3
LJ -^

a! I

CO S

H £

Z ^

^ §

|£

< S

I

H

The Harkaway Hunt Steeplechases.

169

'' Tom Chirpington wins, I do believe. No, Charlie Wild-
oats will win. Now, Charlie ! Now, Tom ! Now, Tom !
Now, Charlie ! " Whack, crack, smack. Surely it's a
dead heat. Mrs. Tom Chirpington sinks down in her
seat, her heart beating sixteen to the dozen, and, with a
tear in her eye, " Poor dear Tom's beat ! " she exclaims.
Alas ! she is right. In another moment the numbers
go up, and amidst the cheers of the multitude Lord Daisy-
field's brown horse Cock a Bondy is led back to scale the
winner of the Harkaway Hunt Cup.

( I70 )

THE GREAT PRESENTATION DAY.

UR noble and popular Master, Lord Daisyfield,
having entered upon his twenty-fifth year of
office, the question was set on foot (by our
Reverend Chaplain the Bishop of Soda and B, if we mis-
take not ; if it wasn't he, it was Tom Chirpington)
whether now was not the time for the members of his
hunt to show their appreciation of his qualities as a
sportsman, and the liberal manner in which he had
hunted the county for so many years free of cost, by pre-
senting him with some memento worthy of the occasion.
It speaks volumes for the noble lord's popularity,
when we mention that the proposal met with the heartiest
approval by everybody both high and low. The next
question to be considered was what form the proposed
testimonial was to take. Each subscriber, of course, had
his own notion as to what it should be, and was intensely
disgusted if his idea was not adopted. One proposed
one thing, someone else another. Mr. Benjamin Bobbin
said a service of plate would be the very thing, in his
'umble opinion, for his '' lordship to 'and down to his
successors as a hare-loom'' a proposal which his friend
Charles Wildoats, now rami de la maison, at once
knocked on the head with the remark that my lord had
already got more of that commodity than he knew what
to do with. Someone else proposed a shield for his
sideboard ; another proposed a centrepiece for his
dining-table ; whilst Mrs. Mountjoy Matchum (this is

The Great Presentation Day. 171

strictly entre nous, and must go no further) would have
been only too happy to present his lordship with an
ornament for the foot of his table in the shape of one of
her two lovely and accomplished daughters, either of whom
would, she felt sure, make him a most admirable
Countess. It may seem odd, but it was our old farmer
friend, Ralph Duckworth, who finally settled the question.

'* What's your opinion, Ralph ? " inquired Tom Chirp-
ington, coming across to the old man in Bullerton High
Street, one market day.

'' Well, / says, give my lord his picter," replied
Ralph. '' Directly I heard of the idea," he continued, '' I
said to myself, a looking up at my print of Old John
Ward on Blue Ruin, with his favourite 'ound Betsy
beside him, that hangs in my parlour at the Wild ; thafs
the sort o' thing I should like to contribute to. Get
some painter feller down to take him off in his hunting
costoom, mounted on Peter the Great, that brown 'oss
of his he's so fond of, with p'raps Tom Tootler and the
whips and the 'ounds in the distance, and then we could
have a lot printed off, don't you see, squire, and each of
us could have one to frame and hang up."

The sporting old farmers idea '' took on," as the
Yankees say, not only with Tom Chirpington, but
with everyone else, and was at once acted upon. Lord
Daisyfield's consent had next to be obtained, and, that
having been readily accorded (though my lord rather
''jibbed " at having to give sittings), nothing more remained
but to get hold of a *' painter feller," at once, if not sooner.
One was quickly found in the shape of Mr. Scumbler,
whose memorable ride on Charles Wildoats' mare,
Molly Bawn, we mentioned in a previous chapter, and to

172 The Great Presentation Day.

the interest of whose owner, indeed, the artist was
indebted for the commission in the present case.

Well, the picture being at last finished, much to the
noble sitter's relief, the only thing to be done now was to
present it in due form. This important ceremony it was
settled should take place at Fatfield Hall, the abode of Mr.
Yellowboy, the banker (William Waggleton's friend), not
that that gentleman was by any means a good specimen of
the representative sportsman of the period, but the fact of
his having a larger house than anyone in those parts,
made it come in very handy for the purpose, as one of the
committee sagaciously remarked.

The capitalist was delighted beyond measure at the
great event taking place at his house, as it enabled
him once more to cut out all his neighbours, and come
out with the elaborate breakfast or dejeuner that he
so delighted in. Lord Daisyfield, on the contrary, who was,
as our readers are aware, a very shy, reserved sort of man,
looked forward to the day with anything but delight.
He would ever so much sooner have preferred the
picture to be sent to him, and then to have acknow-
ledged it with a polite note. However, that, of course, was
out of the question, and not to be thought of for a moment.

The important day at length arrives, and the roads
leading to Fatfield Hall are all alive with sportsmen of
all sorts — horsemen in scarlet, horsemen in green, horse-
men in black, horsemen in blue are seen wending their
way to the meet. Vehicles, too, of every description there
are, from the stylish mail phaeton and the well-turned-out
drag to the seedy old brougham and the four-wheeled
chaise, or shay, as she prefers to call it, of Mrs. Bris-
ket, the butcher's wife. What a lovely spring morning

The Great Presentation Day. 173

it is, too ! The hedges are already slightly tinged with
green, sure sign of the approaching end of the season ;
the birds are singing like mad in every direction, and our
friend Charlie Wildoats, in good time for a wonder,
cantering along on a thorough-bred hack, and feeling,
as he says, as fit as a fiddle, thinks to himself as the
fresh balmy air fans his slightly fevered face, that, after
all, there's nothing like the country. Our volatile
acquaintance has an especial reason on this particular
morning for being in good time, he having what he calls a
little game of his own on. Watch him as he canters
along, a broad grin pervading his countenance at inter-
vals ! What mischief can he have on hand, we wonder ?
« * * * « *

A Sunday or two before the great day, Charlie
— it being pouring wet — was obliged to confine him-
self to the house during the afternoon. So, having
got through all his usual Sunday literature — BelVs Life,
The Field, Baily, Pink ^Un, Sporting and Dramatic,
Fores's Notes and Sketches — then a short nap, then a
glance at the Racing Calendar, then another snooze —
he proceeded to light up a cigar, and, putting his
hands in his pockets, stared for some minutes in a
vacant manner out of the window at the dreary land-
scape. For some time he smoked and stared, and stared
and smoked, and thought of nothing in particular. At
last, however, the great presentation day dawned sud-
denly upon him, and he forthwith set about thinking
to himself how he could make capital out of it in the
shape of a lark. " By Jingo ! " suddenly ejaculated he,
throwing his nearly finished cigar into the grate and
giving a jump of delight, much to the astonishment of old

174 The Great Presentation Day.

Bess, the retriever, who was fast asleep in front of the
fire. " By Jingo, I've got it ! We'll have a drag ! So
we will ! A drag ! The very thing, of course. They
never find at Old Money-bag's (as he irreverently called
Mr. Yellowboy). Nobody cares either on such an occa-
sion if they do or not, besides which everyone will
have their skins full of pop ; and won't they ride ! Oh,
my eye, my eye ! what a lark it will be ! " and th^
depraved young man rang the bell for a brandy and soda,
and threw himself on the sofa in an ecstasy of delight.
Over another weed he very soon arranged all his plans,
and before his dressing bell rang he had got everything
as nearly pat as possible.

'* Who should he get to run with the drag ? Why long
Tom Springer, one of his uncle's under-keepers, would be
the very man. He knew he could run like a lamplighter.
Yes, he'd be the very chap — would know every inch of
the ground, too. What a lark it would be, to be sure ! "
and he went off to dress for dinner, as happy as a king.

The House of Yellowboy is, indeed, in an uproar, and
the banker is in a fever of excitement. His lacqueys have
got their State liver}'" on — white coats with blue small
clothes and pink silk stockings, and are running up against
each other, sending their powder flying about in so doing
in every direction. The stout butler is perfectly crimson
in the face with his exertions, and looks more like apoplexy
every moment.

Our Croesus has certainly done the thing well, for in
the dining room is set out a truly magnificent breakfast.
Everything the heart of man — or stomach of man, I
should say — can possibly desire is there. The sideboard

The Great Presentation Day. 175

positively groans with plate ; in fact, there is so much
gold and silver ware in the room that one might almost
fancy oneself at the hall of the Goldsmiths' Company.
At one end of the large drawing room is set out on a
large easel, with plum-coloured cloth tastefully draped
round it, the presentation portrait of Lord Daisyfield.
There is his lordship, as large as life, depicted on his
celebrated hunter, Peter the Great, and surrounded by a
few of his favourite hounds. The big clock in the stable
yard, making nearly as much noise as ** Big Ben," strikes half
past ten, and the hungry sportsmen begin to arrive. Now
in tens, now in twenties, the cry is still they come ! The
gravel in front of the house is soon in a nice state, cut up,
indeed, like a ploughed field. The volunteer band posted
on the lawn has learned a new tune for the occasion, and
strikes up with terrific eff'ect, the big drum playing the
very deuce with some of the excitable horses. See ! little
Jack Spratt is kicked off right in front of the hall door, just
as he was riding up with such an air, too, and the only girl he
ever loved looking at him out of the drawing-room window.
Everybody gets seated at last, and clatter, clatter, clatter
go the knives and forks. Pop ! pop! pop! go the champagne
corks on all sides of the room. How they all eat and
drink ! One would really think they had none of them tasted
food for weeks. There's old Captain Dabber, who has eaten
until he can hardly see. Look at him, the greedy old cor-
morant, he has just waylaid a footman with a dish of quails
in his hand, and is now engaged working them off, one after
the other, with intense satisfaction to himself. At last every-
one has done, and by and by a sound like the rapping of
a handle of a knife on the table is heard from the end of
the room where sits the host, the great Mr. Yellowboy.

176 The Great Presentation Day.

^* Silence I " cries everybody at once, ^' silence ! " and
silence being at last obtained, Mr. Grimboy, the veteran
of the hunt, is seen getting on his legs to make a
speech. .

In a few well-chosen sentences, very much to the point,
he proposed the health of Lord Daisyfield, winding up by
begging him, on behalf of his fellow members of the hunt,
to accept as a slight token of their esteem and regard, &c.,
&c., the portrait which they had all seen and so much
admired that morning.

My lord responded very briefly, being a man of few
words. He thanked them, one and all, for their kindness,
in thus thinking of him.

^' The beautiful picture they had so kindly presented to
him that morning, needless to say, he should treasure
beyond everything. There was only one fault to be found
in it, if his friend, Mr. Scumbler would forgive him for
saying so, which was, that that talented artist had flattered
him too much." (Loud cries of No! No!) ''I won't
say the same though of my horse," said my lord with a
smile, *' for no artist in England could flatter him, he's the
best I ever rode." (Hear ! Hear ! And *' I'll give you four
hundred for him this minute ! " from Charles Wildoats.)
'' My old friend Mr. Grimboy," went on his lordship, '' who
has forgotten more about foxhunting than I ever knew
— (^ Not a bit of it ! ' from the veteran)^is good enough
to say that, during the twenty-five years that I have
hunted the country, I have done so entirely to your
satisfaction. All I can say is that, if such is the case, I
am as much pleased as you are. I can assure you all of
one thing, which is, that I have done my best, and that it
has been all along a labour of love."

The Great Presentation Day\ 177

Reiterating his thanks, Lord Daisyfield sat down amidst
a perfect whirlwind of applause.

Tom Chirpington then, in felicitous terms, proposed the
health of their host, Mr. Yellowboy, who, he said, had so
hospitably entertained them all that morning.

The great banker, who was fond of the sound of his own
voice, responded in a dreary and lengthy speech.

An extra loud rapping on the table was then heard
above the din, and the volatile Charles Wildoats was
seen on his legs, about to address the company. Need-
less to say, there were not the slightest signs of nervous-
ness about that young gentleman, who was greeted with
a roar of applause.

" None of you fellers," said he in his usual free and easy
manner, '' have proposed my health so far, so, as I'm deter-
mined not to be out of it, I have no alternative but to
propose somebody else's instead. The toast, ladies and
gentlemen, that I call upon you all to drink, is that of
our friends the farmers whose land we ride over. (Hear,
hear.) No one, I fancy, is better qualified to propose the
toast than myself, for I can say, with truth, that I've
smashed more of their gates, broken down more of their
fences, and carried away more of their land on the back of
my red coat, than any other sportsmxan in the room.
(Loud cries of ' hear, hear,' and laughter, from the
farmers.) And I hope I shall do the same to a good
many more before I have done. (Much laughter, and
'You're welcome. Muster Charles! ' from Farmer Jollikins.)
I've ridden over your wheat, too, to any amount, but, lor'
■ bless yer ! you don't mind when hounds are running, do
you now ? " said Charles appealing to the farmers
generally. ('' Not a bit on it ! Dang the wheat, and the

, N

178 The Great Presentation Day,

woats too, for that matter!" roared old Joe Mills of
Cherrytree Farm, at the top of his voice, amidst shouts
of approval from his brethren.) *' Well, ladies and gentle-
men, I v^on't v^aste your time by buttering the subjects
of my toast, for not only would it be a case of ' painting
the lily,' but I feel sure that they v^ould not thank me
for doing so. So I call upon you all, ladies and gentlemen,
to fill your glasses to the brim, and, when you've done
that, to drain them to the dregs, to the health of those
jolly good fellows, the farmers of Lord Daisyfield's Hunt,
coupling with it the name of my dear old friend Ralph
Duckworth, who has done his level best to jump on the
top of me ever since I first began to hunt in these parts,
but has not succeeded yet, and I don't intend that he should."
And, the toast being drunk with enthusiasm, down sat
Charlie.

Old Ralph had just got on his legs to reply on behalf
of the farmers, when old Joe Jollikins rose at the same time
amidst loud cries of '' Sit down, Joe ! Go on, Ralph ! " &c.
But Jollikins, who had had quite as much drink as
he knew what to do with, declined to be put down at
any price, and having announced his intention of singing
a song, forthwith proceeded to give them, amidst the loud
laughter of the company, ''John Peel." ''Who — hoop''
shouted he at the top of his voice when he had finished, and
overbalancing himself, the worthy agriculturist fell back-
wards, chair and all, and immediately subsiding into sleep,
was carted away by two of the gorgeously attired flunkeys.
This contretemps was the signal for a general exodus of
the company, and now the cry was '' to horse ! " Cigars
were lit, and soon it was, '' Where's the man who was
leading about my mare? " ''Have you seen my horse ? ''

The Great Presentatioti Day, 179

*^ Where's my groom? Hang the fellow, he's never
about when one wants him.":

Charlie Wildoats, a huge cigar in his mouth, trots
round from the stables on his grey hunter, looking like
going all over. He has arranged everything beauti-
fully. His man with the drag has started off some
time,, and J Charlie, as he' looks at the flushed faces
around him, chuckles to himself as he thinks what jostling
and pushing, and thrusting there will be among them
-when the hounds are fairly off. "Well, Mr. Charles,
I dunno how you feel, sir," says old Ralph Duckworth,
very red in. the face, riding up to him, " I dunno how you
feel, but I feel as if I could ride over any mortal thing,
I do." At length a start is made, and forthwith the
hounds proceed to draw the belt round the park.

No sooner are they in than there is a whimper. In
another second the whimper becomes a chorus. The
hounds clamber over the park palings into the road.
'* He's away over the grass, as sure as blazes," says Tom
Tootler as he slips through a gate. " Forrad, forrad ! " he
cries (Tom has had something to drink, too, and is in a
high state of excitement), sending his horse at a formidable
fence out of the road.

''Forrad ! forrad !'' A useless cry on his part, for the
hounds are running away from him as it is. Lord Daisy-
field, Charlie Wildoats, The Bishop of Soda and B— ,
The Younger Son, Johnnie Clinker and his wife, and
Tom Chirpington and his, are close to him. Old Charlie
Dabber for once is puzzled ; he has never known a
fox take the particular line this one is taking. '' This
is no bagman, I'll swear," said he to himself, and
pounding along towards Thrussington Woods, whither

V—2

i8o The Great Presentation Day.

he thought the fox would , most likely go, he neveV
saw anything more of them all day.

The hounds keep on, running harder than ever.
''Carn't make it off at all," mutters Tom Tootler;
'\ shouldn't never ha' thought there'd been such a scent
such a hot day as this here." And now they come to the
famous Blessington Brook, which our friend Charlie has
taken care to bring into the line. Wildoats goes at it
fifty miles an hour, and gets over handsomely. Mrs.
Chirpington follows him, the Bishop of Soda and Be-
lauds short, and gets a fall, but is quickly up again.
Splash, splash, splash. Three get in all at once ; but
what are the odds ? it won't hurt such a hot day as this.
^' Hold up, 'oss," roars Tom, as his horse nearly comes
down. The country in the rear is dotted for ever so far
with redcoats in various stages of discomfiture. At last
the hounds throw up their heads, but only for a
minute. Wildoats, who has in a miraculous manner
got his second horse, cheers them to a holloa, for on the
hill yonder, gesticulating like mad, is a figure he knows
for that of his uncle's under-keeper, who has run with
the drag. A confederate has just turned out a bag
fox, as previously arranged. Lord Daisyfield's horse is
dead beat ; Tom Tootler's can scarcely raise a trot,
and at last stops altogether, so Tom gets off, and runs
along as best he can. Five minutes more, and the
hounds run into the bagman, who, half stupefied as he is,
poor brute, is turned by a sheep dog right into the very
jaws of the pack. '^ Who— hoop ! worry, worry, worry !
Fresh looking fox tew," remarks Tom Tootler, '^carn't
ha' swopped either." ^^ Capital run, wasn't it, Tom ? "
says Charlie Wildcats, with a grin, lighting a cigar. " It

<

5 §

£ I

UJ s

^ X.

UJ 5^

< c

LU »,

o §,

UJ ^

I- ■§

The Great Presentation Day.

i8i

was a capital run, sir, rather too capital," replied Tom,
looking up into the other's face with rather a sly expression
of countenance. '^ You didn't happen to smell any haniseed
did you. Mister Charles, a comin' along, I suppose?"
*' Aniseed, no. What should put that in your head ? as if
anyone would do such a thing. Here, Tom, here's a trifle
in remembrance of the day," and Charlie slips a ten-
pound note in the huntsman's hand, *' and I say, Tom,"
adds he, with a wink, '' don't say anything about the
aniseed — d'ye twig ?" "I knowed it — I was sure of it —
never did I believe that there would be such a good fox
as that from Mr. Yellowboy's coverts. He never has
nothing but them bagmen for us. All right, Mr. Charles
— mum's the word — and, after all, we had a rare gallop,
didn't we ?" And thus came to a satisfactory conclusion
what was always spoken of afterwards as the ^' Great;
Presentation Day."

( I82 )

THE BORE OF THE HUNT.

AND OTHER CHARACTERS.

F all the bores in our renowned Hunt (and we
possess several), George Gander takes the front
berth. George is a bachelor, and lives at home
with his mother and sisters, and if he only succeeds in
boring those highly respectable ladies half as much as he
does the members of the Hunt, why, they are much to be
pitied, and that's all about it. He is the proud possessor
of a peculiarly wooden-looking countenance, wearing a per-
petual unmeaning sort of grin, and a wild, vacant-looking
eye. He also sports an eyeglass. When hounds hang
about all day, as they often do in the forest or some other
of the big woods, then our bore is in his element. Only let
him once get hold of you in a big ride, and he will ij€ver
leave you. Imagine a group of sportsmen assembled in the
principal ride of Raddleton Wood. *' Oh, lord ! here
comes that infernal bore. Gander ! " suddenly exclaims
Charles Wildoats, as he catches sight of our friend just
turning the corner, and bearing down on the little knot of
sportsmen. " Hang it ! I can't stand him at any price.
I'm off." *' Foxes deuced scarce, seemingly," remarks
George, having greeted the company. '* An idea has crossed
my mind," he goes on, ^^that it wouldn't be half a bad
notion to turn down a few jackals. What do jv^w say,
Jones? What do you think. Brown, eh? Will any of

The Bore of the Hunt. 183

you fellows join me in importing some ? " William
Waggleton, who is listening, expresses his opinion that
they can do very well without jackals, ^^and Jackasses too,
for that matter," he adds with a sneer, eyeing Gander as
he speaks, and winking to the company at the same time.
The jackal scheme is George's one topic of conversation
for the rest of the day. He can't get it out of his perverse
noddle at all, and there is scarcely a member of the Hunt,
with the exception of Lord Daisyfield, whom he does not
drive nearly wild in the course of the day, by dinning his
senseless idea into their ears. Another day he will ride
up to you, his eyes staring out of his head, and mouth open,
as usual, and beg you to tell him, as if it was a question of
the most vital importance, how far you think it is between
Norbury Church and Chucklebury Common, because
Tomkins, with whom he has a sporting bet on of a
shilling, says it is so and so, and he is quite sure he
(Tomkins) is utterly wrong. The next time, the exact
length of the Slopford tunnel will be the puzzle that he
calls on you and other unfortunates to assist him to solve.
Though Gander does not shoot, whenever he hears of a
battue coming off in his immediate neighbourhood, he has
a nasty habit of coming, uninvited, to look on at the fun
and making himself a nuisance generally. What is worse
is, that he is either so thick-skinned or stupid — it is hard
to say which — that it is next door to impossible to offend
him. For instance, Tom Somerville was having a big field-
day in that large covert of his called Coombe Wood, when,
at the end of one of the best beats, one of his guests, a
swell from town, in one of the guard regiments, rushed up
to him, almost with tears in his eyes, with : " I say, old fel-
low, for Heaven's sake, ^o do something with that awful

1 84 The Bore of the Hunt.

eweature with the eyeglass, he has been wowwying me in

a perfectly shocking manner, making me miss everything,

^ight and left, and botherwing me whether I don't think

gwouse could not be turned out in woods like pheasants.

If he tackles me again," said the unhappy guardsman, "I

shall do something despwate, I know I shall." Gander was

forthwith remonstrated with by his host, and deserted the

guardsman as requested, only, probably, to fasten on

another victim immediately after. As everybody says,

what is to be done with such a man ? and echo answers,

'' What, indeed ? "

******

That stout sportsman with the velvet cap and the yellow
silk handkerchief round his neck, whose jolly red face and
white whiskers and moustache remind one somewhat of
the pictures one sees in the illustrated papers of Father
Christmas, is old John Rooster.

There is no more enthusiastic member of the Hunt
than old John. A cheery old bachelor with a snug
little independence of his own ; he lives in a pretty
little rose-covered cottage called Honeysuckle Lodge,
and devotes the whole of his energies to fox-hunting and
nothing else. Old Jacky, as they call him, is mad on the
subject, indeed. A year or so ago, the old man was taken
dangerously ill, but, in spite of the doctors, managed to
pull through. The wags of the Hunt are very fond of
drawing the old boy out on the subject of his recovery,
for the benefit of any stranger present. He, in turn, is
never tired of relating how he astonished the doctor by
a question he put to him, when supposed to be m extremis :
**' Doctor ! ' says I, 'is there any 'opes?' * 'Opes of
what ? ' says he. * Why, 'opes of 'unting^ to be sure,*

I -

I a,

I -a

U. ^

O ^

Ml ==

O a

Cfl o

The Bore of the Hunt, l8S

says I."- And then the jolly old sportsman will chuckle
and wheeze, at the recollection, until he is purple in the
face.

Everybody likes old John. Tom Tootler and his whips
cap him as if he were a peer of the realm, and Lord
Daisyfield is supposed to come down from his pedestal,
and unbend more to old Jacky than any one member ot
the Hunt. Such a staunch old Nimrod is worth pre-
serving ; so, as Rip Van Winkle would say, " may he live

long and prosper."

****♦«

'' Oh, Sir Harry, say you're not dead ! do say you're
not dead ! " exclaims, in tones of the deepest distress,
a stoutish lady of middle age, wearing spectacles, and a
brigand hat with a large cock's feather in it, riding up
to a little knot of horsemen who are assisting to bring
Sir Harry Hieover to, after a heavy fall, got on landing
over a big drop fence. Mrs. Cackler is a remark-
able woman in her way, and decidedly of the pushing
sort. For instance, she does not know Sir Harry
Hieover in the least — he, indeed, is only an occasional
visitor in these parts — but on the strength of his fall
Mrs. Cackler will be sure to push her acquaintance on the
baronet the very next time he makes his appearance with
the Harkaway Hounds. Mrs. Cackler, or old Mother
Chatterbox as the wags call her, lives in a mildewy-
looking little house, close to the high-road, with a stable
at the back wherein dwells the fiery steed she rides and
drives, and which stable she herself may be seen cleaning
out every morning with her own fair hands — for she keeps
no groom. On these occasions Mrs. Cackler, in her stable-
jacket, and her figure, just a trifle run to seed, unconfined

1 86 The Bore of the Hunt

by any stays; \vith a broom in her hand and a pair
of old slippers on, is not the most captivating sight in the
world. She possesses a husband somewhere, but he is
never seen, and according to her own account she
IS entirely dependent on her own exertions for a living.
And if perseverance is worth anything, this accomplished
lady deserves to get on. She paints portraits of horses
whenever she can succeed in getting a commission, which
she is by no means backward in asking for, you may
depend ; and, once having got into a man's stable with
its full complement of hunters, it is uncommonly hard
to get her out until she has painted the whole stud.
Then she has generally got some rare old port to
dispose of — a bargain. *^ Sherry too — are you a
sherry-drinker ? " She has got ten dozen she wants
to sell, some extraordinary Amoroso that she picked
up quite by chance lately (she is not at liberty to
mention how) — that she is not exaggerating when she
tells you it is sherry you don't meet with every day.
*^ Captain Wildoats, you really must let me send you a
couple of dozen bottles — only seventy-five shillings i
dozen. I know you are a sherry-drinker, and a good
judge, for you gave me, I remember, some excellent wine
out of your flask, one day, when I felt rather faint, if you
recollect." *^ Hang the old Jezebel and her sherry !" said
our friend, afterwards, "you never tasted such filth in
your life, sir. I believe it was nothing but Marsala, with
one of the old gal's boots chucked in to give it a flavour.
I presented the lot to my man, and, as he's a good ser-
vant, strongly advised him not to drink it himself, but
r6 keep it for his enemies."

" Cigars, too — ^re you a smoker ? I've got a dozen.

The Bore of the Hunt. 187

boxes of Magnificos Imperiales, I should so like you to
try. I do assure you, you couldn't buy them at Benson's
or Carlin's for double what I'm asking for them. Have
one box, and I feel sure you'll want the rest, and only
five guineas a pound."

Horseflesh, too, she dabbles in, perhaps more success-
fully than anything else. Her curious old port, and her
brown-paper cigars, are pretty well blown upon by this
time, but she really has something decent sometimes in
the way of horseflesh^ladies' hacks and clever cobs
principally — to dispose of on commission.

We regret to have to add that Mrs. Cackler, amongst
her many and varied accomplishments, is a notorious
mischief-maker and scandalmonger, and more than one
farmer or tradesman has got to thank her for being the
cause of unpleasantness between husband and wife. Buy-
ing and selling things, though, are her strong points^
particularly the latter, as a good many people know to
their cost. As old Shrub says, she can lie just like truth!

When Bullerton horse and cattle fair comes round,
you are sure to find Mother Chatterbox there, cheapening;
something, either a pig or a pony, perhaps a cow. Some
people even declare she once worsted the proprietor of a
drove of Welsh ponies, in single combat ; however, as to
that we can't sa}'', though, knowing the strong-minded
lady as we do, we don't think it so highly improbable. We
certainly never met one of her sex more capable of taking
her own part. As regards her equestrianism, she appears
regularly at the meets of Lord Daisyfield's hounds, when
anything like within distance of her abode ; and, when
they've found and gone away, she'll take a line of gaps
and pound along the 'ard 'igh road with the best of 'em,

1 88 The Bore of the Hunt

on the strength of which we think we are quite justified"

in numbering her as one of the Flowers of the Hunt.
* * * * * •

Those two very noisy swells in scarlet, whose voices
one hears above everybody's else in the big ride of Scent
Wood, are respectively Mr. Markland Monk, of Monk
Lodge, commonly called Baron Munchausen, and a retired
army captain named Barker, or *' Bowwow," as they
dubbed him in the service. It would be hard, indeed, to
say which is the greatest talker, and more difficult still to
determine which is the biggest liar of the tvs^ain. Perhaps,
as regards the last accomplishment, Markey Monk would
carry the day by most votes ; he is decidedly the most
amusing, as his power of invention is much greater than
that of his rival — the latter's lying consisting more of the
bragging, blustering kind. The Captain was just such
another, in fact, as Mr. Winkle's Bath friend. Captain
Dowler. Imagine the fox to have gone away, and Bow-
wow Barker well wedged in amongst a crowd of horse-
men, all brought to a standstill in a little narrow ride, with
a bridle-gate at the end, through which only one can go out
at a time. You then see this mighty sportsman at his best.
Though he knows perfectly well he cannot possibly get
through his horses, even if he wanted to do so, which he does
not, he is unceasing in his cries of '' Get on there in front !
Do get on, sir ! For heaven's sake get out of the way, you,
sir, on the grey ! Just my luck ! Here am I on my best
horse, and can't get to my hounds ! Too provoking ! " —
and so on to the end of the chapter. When he does get
through, he makes a tremendous show of making up for
lost time, and the way he makes play across the first field,
and over the first gap, is a caution. The first fence he

The Bore of the Hunt, 1 89

comes to of any importance is sure to stop him, and, after
that, the string of excuses for not being on the spot at the
finale is quite bewildering. He always rides well-bred
ones, who would be only too happy to go if their master
would but let them, and it is sickening to watch this
blustering impostor, after making his horse refuse a fence,
pretend to be furious thereat, hitting him over the head,
and calling him all manner of opprobrious names. But it
is after dinner, when, as they say in Ireland, the "drink's
in him," that the bold '' Bowwow " barks loudest, and (in
imagination) rides hardest. Foxhunting coming on the
tapis, he will enquire of his neighbour, if he should happen,
unfortunately for himself, to be a hunting-man, what, in
his opinion, is the best run he ever was in. His visitor,
probably answering that he really don't recollect, the
Captain forthwith goes off at score, and pours into the
poor man's ear an account of the best run he ever saw.
'Twas with that celebrated pack, the V.H.W., otherwise
the Vale of Hogwash Hounds, on which occasion Bow-
wow, if he is to be believed (which he isn't), divided the
honours of the day with the huntsman, the rest of the field
being out of sight at the finish." Another of his favourite
forms of speech is : '^ I was up in town yesterday, and ran
up against so-and-so, whom I haven't seen for years. ' By
Jove,' he said, ' Barker, what an age it is since you and I
met ! The last time I saw you, you were riding over the
biggest gate I think I ever saw in my life.* And, now I
come to think of it," Bowwow will go on, " it was a big gate,
sir! I'll tell you how it was, &c., &c., &c."

Old Baron Markey Munchausen, on the other hand,
is not half such a bore, his lying being positively quite
artistic at times. About the biggest "whopper," as

I qo The Bore of the Hunt

.schoolboys wovild term it, we ^ver heard issue from his
inventive lips was in the smoking-room, one night, at a
country house, where we were both guests. The conver-
sation turned on the extraordinary things sometimes found
in the bellies of fish when caught : " Ah ! " struck in the
Baron, *^ I'll tell you fellows a funny thing that happened
to me in Wales last year." (Markey had some property in
the principality.) *' I was mooning about one day all by my-
self with my gun, when, casting my eye towards the river,
-what should I see but my keeper, who was fishing for the
house, just in the act of playing a, salmon. Shouldering
my gun, I walked towards him, and got there just in time
,to see him land his fish — a thirty-pounder. 'What shall
I do with him, sir ? ' enquired he. ' Shall I take him up
to the house just as he is, or shall I split him open for
kipperin' ? Indeed to goodness ! ' exclaimed Owen
Thomas, ' but he is a fine fish. I declare I did never see
abetter — no, nevar ! ' 'Yes,' replied I, 'he is a good
fish. Suppose you spHt him for kippering.' No sooner
said than done. Owen had his knife in him before you
could say Jack Robinson, and as he opened him, what do
you think flew out of his inside ? You'll never guess.
Do you give it up ?" "Yes," we all shouted in unison,
" we all give it up. What was it, Markey ? " "A brace
of partridges ! " he answered, " a brace of partridges, as I
live." '' By Jove ! " exclaimed his laughing, and, of course,
astonished audience; " well, that was a rum go if you
like." *' By the way," squeaked little Tom Trimmer, after
a pause, from the depths of his armchair, " what became of
the brace of birds, old fella ? You didn't tell us that, dont-
cherknow." " Ah, I declare, I quite forgot the partridges ;
glad you reminded me," replied the unblushing narrator,

The Bore of the Hunt. i q i

*' Well, when they flew out, as I have described, I up with
my gun and shot 'em right and lefty " Well, after
that," said our host, rising from his chair as he spoke. Til
take myself ofif to bed, I think. Good night, you fellows !

Good night, Markey ! I'm going into C ff to-morrow,

and ril buy you a kettle in the course of the afternoon."
" What do you mean ? " exclaimed Baron Munchausen,
starting up, ''you don't mean to go for to insinuate that
you don't credit my story, do you, you unbelieving in-
fidel ? " *' Oh dear no. I don't doubt your word for one
moment," replied our grinning host, winking, as he spoke,
behind the Baron's back, at the assembled company.
/' If it had been anybody else, now, I might have
had my doubts — what ? but with you^ no I Perish
the thought ! " '' Glad of that," said the reassured Markey,
sinking back into his chair, " for I pledge you my word
it is true, it is, 'pon my honour!''

( 192 )

THE LAST DAY OF THE SEASON.

A PINK WEDDING AND AN AFTERNOON FOX.

ITH the floor in good order for dancing, a first-rate
band (this latter a very important adjunct), a
nicely-done supper (Gunter for choice), irre-
proachable champagne, lots of pretty girls, and nearly every-
body in the room knowing everybody else, what more
enjoyable institution is there than a county ball ?

Nor is that all.

We are inclined to think that those terrible personages,
the match-making mammas of the period, find these
cheerful reunions uncommonly useful as well. Many a
man who has been dangling after a maiden the whole of
the hunting season, very likely not quite able to make up
his mind, or what is equally probable, afraid to '' pop the
question," is very apt on one of these festive occasions to
make up his mind with extraordinary alacrity. Perhaps not
being a good dancer, and aware of the fact, he watches with
feeUngs the reverse of pleasant his charmer being whirled
about in the troistemps by Jones of the Lancers, a first-
rate performer, and whom he hates like poison. (The green-
eyed monster comes in here as a wonderful assistant to the
wiles of the would-be mother-in-law.)

He d ns Jones of the Lancers (in confidence, as the

The Last Day of the Season. 193

elder Mr. Weller would say) with intense fervour, and
takes heart of grace from the champagne bottle. Feeling

much better, he d ns Jones again, and, making up his

mind this time to try the " cutting out " game on his own
account, '' goes in to win," as the pugilists say, without loss
of time.

One might almost liken him to an auctioneer with up-
lifted hammer, in fact. He sees his fair enslaver in a riding
habit. By jove, how it becomes her ! Going ! He watches
her in church. Shares her hymn-book with her ; listens
to her sweet voice. Going ! He beholds her in a ball-
room, dances with her, watches her lovely face all lit up
with pleasurable excitement, and thinks he never saw such
a pretty girl in his life, or one so well dressed, and —
Gone ! ! ! Down comes the hammer with a bang.

An angry man hunts in vain for his promised partner in
the waltz just striking up. A facetious and observant waiter
in the tea room remarks to another waiter, sotto voce,
that unless he's wery much mistook, it's a case with them
two in the corner. And the tea-room waiter has hit off
the situation to a T (no pun intended, really no). Another
good man has gone wrong, and it is an engaged couple
that presently return to the ballroom. We would not
give a snap of our fingers for a ball that was not respon-
sible for at least half-a-dozen engagements of this sort, and
we are proud to state that the annual ball of the Harkaway
Hunt, described in a former chapter, is by no means behind
hand in this respect. We should indeed be almost afraid
to hazard a guess as to how many little affaires de
coeiir have been brought to a satisfactory climax within
the four walls of Bullerton Town Hall.

In our account of a recent ball there we mentioned that

o

194 ^^^ ^^^t D^y of ^he Season.

it was currently reported at an early period of the evening
(on the authority of a lynx-eyed maiden lady answering to
the name of Mouser) that " at last " (that is how she and
others genially put it) our friend, the volatile Charles Wild-
oats, had proposed to pretty Blanche Bluebell. The astute
Mouser was perfectly correct. Before the Town Hall
clock had struck two, the bride elect and the man of her
choice had been congratulated by half the people in the
room.

We rather think that it was Lady Thomasina Clinker, of
the fertile mind, who, on learning the fact that the wedding
was likely to come off shortly after Lent, immediately
suggested that it was an opportunity not to be lost
for a *' Pink Wedding." '' I'll go and consult Lord
Daisyfield about it this instant," said she, in her usual
impetuous manner, '' and tell him he must make a special
meet for that day at the bride's house. I know he will if I
ask him prettily."

'^ Bet you ten to one he don't. Lady Tommy," remarked
Major Moustache ; ^' my lord hates all that sort of thing,
you know."

'' Done with you in gloves," replied her ladyship. ''Sixes
tny size, and I should like sixteen buttons, please. You*ll
excuse me. Major Moustache, I know, but let me tell you
you don't know Lord Daisyfield quite so well as I do.
He'll do anything for me^ bless you ! won't he, Johnnie ?
(appealing to her husband). Yes, Lord Daisyfield shall
bring his hounds, and then we'll all go to the church in our
hunting costumes, see Charlie turned off, go back to
Houghton Manor for breakfast, see the happy pair start
for their honeymoon, mount our fiery steeds once more,
and proceed to draw Mr. Bluebell's coverts for a fox.

The Last Day of the Season. 195

That's my programme ; and now, Major Moustache, give
me your arm, and take me to the M.F.H. We shall find
him in the supper room, most likely."

Needless to say. Lord Daisyfield, who, prim and stiff
though he was, could never bring himself to say "No" to
a lady, much less to such a pretty one as Lady Tommy,
acquiesced at once to the proposal. As he gallantly
put it, his hounds and himself were equally at her lady-
ship's service.

This was eminently satisfactory, and all that now remained
to be done, as Lady Tommy very justly observed, was
for Major Moustache to pay up his bet, and for the bride
and bridegroom in embryo to name the day.

This was easily settled. Both the contracting parties,
being exceedingly well off as regards worldly goods, there
was no earthly reason why there should be any unneces-
sary delay in their nuptials. Accordingly, the first
Wednesday in April was fixed upon for the wedding, and
Lord Daisyfield being duly informed thereof, arranged for
his hounds to meet that day at Houghton Manor, the
residence of the bride's father, Mr. Bluebell, to wind up
the season.

And now, all the preliminaries being arranged, there was

tremendous excitement in the neighbourhood amongst

the numerous friends of the betrothed. Such discussions

and heart-burnings as to wedding presents as never were.

There was Laura Lorrimer crying her pretty eyes out

because Florry Granville had fixed upon the very same

present. She had already written for it, in fact, to

Thornhills, in Bond Street. '' Horrid g-g-girl," sobbed poor

Laura ; '' I'll never speak to her again." Violet Daubeny

gave out that she had bought a present for the bride

o — 2

196 The Last Day of the Season.

that she was quite certain no one else would ever dream of,
and declined to say what it was ; thereby driving four-
teen of her bosom friends to the extreme verge of
curiosity — not to say envy. The same with the male
sex. Frank Morton was furious because Jack Fothergill
had bought the bridegroom the very same souvenir
that he had, viz., a silver cigar case. *' I can't change
it," growled Frank, ''because Fve had Charlies cwest
and monogwam engwaved on the back, don't you know."
Well, the eventful day came at last, and what a day !
'' Happy the bride whom the sun shines upon," runs the
old saying, and if there is any truth in it, the fair
maiden in this case certainly had good reason for
rejoicing, for such a spring morning as that which greeted
her as she looked out of her window on this, her
wedding day, surely never was. The sun shone brightly ;
the trees and hedges were already sporting their spring
costumes of emerald green ; violets and primroses
crowded the banks and woods in endless profusion ;
the rooks were cawing away in the big elm trees,
holding a Home Rule Parliament of their own, judging
by the noise they made ; the wood-pigeons coo
armorously to each other in the woods, whilst the air
resounds with the notes from thousands of our feathered
friends, the song birds ; the blackbird, the thrush, the
lark, and the linnet, all apparently seeing which can sing
the loudest. Altogether, if not exactly coming up to Tom
Tootler's standard of what a hunting morning should be,
there is no denying that it is the day of all others for a
wedding.

Little Bridlington Church presents both inside and

The Last Day of the Season. 197

out, on this auspicious morning, a sight unparalleled in
the memory of the oldest inhabitant of the hamlet. B}^
half-past ten o'clock the sacred edifice, by no means a
large one, is crammed to the muzzle by probably the
most severely sporting congregation that ever assembled
inside a church ; for certainly three-fourths of the
assemblage, both male and female, are attired in hunting
costume. The entire hunt is there, in fact, from Lord
Daisyfield downwards. Outside, some two hundred hunters,
most of them of a superior order, are being led about
by grooms and lads of the village. The path leading from
the churchyard gate to the porch is lined by farmers and
others for whom there is not sufficient room inside the
church ; conspicuous amongst them being Tom Tootler
and the hunt servants, each adorned with a wedding
favour of gallant proportions.

Ten minutes to eleven and a distant cheer informs
the sporting congregation that somebody of importance
has arrived. All eyes are turned towards the door, and
enter, gorgeous in scarlet coat, and leathers and tops quite
dazzling in appearance, Mr. Charles Wildoats, accom-
panied by his best man, similarly attired. They take up
a position on the altar rails forthwith. Hardly had they
done so when another cheer from outside announces
another arrival. It is the bridesmaids this time. Attired
in white satin riding habits of old fashioned cut, trimmed
with gold lace, and wearing hunting caps of white velvet,
they create a great sensation. Each of them carries a
gold mounted ivory handled riding whip, the gift of the
bridegroom, and a huge bouquet of camelias and white
violets made in the shape of a horse shoe. Hardly have
they got inside the church than a still louder cheer is

198 The Last Day of the Season.

heard. This must be the bride, and the bride it is. She
is not in hunting costume, so we will not attempt to de-
scribe her dress. Leaning on the arm of her father, a jolly
old gentleman beaming with smiles and duly attired Hke
the rest in scarlet coat, etc., she makes the best of her way,
accompanied by her bridesmaids, to the altar, and the cere-
.mony forthwith proceeds. Charlie Wildoats was not, we
regret to say, quite so well up in the marriage service as
he was in — well, the racing calendar, for instance — for when
asked by the Chaplain of the Hunt (who, of course, officiated)
"■ Charles Aubrey, wilt thou have this woman to be thy
wedded wife," etc., he repHed, '' Oh, certainly," which
unexpected answer, delivered in a most matter of fact way,
caused the bride and her attendant bridesmaids to titter out-
right, the best man to nearly burst out into a "guffaw,"
and a good deal of giggling amongst the rest of
the wedding guests. At last they were made man and

wife, and after the usual signing of names in the vestry,
the newly-married couple, to the strains of the '' Wedding
March," proceeded to make the best of their way, amidst
the congratulations of their friends, to their carriage. Then
a regular stampede ensues, and the cry is, '' My horse,
my horse, my kingdom for a horse ! " Some of the more
reckless seize upon the first steed they can lay hands upon.
Dolly Lightfoot, who can't see his servant anywhere, jumps
on old Charlie Dabber's flea-bitten grey, and considerably
astonishes that highly-respectable animal by the way
he springs him along. Others follow the Honourable's
laudable example, and it is very shortly a case of '' Catch
who catch can," and the devil take the hindmost. We will
pass over the wedding breakfast. Suffice it to say that the
health of the bride and bridegroom (the only toast) was

I ^

CO ^

< <a

LU -s:

CO ■*-^

UJ %

Ll <i>

O ^

h I

% i

S

The Last Day of the Season. 199

proposed by dear old Mr. Grimboy as the ladies called him,
in his happiest manner, and that an unheard of quantity of
champagne was consumed by the sportsmen present.
Finally the bride and bridegoom, having changed their
garments for ordinary attire, took their departure en route
for Paris for the honeymoon amidst a shower of rice and old
shoes, and a perfect volley of '' Gone aways," '' Tally-
ho's," and other hunting cries, from the now wine-flushed
sportsmen assembled to see them drive off.

''And now," remarked Lord Daisyfield to Lady Tommy,
as they watched the receding carriage, " as it's the 'last
day of the season,' the sooner we get to our horses, if we
are to find that afternoon fox, the better." Accordingly
my lord sought his hunter, and very shortly the vast
cavalcade followed in the wake of Tom Tootler and the
hounds across the park to draw Mr. Bluebell's spinneys.
It really seemed as if nothing could go wrong that day, for
a fox was found almost directly and went away at a rattling
pace over the grass. After five-and-forty minutes as hard
as ever they could go, without a check, they killed him in
the open. Thanks to the champagne consumed at break-
fast, the large field rode like demons ; and the quantity of
wedding-favours that were distributed in the course of the
afternoon amongst the hairy fences in the vale, you would
hardly .believe. However, ride as they might, the pace
was so great that only a select few were on anything like
terms with the hounds. '' Only eight of us up," remarked
Tom Chirpington to Johnnie CHnker. "Oh, and here
comes old Dolly ! That makes nine."

"Yes," said Lord Daisyfield, as he presented the brush to
Lady Tommy, "it's about the fastest thing we've had
this season. Where's Charles Wildoats, by the way?"

200

The Last Day of the Season.

added he, looking round. ^'How is it he isn't here ? Not
come to grief, has he ? "

"Why, yes, he has," laughed the Rev. Merrythought
'' didn't I polish him off this very morning ? "

'* Why, of course ! how stupid of me, to be sure ! " replied
his lordship as he once more mounted his horse. I declare
that for the moment, do you know, I had clean forgotten
the ' Pink Wedding.' "

WHO-HOOP !