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. 
 
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(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 
 
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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 
 

 
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 Z 
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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 
 
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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 ^ 
 
 «: 
 
 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 
 
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 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. 
 
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 CO S 
 
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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 
 
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 UJ s 
 
 ^ X. 
 
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 LU », 
 
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 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 !