path: root/44822-0.txt

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 44822 ***

      “ASK MAMMA”,


      or


      THE RICHEST COMMONER IN ENGLAND


      By R. S. Surtees


      Illustrated by JOHN LEECH


      001m


      _Original Size_



      CONTENTS

       PREFACE TO THE ORIGINAL EDITION.

       CHAPTER I. OUR HERO AND CO.—A SLEEPING PARTNER.

       CHAPTER II. THE ROAD.

       CHAPTER III. THE ROAD RESUMED.—MISS PHEASANT-FEATHERS.

       CHAPTER IV. A GLASS COACH.—MISS WILLING (EN GRAND COSTUME)

       CHAPTER V. THE LADY’S BOUDOIR.—A DECLARATION.

       CHAPTER VI. THE HAPPY UNITED FAMILY.—CURTAIN CRESCENT.

       CHAPTER VII. THE EARL OF LADYTHORNE.—MISS DE GLANCEY.

       CHAPTER VIII. CUB-HUNTING.

       CHAPTER IX. A PUP AT WALK.—IMPERIAL JOHN.

       CHAPTER X. JEAN ROUGIER, OR JACK ROGERS.

       CHAPTER XI. THE OPENING DAY.—THE HUNT BREAKFAST.

       CHAPTER XII. THE MORNING FOX.—THE AFTERNOON FOX.

       CHAPTER XIII. GONE AWAY!

       CHAPTER XIV. THE PRINGLE CORRESPONDENCE.

       CHAPTER XV. MAJOR YAMMERTON’S COACH STOPS THE WAY.

       CHAPTER XVI. THE MAJOR’S MENAGE.

       CHAPTER XVII. ARRIVAL AT YAMMERTON GRANGE.—A FAMILY PARTY.

       CHAPTER XVIII. A LEETLE, CONTRETEMPS.

       CHAPTER XIX. THE MAJOR’S STUD.

       CHAPTER XX. CARDS FOR A SPREAD.

       CHAPTER XXI. THE GATHERING.—THE GRAND SPREAD ITSELF.

       CHAPTER XXII. A HUNTING MORNING.—UNKENNELING.

       CHAPTER XXIII. SHOWING A HORSE.—THE MEET.

       CHAPTER XXIV. THE WILD BEAST ITSELF.

       CHAPTER XXV. A CRUEL FINISH.

       CHAPTER XXVI. THE PRINGLE CORRESPONDENCE.

       CHAPTER XXVII. SIR MOSES MAINCHANCE.

       CHAPTER XXVIII. THE HIT-IM AND HOLD-IM SHIRE HOUNDS.

       CHAPTER XXIX. THE PANGBURN PARK ESTATE.

       CHAPTER XXX. COMMERCE AND AGRICULTURE.

       CHAPTER XXXI. SIR MOSES’S MENAGE.—DEPARTURE OF FINE BILLY.

       CHAPTER XXXII. THE BAD STABLE; OR, “IT’S ONLY FOR ONE NIGHT.”

       CHAPTER XXXIII. SIR MOSES’S SPREAD.

       CHAPTER XXXIV. GOING TO COVER WITH THE HOUNDS.

       CHAPTER XXXV. THE MEET.

       CHAPTER XXXVI. A BIRD’S EYE VIEW.

       CHAPTER XXXVII. TWO ACCOUNTS OF A RUN; OR, LOOK ON THIS PICTURE.

       CHAPTER XXXVIII. THE SICK HORSE AND THE SICK MASTER.

       CHAPTER XXXIX. MR. PRINGLE SUDDENLY BECOMES A MEMBER OF THE H.
       H. H.

       CHAPTER XL. THE HUNT DINNER,

       CHAPTER XLI. THE HUNT TEA.—BUSHEY HEATH AND BARE ACRES.

       CHAPTER XLII. MR. GEORDEY GALLON.

       CHAPTER XLIII. SIR MOSES PERPLEXED—THE RENDEZVOUS FOR THE RACE.

       CHAPTER XLIV. THE RACE ITSELF.

       CHAPTER XLV. HENEREY BROWN & CO. AGAIN.

       CHAPTER XLVI. THE PRINGLE CORRESPONDENCE.

       CHAPTER XLVII. A CATASTROPHE.—A TÊTE-À-TÊTE DINNER

       CHAPTER XLVIII. ROUGIER’S MYSTERIOUS LODGINGS—THE GIFT HORSE.

       CHAPTER XLIX. THE SHAM DAY.

       CHAPTER L. THE SURPRISE.

       CHAPTER LI. MONEY AND MATRIMONY.

       CHAPTER LII. A NIGHT DRIVE.

       CHAPTER LIII. MASTER ANTHONY THOM.

       CHAPTER LIV. MR. WOTHERSPOON’S DEJEUNER À LA FOURCHETTE.

       CHAPTER LV. THE COUNCIL OF WAR.—POOR PUSS AGAIN!

       CHAPTER LVI. A FINE RUN!—THE MAINCHANCE CORRESPONDENCE.

       CHAPTER LVII. THE ANTHONY THOM TRAP.

       CHAPTER LVIII. THE ANTHONY THOM TAKE.

       CHAPTER LIX. ANOTHER COUNCIL OF WAR.—MR. GALLON AT HOME.

       CHAPTER LX. MR. CARROTY KEBBEL.

       CHAPTER LXI. THE HUNT BALL.—MISS DE GLANCEY’S REFLECTIONS.

       CHAPTER LXII. LOVE AT SECOND SIGHT.—CUPID’S SETTLING DAY.

       CHAPTER LXIII. A STARTLING ANNOUNCEMENT.

      PREFACE TO THE ORIGINAL EDITION.


      IT may be a recommendation to the lover of light literature to be
      told, that the following story does not involve the complication
      of a plot. It is a mere continuous narrative of an almost
      everyday exaggeration, interspersed with sporting scenes and
      excellent illustrations by Leech.

      March 31, 1858.



      CHAPTER I. OUR HERO AND CO.—A SLEEPING PARTNER.



      017m _Original Size_



      ONSIDERING that Billy Pringle, or Fine Billy, as his good-natured
      friends called him, was only an underbred chap, he was as good an
      imitation of a Swell as ever we saw. He had all the airy
      dreaminess of an hereditary high flyer, while his big talk and
      off-hand manner strengthened the delusion.

      It was only when you came to close quarters with him, and found
      that though he talked in pounds he acted in pence, and marked his
      fine dictionary words and laboured expletives, that you came to
      the conclusion that he was “painfully gentlemanly.” So few
      people, however, agree upon what a gentleman is, that Billy was
      well calculated to pass muster with the million. Fine shirts,
      fine ties, fine talk, fine trinkets, go a long way towards
      furnishing the character with many. Billy was liberal, not to say
      prodigal, in all these. The only infallible rule we know is, that
      the man who is always talking about being a gentleman never is
      one. Just as the man who is always talking about honour,
      morality, fine feeling, and so on never knows anything of these
      qualities but the name.

      Nature had favoured Billy’s pretensions in the lady-killing way.
      In person he was above the middle height, five feet eleven or so,
      slim and well-proportioned, with a finely-shaped head and face,
      fair complexion, light brown hair, laughing blue eyes, with long
      lashes, good eyebrows, regular pearly teeth and delicately
      pencilled moustache. Whiskers he did not aspire to. Nor did Billy
      abuse the gifts of Nature by disguising himself in any of the
      vulgar groomy gamekeepery style of dress, that so effectually
      reduce all mankind to the level of the labourer, nor adopt any of
      the “loud” patterns that have lately figured so conspicuously in
      our streets. On the contrary, he studied the quiet unobtrusive
      order of costume, and the harmony of colours, with a view of
      producing a perfectly elegant general effect. Neatly-fitting
      frock or dress coats, instead of baggy sacks, with trouser legs
      for sleeves, quiet-patterned vests and equally quiet-patterned
      trousers. If he could only have been easy in them he would have
      done extremely well, but there was always a nervous twitching,
      and jerking, and feeling, as if he was wondering what people were
      thinking or saying of him.

      In the dress department he was ably assisted by his mother, a
      lady of very considerable taste, who not only fashioned his
      clothes but his mind, indeed we might add his person, Billy
      having taken after her, as they say; for his father, though an
      excellent man and warm, was rather of the suet-dumpling order of
      architecture, short, thick, and round, with a neck that was
      rather difficult to find. His name, too, was William, and some,
      the good-natured ones again of course, used to say that he might
      have been called “Fine Billy the first,” for under the auspices
      of his elegant wife he had assumed a certain indifference to
      trade; and when in the grand strut at Ramsgate or Broadstairs, or
      any of his watering-places, if appealed to about any of the
      things made or dealt in by any of the concerns in which he was a
      “Co.,” he used to raise his brows and shrug his shoulders, and
      say with a very deprecatory sort of air, “‘Pon my life, I should
      say you’re right,” or “‘Deed I should say it was so,” just as if
      he was one of the other Pringles,—the Pringles who have nothing
      to do with trade,—and in noways connected with Pringle & Co.;
      Pringle & Potts; Smith, Sharp & Pringle; or any of the firms that
      the Pringles carried on under the titles of the original
      founders. He was neither a tradesman nor a gentleman. The
      Pringles—like the happy united family we meet upon wheels; the
      dove nestling with the gorged cat, and so on—all pulled well
      together when there was a common victim to plunder; and kept
      their hands in by what they called taking fair advantages of each
      other, that is to say, cheating each other, when there was not.

      Nobody knew the ins and outs of the Pringles. If they let their
      own right hands know what their left hands did, they took care
      not to let anybody else’s right hand know. In multiplicity of
      concerns they rivalled that great man “Co.,” who the country-lad
      coming to London said seemed to be in partnership with almost
      everybody. The author of “Who’s Who?” would be puzzled to post
      people who are Brown in one place, Jones in a second, and
      Robinson in a third. Still the Pringles were “a most respectable
      family,” mercantile morality being too often mere matter of
      moonshine. The only member of the family who was not exactly
      “legally honest,”—legal honesty being much more elastic than
      common honesty,—was cunning Jerry, who thought to cover by his
      piety the omissions of his practice. He was a fawning,
      sanctified, smooth-spoken, plausible, plump little man, who
      seemed to be swelling with the milk of human kindness, anxious
      only to pour it out upon some deserving object. His manner was so
      frank and bland, and his front face smile so sweet, that it was
      cruel of his side one to contradict the impression and show the
      cunning duplicity of his nature. Still he smirked and smiled, and
      “bless-you, dear” and “hope-your-happy,” deared the women, that,
      being a bachelor, they all thought it best to put up with his
      “mistakes,” as he called his peculations, and sought his favour
      by frequent visits with appropriate presents to his elegant villa
      at Peckham Rye. Here he passed for quite a model man; twice to
      church every Sunday, and to the lecture in the evening, and would
      not profane the sanctity of the day by having a hot potato to eat
      with his cold meat.

      He was a ripe rogue, and had been jointly or severally, as the
      lawyers say, in a good many little transactions that would not
      exactly bear inspection; and these “mistakes” not tallying with
      the sanctified character he assumed, he had been obliged to
      wriggle out of them as best he could, with the loss of as few
      feathers as possible. At first, of course, he always tried the
      humbugging system, at which he was a great adept; that failing,
      he had recourse to bullying, at which he was not bad, declaring
      that the party complaining was an ill-natured, ill-conditioned,
      quarrelsome fellow, who merely wanted a peg to hang a grievance
      upon, and that Jerry, so far from defrauding him, had been the
      best friend he ever had in his life, and that he would put him
      through every court in the kingdom before he would be imposed
      upon, by him. If neither of these answered, and Jerry found
      himself pinned in a corner, he feigned madness, when his
      solicitor, Mr. Supple, appeared, and by dint of legal threats,
      and declaring that if the unmerited persecution was persisted in,
      it would infallibly consign his too sensitive client to a lunatic
      asylum, he generally contrived to get Jerry out of the scrape by
      some means or other best known to themselves. Then Jerry, of
      course, being clear, would inuendo his own version of the story
      as dexterously as he could, always taking care to avoid a
      collision with the party, but more than insinuating that he
      (Jerry) had been infamously used, and his well-known love of
      peace and quietness taken advantage of; and though men of the
      world generally suspect the party who is most anxious to
      propagate his story to be in the wrong, yet their number is but
      small compared to those who believe anything they are told, and
      who cannot put “that and that” together for themselves.

      So Jerry went on robbing and praying and passing for a very
      proper man. Some called him “cunning Jerry,” to distinguish him
      from an uncle who was Jerry also; but as this name would not do
      for the family to adopt, he was generally designated by them as
      “Want-nothin’-but-what’s-right Jerry,” that being the form of
      words with which he generally prefaced his extortions. In the
      same way they distinguished between a fat Joe and a thin one,
      calling the thin one merely “Joe,” and the fat one “Joe who can’t
      get within half a yard of the table;” and between two clerks,
      each bearing the not uncommon name of Smith, one being called
      Smith, the other “Head-and-shoulders Smith,”—the latter, of
      course, taking his title from his figure.

      With this outline of the Pringle family, we will proceed to draw
      out such of its members as figure more conspicuously in our
      story.

      With Mrs. William Pringle’s (_née_ Willing) birth, parentage, and
      education, we would gladly furnish the readers of this work with
      some information, but, unfortunately, it does not lie in our
      power so to do, for the simple reason, that we do not know
      anything. We first find her located at that eminent Court
      milliner and dressmaker’s, Madame Adelaide Banboxeney, in
      Furbelow Street, Berkeley Square, where her elegant manners, and
      obliging disposition, to say nothing of her taste in torturing
      ribbons and wreaths, and her talent for making plain girls into
      pretty ones, earned for her a very distinguished reputation. She
      soon became first-hand, or trier-on, and unfortunately, was
      afterwards tempted into setting-up for herself, when she soon
      found, that though fine ladies like to be cheated, it must be
      done in style, and by some one, if not with a carriage, at all
      events with a name; and that a bonnet, though beautiful in Bond
      Street, loses all power of attraction if it is known to come out
      of Bloomsbury. Miss Willing was, therefore, soon sold up; and
      Madame Banboxeney (whose real name was Brown, Jane Brown, wife of
      John Brown, who was a billiard-table marker, until his wife’s
      fingers set him up in a gig), Madame Banboxeney, we say, thinking
      to profit by Miss Willing’s misfortunes, offered her a very
      reduced salary to return to her situation; but Miss Willing
      having tasted the sweets of bed, a thing she very seldom did at
      Madame Banboxeney’s, at least not during the season, stood out
      for more money; the consequence of which was, she lost that
      chance, and had the benefit of Madame’s bad word at all the other
      establishments she afterwards applied to. In this dilemma, she
      resolved to turn her hand to lady’s-maid-ism; and having mastered
      the science of hair-dressing, she made the rounds of the
      accustomed servant-shops, grocers, oilmen, brushmen, and so on,
      asking if they knew of any one wanting a perfect lady’s-maid.

      As usual in almost all the affairs of life, the first attempt was
      a failure. She got into what she thoroughly despised, an untitled
      family, where she had a great deal more to do than she liked, and
      was grossly “put upon” both by the master and missis. She gave
      the place up, because, as she said, “the master would come into
      the missis’s room with nothing but his night-shirt and spectacles
      on,” but, in reality, because the missis had some of her things
      made-up for the children instead of passing them on, as of right
      they ought to have been, to her. She deeply regretted ever having
      demeaned herself by taking such a situation. Being thus out of
      place, and finding the many applications she made for other
      situations, when she gave a reference to her former one, always
      resulted in the ladies declining her services, sometimes on the
      plea of being already suited, or of another “young person” having
      applied just before her, or of her being too young (they never
      said too pretty, though one elderly lady on seeing her shook her
      head, and said she “had sons”); and, being tired of living on old
      tea leaves, Miss Willing resolved to sink her former place, and
      advertise as if she had just left Madame Banboxeney’s.
      Accordingly she drew out a very specious advertisement, headed
      “_to the nobility_,” offering the services of a lady’s-maid, who
      thoroughly understood millinery, dress-making, hair-dressing, and
      getting up fine linen, with an address to a cheese shop, and made
      an arrangement to give Madame Banboxeney a lift with a heavy
      wedding order she was busy upon, if she would recommend her as
      just fresh from her establishment.

      This advertisement produced a goodly crop of letters, and Miss
      Willing presently closed with the Honourable Mrs. Cavesson, whose
      husband was a good deal connected with the turf, enjoying that
      certain road to ruin which so many have pursued; and it says much
      for Miss Willing’s acuteness, that though she entered Mrs.
      Cavesson’s service late in the day, when all the preliminaries
      for a smash had been perfected, her fine sensibilities and
      discrimination enabled her to anticipate the coming evil, and to
      deposit her mistress’s jewellery in a place of safety
      three-quarters of an hour before the bailiffs entered. This act
      of fidelity greatly enhanced her reputation, and as it was well
      known that “poor dear Mrs. Cavesson” would not be able to keep
      her, there were several great candidates for this “treasure of a
      maid.” Miss Willing had now nothing to do but pick and choose;
      and after some consideration, she selected what she called a high
      quality family, one where there was a regular assessed tax-paper
      establishment of servants, where the butler sold his lord’s
      wine-custom to the highest bidder, and the heads of all the
      departments received their “reglars” upon the tradesmen’s bills;
      the lady never demeaning herself by wearing the same gloves or
      ball-shoes twice, or propitiating the nurse by presents of
      raiment that was undoubtedly hers—we mean the maid’s. She was a
      real lady, in the proper acceptation of the term.

      This was the beautiful, and then newly married, Countess Delacey,
      whose exquisite garniture will still live in the recollection of
      many of the now bald-headed beaux of that period. For these
      delightful successes, the countess was mainly indebted to our
      hero’s mother, Miss Willing, whose suggestive genius oft came to
      the aid of the perplexed and exhausted milliner. It was to the
      service of the Countess Delacey that Miss Willing was indebted
      for becoming the wife of Mr. Pringle, afterwards “Fine Billy the
      first,”—an event that deserves to be introduced in a separate
      chapter.



      CHAPTER II. THE ROAD.


      IT was on a cold, damp, raw December morning, before the
      emancipating civilisation of railways, that our hero’s father,
      then returning from a trading tour, after stamping up and down
      the damp flags before the Lion and Unicorn hotel and
      posting-house at Slopperton, waiting for the old True Blue
      Independent coach “comin’ hup,” for whose cramped inside he had
      booked a preference seat, at length found himself bundled into
      the straw-bottomed vehicle, to a very different companion to what
      he was accustomed to meet in those deplorable conveyances.
      Instead of a fusty old farmer, or a crumby basket-encumbered
      market-woman, he found himself opposite a smiling, radiant young
      lady, whose elegant dress and ring-bedizened hand proclaimed, as
      indeed was then generally the case with ladies, that she was
      travelling in a coach “for the first time in her life.”

      This was our fair friend, Miss Willing.

      The Earl and Countess Delacey had just received an invitation to
      spend the Christmas at Tiara Castle, where the countess on the
      previous year had received if not a defeat, at all events had not
      achieved a triumph, in the dressing way, over the Countess of
      Honiton, whose maid, Miss Criblace, though now bribed to secrecy
      with a full set of very little the worse for wear Chinchilla fur,
      had kept the fur and told the secret to Miss Willing, that their
      ladyships were to meet again. Miss Willing was now on her way to
      town, to arrange with the Countess’s milliner for an annihilating
      series of morning and evening dresses wherewith to extinguish
      Lady Honiton, it being utterly impossible, as our fair friends
      will avouch, for any lady to appear twice in the same attire. How
      thankful men ought to be that the same rule does not prevail with
      them!

      Miss Willing was extremely well got up; for being of nearly the
      same size as the countess, her ladyship’s slightly-worn things
      passed on to her with scarcely a perceptible diminution of
      freshness, it being remarkable how, in even third and fourth-rate
      establishments, dresses that were not fit for the “missus” to be
      seen in come out quite new and smart on the maid.

      On this occasion Miss Willing ran entirely to the dark colours,
      just such as a lady travelling in her own carriage might be
      expected to wear. A black terry velvet bonnet with a single
      ostrich feather, a dark brown Levantine silk dress, with rich
      sable cuffs, muff, and boa, and a pair of well-fitting
      primrose-coloured kid gloves, which if they ever had been on
      before had not suffered by the act.

      Billy—old Billy that is to say—was quite struck in a heap at such
      an unwonted apparition, and after the then usual salutations, and
      inquiries how she would like to have the window, he popped the
      old question, “How far was she going?” with very different
      feelings to what it was generally asked, when the traveller
      wished to calculate how soon he might hope to get rid of his
      _vis-à-vis_ and lay up his legs on the seat.

      “To town,” replied the lady, dimpling her pretty cheeks with a
      smile. “And you?” asked she, thinking to have as good as she
      gave.

      “Ditto,” replied the delighted Billy, divesting himself of a
      great coarse blue and white worsted comforter, and pulling up his
      somewhat dejected gills, abandoning the idea of economising his
      Lincoln and Bennett by the substitution of an old Gregory’s
      mixture coloured fur cap, with its great ears tied over the top,
      in which he had snoozed and snored through many a long journey.

      Miss Willing then drew from her richly-buckled belt a beautiful
      Geneva watch set round with pearls, (her ladyship’s, which she
      was taking to town to have repaired), and Billy followed suit
      with his substantial gold-repeater, with which he struck the
      hour. Miss then ungloved the other hand, and passed it down her
      glossy brown hair, all smooth and regular, for she had just been
      scrutinising it in a pocket-mirror she had in her
      gold-embroidered reticule.

      Billy’s commercial soul was in ecstacies, and he was fairly over
      head and ears in love before they came to the first change of
      horses. He had never seen sich a sample of a hand before, no, nor
      sich a face; and he felt quite relieved when among the
      multiplicity of rings he failed to discover that thin plain gold
      one that intimates so much.

      Whatever disadvantages old stage coaches possessed, and their
      name certainly was legion, it must be admitted that in a case of
      this sort their slowness was a recommendation. The old True Blue
      Independent did not profess to travel or trail above eight miles
      an hour, and this it only accomplished under favourable
      circumstances, such as light loads, good roads, and stout steeds,
      instead of the top-heavy cargo that now ploughed along the woolly
      turnpike after the weak, jaded horses, that seemed hardly able to
      keep their legs against the keen careering wind. If, under such
      circumstances, the wretched concern made the wild-beast-show
      looking place in London, called an inn, where it put up, an hour
      or an hour and a half or so after its time, it was said to be all
      very well, “considering,”—and this, perhaps, in a journey of
      sixty miles.

      Posterity will know nothing of the misery their forefathers
      underwent in the travelling way; and whenever we hear—which we
      often do—unreasonable grumblings about the absence of trifling
      luxuries on railways, we are tempted to wish the parties
      consigned to a good long ride in an old stage coach. Why the
      worst third class that ever was put next the engine is infinitely
      better than the inside of the best of them used to be, to say
      nothing of the speed. As to the outsides of the old coaches, with
      their roastings, their soakings, their freezings, and their
      smotherings with dust, one cannot but feel that the establishment
      of railways was a downright prolongation of life. Then the coach
      refreshments, or want of refreshments rather; the turning out at
      all hours to breakfast, dine, or sup, just as the coach reached
      the house of a proprietor “wot oss’d it,” and the cool incivility
      of every body about the place. Any thing was good enough for a
      coach passenger.

      On this auspicious day, though Miss Willing had her reticule full
      of macaroons and sponge biscuits, and Fine Billy the first had a
      great bulging paper of sandwiches in his brown overcoat pocket,
      they neither of them felt the slightest approach to hunger, ere
      the lumbering vehicle, after a series of clumsy,
      would-be-dash-cutting lurches and evolutions over the rough
      inequalities of the country pavement, pulled up short at the
      arched doorway of the Salutation Inn—we beg pardon, hotel—in
      Bramfordrig, and a many-coated, brandy-faced, blear-eyed guard
      let in a whole hurricane of wind while proclaiming that they
      “dined there and stopped half an hour.” Then Fine Billy the first
      had an opportunity of showing his gallantry and surveying the
      figure of his innamorata, as he helped her down the perilous
      mud-shot iron steps of the old Independent, and certainly never
      countess descended from her carriage on a drawing-room day with
      greater elegance than Miss Willing displayed on the present
      occasion, showing a lettle circle of delicate white linen
      petticoat as she protected her clothes from the mud-begrimed
      wheel, and just as much fine open-worked stocking above the
      fringed top of her Adelaide boots. On reaching the ground, which
      she did with a curtsey, she gave such a sweet smile as emboldened
      our Billy to offer his arm; and amid the nudging of outsiders,
      and staring of street-loungers, and “make way"-ing of inn
      hangers-on, our Billy strutted up the archway with all the
      dignity of a drum-major. His admiration increased as he now
      became sensible of the lady’s height, for like all little men he
      was an admirer of tall women. As he caught a glimpse of himself
      in the unbecoming mirror between the drab and red fringed window
      curtains of the little back room into which they were ushered, he
      wished he had had on his new blue coat and bright buttons, with a
      buff vest, instead of the invisible green and black spot
      swansdown one in which he was then attired.

      The outside passengers having descended from their eminences,
      proceeded to flagellate themselves into circulation, and throw
      off their husks, while Billy strutted consequentially in with the
      lady on his arm, and placed her in the seat of honour beside
      himself at the top of the table. The outsides then came swarming
      in, jostling the dish-bearers and seating themselves as they
      could. All seemed bent upon getting as much as they could for
      their money.

      Pork was the repast. Pork in varions shapes: roast at the top,
      boiled at the bottom, sausages on one side, fry on the other; and
      Miss Willing couldn’t eat pork, and, curious coincidence! neither
      could Billy. The lady having intimated this to Billy in the most
      delicate way possible, for she had a particular reason for not
      wishing to aggravate the new landlord, Mr. Bouncible, Billy
      gladly sallied forth to give battle as it were on his own
      account, and by way of impressing the household with his
      consequence, he ordered a bottle of Teneriffe as he passed the
      bar, and then commenced a furious onslaught about the food when
      he got into the kitchen. This reading of the riot act brought
      Bouncible from his “Times,” who having been in the profession
      himself took Billy for a nobleman’s gentleman, or a house-steward
      at least—a class of men not so easily put upon as their masters.
      He therefore, after sundry regrets at the fare not being ‘zactly
      to their mind, which he attributed to its being washing-day,
      offered to let them have the first turn at a very nice dish of
      hashed venison that was then simmering on the fire for Mrs. B.
      and himself, provided our travellers would have the goodness to
      call it hashed mutton, so that it might not be devoured by the
      outsiders, a class of people whom all landlords held in great
      contempt. To this proposition Billy readily assented, and
      returned triumphantly to the object of his adoration. He then
      slashed right and left at the roast pork, and had every plate but
      hers full by the time the hashed mutton made its appearance. He
      then culled out all the delicate tit-bits for his fair partner,
      and decked her hot plate with sweet sauce and mealy potatoes.
      Billy’s turn came next, and amidst demands for malt liquor and
      the arrival of smoking tumblers of brown brandy and water,
      clatter, patter, clatter, patter, became the order of the day,
      with an occasional suspicious, not to say dissatisfied, glance of
      a pork-eating passenger at the savoury dish at the top of the
      table. Mr. Bonncible, however, brought in the Teneriffe just at
      the critical moment, when Billy having replenished both plates,
      the pork-eaters might have expected to be let in; and walked off
      with the dish in exchange for the decanter. Our friends then
      pledged each other in a bumper of Cape. The pork was followed by
      an extremely large strong-smelling Cheshire cheese, in a high
      wooden cradle, which in its turn was followed by an extremely
      large strong-smelling man in a mountainous many-caped greatcoat,
      who with a bob of his head and a kick out behind, intimated that
      paying time was come for him. Growls were then heard of its not
      being half an hour, or of not having had their full time,
      accompanied by dives into the pockets and reticules for the
      needful—each person wondering how little he could give without a
      snubbing.



      027m


      _Original Size_


      Quite “optional” of course. Billy, who was bent on doing the
      magnificent, produced a large green-and-gold-tasseled purse,
      almost as big as a stocking, and drew therefrom a great
      five-shilling piece, which having tapped imposingly on his plate,
      he handed ostentatiously to the man, saying, “for this lady and
      me,” just as if she belonged to him; whereupon down went the head
      even with the table, with an undertoned intimation that Billy
      “needn’t ‘urry, for he would make it all right with the guard.”
      The waiter followed close on the heels of the coachman, drawing
      every body for half-a-crown for the dinner, besides what they had
      had to drink, and what they “pleased for himself,” and Billy
      again anticipated the lady by paying for both. Instead, however,
      of disputing his right so to do, she seemed to take it as a
      matter of course, and bent a little forward and said in a sort of
      half-whisper, though loud enough to be heard by a twinkling-eyed,
      clayey-complexioned she-outsider, sitting opposite, dressed in a
      puce-coloured cloth pelisse and a pheasant-feather bonnet, “I
      fear you will think me very troublesome, but do you think you
      could manage to get me a finger-glass?” twiddling her pretty
      taper fingers as she spoke.

      “Certainly!” replied Billy, all alacrity, “certainly.”

      “With a little tepid water,” continued Miss Willing, looking
      imploringly at Billy as he rose to fulfil her behests.

      “Such airs!” growled Pheasant-feathers to her next neighbour with
      an indignant toss of her colour-varying head.

      Billy presently appeared, bearing one of the old deep
      blue-patterned finger-glasses, with a fine damask napkin, marked
      with a ducal coronet—one of the usual perquisites of servitude.

      Miss then holding each pretty hand downwards, stripped her
      fingers of their rings, just as a gardener strips a stalk of
      currants of its fruit, dropping, however, a large diamond ring
      (belonging to her ladyship, which she was just airing) skilfully
      under the table, and for which fat Billy had to dive like a dog
      after an otter.

      “Oh, dear!” she was quite ashamed at her awkwardness and the
      trouble she had given, she assured Billy, as he rose red and
      panting from the pursuit.

      “Done on purpose to show her finery,” muttered Pheasant-feather
      bonnet, with a sneer.

      Miss having just passed the wet end of the napkin across her
      cherry lips and pearly teeth, and dipped her fingers becomingly
      in the warm water, was restoring her manifold rings, when the
      shrill _twang, twang, twang_ of the horn, with the prancing of
      some of the newly-harnessed cripples on the pavement as they
      tried to find their legs, sounded up the arch-way into the little
      room, and warned our travellers that they should be reinvesting
      themselves in their wraps. So declining any more Teneriffe, Miss
      Willing set the example by drawing on her pretty kid gloves, and
      rising to give the time to the rest. Up they all got.



      CHAPTER III. THE ROAD RESUMED.—MISS PHEASANT-FEATHERS.


      THE room, as we said before, being crammed, and our fair friend
      Miss Willing taking some time to pass gracefully down the line of
      chair-backs, many of whose late occupants were now swinging their
      arms about in all the exertion of tying up their mouths, and
      fighting their ways into their over-coats, Mr. Pringle, as he
      followed, had a good opportunity of examining her exquisite
      _tournure_, than which he thought he never saw anything more
      beautifully perfect. He was quite proud when a little more width
      of room at the end of the table enabled him to squeeze past a
      robing, Dutch-built British-lace-vending pack-woman, and reclaim
      his fair friend, just as a gentleman does his partner at the end
      of an old country dance. How exultingly he marched her through
      the line of inn hangers-on, hostlers, waiters, porters,
      post-boys, coachmen, and insatiable Matthews-at-home of an inn
      establishment, “Boots,” a gentleman who will undertake all
      characters in succession for a consideration. How thankful we
      ought to be to be done with these harpies!

      Bouncible, either mistaking the rank of his guests, or wanting to
      have a better look at the lady, emerged from his glass-fronted
      den of a bar, and salaam’d them up to the dirty coach, where the
      highly-fee’d coachman stood door in hand, waiting to perform the
      last act of attention for his money. In went Billy and the
      beauty, or rather the beauty and Billy, bang went the door, the
      outsiders scrambled up on to their perches and shelves as best
      they could. “_All right! Sit tight!_” was presently heard, and
      whip, jip, crack, cut, three blind ‘uns and a bolter were again
      bumping the lumbering vehicle along the cobble-stoned street,
      bringing no end of cherry cheeks and corkscrew ringlets to the
      windows, to mark that important epoch of the day, the coach
      passing by.



      031m


      _Original Size_


      Billy, feeling all the better for his dinner, and inspirited by
      sundry gulps of wine, proceeded to make himself comfortable, in
      order to open fire as soon as ever the coach got off the stones.
      He took a rapid retrospect of all the various angels he had
      encountered, those who had favoured him, those who had frowned,
      and he was decidedly of opinion that he had never seen anything
      to compare to the fair lady before him. He was rich and thriving
      and would please himself without consulting
      Want-nothin’-but-what’s-right Jerry, Half-a-yard-of-the-table
      Joe, or any of them. It wasn’t like as if they were to be in Co.
      with him in the lady. She would never come into the balance
      sheets. No; she was to be all his, and they had no business with
      it. He believed Want-nothin’-but-what’s-right would be glad if he
      never married. Just then the coach glid from the noisy pavement
      on to the comparatively speaking silent macadamised road, and
      Billy and the lady opened fire simultaneously, the lady about the
      discomforts of coach-travelling, which she had never tried
      before, and Billy about the smack of the Teneriffe, which he
      thought very earthy. He had some capital wine at home, he said,
      as everybody has. This led him to London, the street conveniences
      or inconveniences as they then were of the metropolis, which
      subject he plied for the purpose of finding out as well where the
      lady lived as whether her carriage would meet her or not; but
      this she skilfully parried, by asking Billy where he lived, and
      finding it was Doughty Street, Russell Square, she observed, as
      in truth it is, that it was a very airy part of the town, and
      proceeded to expatiate on the beauty of the flowers in Covent
      Garden, from whence she got to the theatres, then to the opera,
      intimating a very considerable acquaintance as well with the
      capital as with that enchanted circle, the West-end, comprising
      in its contracted limits what is called the world. Billy was
      puzzled. He wished she mightn’t be a cut above him—such lords,
      such ladies, such knowledge of the court—could she be a
      maid-of-honour? Well, he didn’t care. No ask no have, so he
      proceeded with the pumping process again. “Did she live in town?”

      _Fair Lady_.—“Part of the year.”

      _Billy_.—“During the season I ‘spose?”

      _Fair Lady_.—“During the sitting of parliament.”

      “There again!” thought Billy, feeling the expectation-funds fall
      ten per cent, at least. “Well, faint heart never won fair lady,”
      continued he to himself, considering how next he should sound
      her. She was very beautiful—what pretty pearly teeth she had, and
      such a pair of rosy lips—such a fair forehead too, and _such_
      nice hair—he’d give a fipun note for a kiss!—he’d give a tenpun
      note for a kiss!—dashed if he wouldn’t give a fifty-pun for a
      kiss. Then he wondered what Head-and-shoulders Smith would think
      of her. As he didn’t seem to be making much progress, however, in
      the information way, he now desisted from that consideration, and
      while contemplating her beauty considered how best he should
      carry on the siege. Should he declare who and what he was, making
      the best of himself of course, and ask her to be equally
      explicit, or should he beat about the bush a little longer and
      try to fish out what he could about her.

      They had a good deal of day before them yet, dark though the
      latter part of it would be; which, however, on second thoughts,
      he felt might be rather favourable, inasmuch as she wouldn’t see
      when he was taken aback by her answers. He would beat about the
      bush a little longer. It was very pleasant sport.

      “Did you say you lived in Chelsea?” at length asked Billy, in a
      stupid self-convicting sort of way.

      “No,” replied the fair lady with a smile; “I never mentioned
      Chelsea.”

      “Oh, no; no more you did,” replied Billy, taken aback, especially
      as the lady led up to no other place.

      “Did she like the country?” at length asked he, thinking to try
      and fix her locality there, if he could not earth her in London.

      “Yes, she liked the country, at least out of the season—there was
      no place like London in the season,” she thought.

      Billy thought so too; it was the best place in summer, and the
      only place in winter.

      Well, the lady didn’t know, but if she had to choose either place
      for a permanency, she would choose London.

      This sent the Billy funds up a little. He forgot his intention of
      following her into the country, and began to expatiate upon the
      luxuries of London, the capital fish they got, the cod and
      hoyster sauce (for when excited, he knocked his h’s about a
      little), the cod and hoyster sauce, the turbot, the mackerel, the
      mullet, that woodcock of the sea, as he exultingly called it,
      thinking what a tuck-out he would have in revenge for his country
      inn abstinence. He then got upon the splendour of his own house
      in Doughty Street—the most agreeable in London. Its spacious
      entrance, its elegant stone staircase; his beautiful
      drawing-room, with its maroon and rose-coloured brocaded satin
      damask curtains, and rich Tournay carpet, its beautiful
      chandelier of eighteen lights, and Piccolo pianoforte, and was
      describing a most magnificent mirror—we don’t know what size, but
      most beautiful and becoming—when the pace of the vehicle was
      sensibly felt to relax; and before they had time to speculate on
      the cause, it had come to a stand-still.

      “Stopped,” observed Billy, lowering the window to look out for
      squalls.

      No sooner was the window down, than a head at the door proclaimed
      mischief. The _tête-à-tête_ was at an end. The guard was going to
      put Pheasant-feather bonnet inside. Open sesame _—W-h-i-s-h_. In
      came the cutting wind—oh dear what a day!

      “Rum for a leddy?” asked the guard, raising a great half-frozen,
      grog-blossomy face out of the blue and white coil of a
      shawl-cravat in which it was enveloped,—“Git in” continued he,
      shouldering the leddy up the steps, without waiting for an
      answer, and in popped Pheasant-feathers; when, slamming-to the
      door, he cried “_right!_” to the coachman, and on went the
      vehicle, leaving the enterer to settle into a seat by its
      shaking, after the manner of the omnibus cads, who seem to think
      all they have to do is to see people past the door. As it was,
      the new-comer alighted upon Billy, who cannoned her off against
      the opposite door, and then made himself as big as he could, the
      better to incommode her. Pheasant-feathers, however, having
      effected an entrance, seemed to regard herself as good as her
      neighbours, and forthwith proceeded to adjust the window to her
      liking, despite the eyeing and staring of Miss Willing. Billy was
      indignant at the nasty peppermint-drop-smelling woman intruding
      between the wind and his beauty, and inwardly resolved he would
      dock the guard’s fee for his presumption in putting her there.
      Miss Willing gathered herself together as if afraid of
      contamination; and, forgetting her _role_, declared, after a jolt
      received in one of her seat-shiftings, that it was just the
      “smallest coach she had ever been in.” She then began to
      scrutinise her female companion’s attire.

      A cottage-bonnet, made of pheasant-feathers; was there ever such
      a frightful thing seen,—all the colours of the rainbow
      combined,—must be a poacher’s daughter, or a poulterer’s. Paste
      egg-coloured ribbons; what a cloth pelisse,—puce colour in some
      parts,—bath-brick colour in others,—nearly drab in
      others,—thread-bare all over. Dare say she thought herself fine,
      with her braided waist, up to her ears. Her glazy gloves might be
      any colour—black, brown, green, gray. Then a qualm shot across
      Miss Willing’s mind that she had seen the pelisse before. Yes,
      no, yes; she believed it was the very one she had sold to Mrs.
      Pickles’ nursery governess for eighteen shillings. So it was. She
      had stripped the fur edging off herself, and there were the
      marks. Who could the wearer be? Where could she have got it? She
      could not recollect ever having seen her unwholesome face before.
      And yet the little ferrety, white-lashed eyes settled upon her as
      if they knew her. Who could she be? What, if she had lived
      fellow—(we’ll not say what)—with the creature somewhere. There
      was no knowing people out of their working clothes, especially
      when they set up to ride inside of coaches. Altogether, it was
      very unpleasant.

      Billy remarked his fair friend’s altered mood, and rightly
      attributed it to the intrusion of the nasty woman, whose gaudy
      headgear the few flickering rays of a December sun were now
      lighting up, making the feathers, so beautiful on a bird, look,
      to Billy’s mind, so ugly on a bonnet, at least on the bonnet that
      now thatched the frightful face beside him. Billy saw the fair
      lady was not accustomed to these sort of companions, and wished
      he had only had the sense to book the rest of the inside when the
      coach stopped to dine. However, it could not be helped now; so,
      having ascertained that Pheasant-feathers was going all the way
      to “Lunnnn,” as she called it, when the sun sunk behind its
      massive leadeen cloud, preparatory to that long reign of darkness
      with which travellers were oppressed,—for there were no oil-lamps
      to the roofs of stage-coaches,—Billy being no longer able to
      contemplate the beauties of his charmer, now changed his seat,
      for a little confidential conversation by her side.

      He then, after a few comforting remarks, not very flattering to
      Pheasant-feathers’ beauty, resumed his expatiations about his
      splendid house in Doughty Street, Russell Square, omitting, of
      course, to mention that it had been fitted up to suit the taste
      of another lady, who had jilted him. He began about his
      dining-room, twenty-five feet by eighteen, with a polished steel
      fender, and “pictors” all about the walls; for, like many people,
      he fancied himself a judge of the fine arts, and, of course, was
      very frequently fleeced.

      This subject, however, rather hung fire, a dining-room being
      about the last room in a house that a lady cares to hear about,
      so she presently cajoled him into the more genial region of the
      kitchen, which, unlike would-be fine ladies of the present day,
      she was not ashamed to recognise. From the kitchen they proceeded
      to the store-room, which Billy explained was entered by a door at
      the top of the back stairs, six feet nine by two feet eight,
      covered on both sides with crimson cloth, brass moulded in panels
      and mortise latch. He then got upon the endless, but
      “never-lady-tiring,” subject of bed-rooms—his best bed-room, with
      a most elegant five-feet-three canopy-top, mahogany bedstead,
      with beautiful French chintz furniture, lined with pink, outer
      and inner valance, trimmed silk tassel fringe, &c., &c., &c. And
      so he went maundering on, paving the way most elaborately to an
      offer, as some men are apt to do, instead of getting briskly to
      the “ask-mamma” point, which the ladies are generally anxious to
      have them at.

      To be sure, Billy had been bowled over by a fair, or rather
      unfair one, who had appeared quite as much interested about his
      furniture and all his belongings as Miss Willing did, and who,
      when she got the offer, and found he was not nearly so well off
      as Jack Sanderson, declared she was never so surprised in her
      life as when Billy proposed; for though, as she politely said,
      every one who knew him must respect him, yet he had never even
      entered her head in any other light than that of an agreeable
      companion. This was Miss Amelia Titterton, afterwards Mrs.
      Sanderson. Another lady, as we said before (Miss Bowerbank), had
      done worse; for she had regularly jilted him, after putting him
      to no end of expense in furnishing his house, so that, upon the
      whole, Billy had cause to be cautious. A coach, too, with its
      jolts and its jerks, and its brandy-and-water stoppages, is but
      ill calculated for the delicate performance of offering, to say
      nothing of having a pair of nasty white-lashed,
      inquisitive-looking, ferrety eyes sitting opposite, with a pair
      of listening ears, nestling under the thatch of a
      pheasant-feather bonnet. All things considered, therefore, Billy
      may, perhaps, stand excused for his slowness, especially as he
      did not know but what he was addressing a countess.

      And so the close of a scarcely dawned December day, was followed
      by the shades of night, and still the jip, jip, jipping; whip,
      whip, whipping; creak, creak, creaking of the heavy lumbering
      coach, was accompanied by Billy’s maunderings about his noble
      ebony this, and splendid mahogany that, varied with, here and
      there, a judicious interpolation of an “indeed,” or a “how
      beautiful,” from Miss Willing, to show how interested she was in
      the recital; for ladies are generally good listeners, and Miss
      Willing was essentially so.

      The “demeanour of the witness” was lost, to be sure, in the
      chancery-like darkness that prevailed; and Billy felt it might be
      all blandishment, for nothing could be more marked or agreeable
      than the interest both the other ladies had taken in his family,
      furniture, and effects. Indeed, as he felt, they all took much
      the same course, for, for cool home-questioning, there is no man
      can compete with an experienced woman. They get to the
      “What-have-you-got, and What-will-you-do” point, before a man has
      settled upon the line of inquiry—very likely before he has got
      done with that interesting topic—the weather.

      At length, a sudden turn of the road revealed to our friends, who
      were sitting with their faces to the horses, the first distant
      curve of glow-worm-like lamps in the distance, and presently the
      great white invitations to “try warren’s,” or “day and martin’s
      blacking,” began to loom through the darkness of the dead walls
      of the outskirts of London. They were fast approaching the
      metropolis. The gaunt elms and leafless poplars presently became
      fewer, while castellated and sentry-box-looking summer-houses
      stood dark in the little paled-off gardens. At last the villas,
      and semi-detached villas, collapsed into one continuous gas-lit
      shop-dotted street. The shops soon became better and more
      frequent,—more ribbons and flowers, and fewer periwinkle stalls.
      They now got upon the stones. Billy’s heart jumped into his month
      at the jerk, for he knew not how soon his charmer and he might
      part, and as yet he had not even ascertained her locality. Now or
      never, thought he, rising to the occasion, and, with difficulty
      of utterance, he expressed a hope that he might have the pleasure
      of seeing her ‘ome.

      “Thank you, _no_,” replied Miss Willing, emphatically, for it was
      just the very thing she most dreaded, letting him see her
      reception by the servants.

      “Humph!” grunted Billy, feeling his funds fall five-and-twenty
      per cent.—“Miss Titterton or Miss Bowerbank over again,” thought
      he.

      “Not but that I most fully appreciate your kindness,” whispered
      Miss Willing, in the sweetest tone possible, right into his ear,
      thinking by Billy’s silence that her vehemence had offended him;
      “but,” continued she, “I’m only going to the house of a friend, a
      long way from you, and I expect a servant to meet me at the Green
      Man in Oxford Street.”

      “Well, but let me see you to the”—(puff, gasp)—“Green Man,”
      ejaculated Billy, the funds of hope rising more rapidly than his
      words.

      “It’s very kind,” whispered Miss Willing, “and I feel it _very,
      very_ much, but”—

      “But if your servant shouldn’t come,” interrupted Billy, “you’d
      never find your way to Brompton in this nasty dense yellow fog,”
      for they had now got into the thick of a fine fat one.

      “Oh, but I’m not going to Brompton,” exclaimed Miss Willing,
      amused at this second bad shot of Billy’s at her abode.

      “Well, wherever you are going, I shall only be too happy to
      escort you,” replied Billy, “I know Lunnun well.”

      “So do I,” thought Miss Willing, with a sigh. And the coach
      having now reached that elegant hostelry, the George and Blue
      Badger, in High Holborn, Miss showed her knowledge of it by
      intimating to Billy that that was the place for him to alight; so
      taking off her glove she tendered him her soft hand, which Billy
      grasped eagerly, still urging her to let him see her home, or at
      all events to the Green Man, in Oxford Street.

      Miss, however, firmly but kindly declined his services, assuring
      him repeatedly that she appreciated his kindness, which she
      evinced by informing him that she was going to a friend’s at No.
      —, Grosvenor Square, that she would only be in town for a couple
      of nights; but that if he _really_ wished to see her
      again,—“_really_ wished it,” she repeated with an emphasis, for
      she didn’t want to be trifled with,—she would be happy to see him
      to tea at eight o’clock on the following evening.

      “_Eight o’clock!_” gasped Billy. “No. ——, Gruvenor Square,”
      repeated he. “I knows it—I’ll be with you to a certainty—I’ll be
      with you to a”—(puff)—“certainty.” So saying, he made a sandwich
      of her fair taper-fingered hand, and then responded to the
      inquiry of the guard, if there was any one to “git oot there,” by
      alighting. And he was so excited that he walked off, leaving his
      new silk umbrella and all his luggage in the coach, exclaiming,
      as he worked his way through the fog to Doughty Street, “No.——,
      Gruvenor Square—eight o’clock—eight o’clock—No.——, Gruvenor
      Square—was there ever such a beauty!—be with her to a certainty,
      be with her to a certainty.” Saying which, he gave an ecstatic
      bound, and next moment found himself sprawling a-top of a
      murder!—crying apple-woman in the gutter. Leaving him there to
      get up at his leisure, let us return to his late companion in the
      coach.

      Scarcely was the door closed on his exit, ere a sharp shrill
      “_You don’t know me!—you don’t know me!_” sounded from under the
      pheasant-feather bonnet, and shot through Miss Willing like a
      thrill.

      “Yes, no, yes; who is it?” ejaculated she, thankful they were
      alone.

      “Sarey Grimes, to be sure,” replied the voice, in a semi-tone of
      exultation.

      “Sarah Grimes!” exclaimed Miss Willing, recollecting the veriest
      little imp of mischief that ever came about a place, the daughter
      of a most notorious poacher. “So it is! Why, Sarah, who would
      ever have thought of seeing you grown into a great big woman.”

      “I thought you didn’t know me,” replied Sarah; “I used often to
      run errands for you,” added she.

      “I remember,” replied Miss Willing, feeling in her reticule for
      her purse. Sarah had carried certain delicate missives in the
      country that Miss Willing would now rather have forgotten, how
      thankful she was that the creature had not introduced herself
      when her fat friend was in the coach. “What are you doing now?”
      asked Miss Willing, jingling up the money at one end of the purse
      to distinguish between the gold and the silver.

      Sarey explained that being now out of place (she had been
      recently dismissed from a cheesemonger’s at Lutterworth for
      stealing a copper coal-scoop, a pound of whitening, and a pair of
      gold spectacles, for which a donkey-travelling general merchant
      had given her seven and sixpence), the guard of the coach, who
      was her great-uncle, had given her a lift up to town to try what
      she could do there again; and Miss Willing’s quick apprehension
      seeing that there was some use to be made of such a sharp-witted
      thing, having selected a half-sovereign out of her purse, thus
      addressed her:

      “Well, Sarah, I’m glad to see you again. You are very much
      improved, and will be very good-looking. There’s half a sovereign
      for you,” handing it to her, “and if you’ll come to me at six
      o’clock to-morrow evening in Grosvenor Square, I dare say I shall
      be able to look out some things that may be useful to you.”

      “Thanke, mum; thanke!” exclaimed Sarey, delighted at the idea.
      “I’ll be with you, you may depend.”

      “You know Big Ben,” continued Miss Willing, “who was my lord’s
      own man; he’s hall-porter now, ring and tell him you come for me,
      and he’ll let you in at the door.”

      “Certainly, mum, certainly,” assented Pheasant-feathers, thinking
      how much more magnificent that would be than sneaking down the
      area.

      And the coach having now reached the Green Man, Miss Willing
      alighted and took a coach to Grosvenor Square, leaving Miss
      Grimes to pursue its peregrinations to the end of its journey.

      And Billy Pringle having, with the aid of the “pollis,” appeased
      the basket-woman’s wrath, was presently ensconced in his
      beautiful house in Doughty Street.

      So, _tinkle, tinkle, tinkle_,—down goes the curtain on this
      somewhat long chapter.



      CHAPTER IV. A GLASS COACH.—MISS WILLING (EN GRAND COSTUME)


      NEXT day our friend Billy was buried in looking after his lost
      luggage and burnishing up the gilt bugle-horn buttons of the
      coat, waist-coat, and shorts of the Royal Epping Archers, in
      which he meant to figure in the evening. Having, through the
      medium of his “Boyle,” ascertained the rank of the owner of the
      residence where he was going to be regaled, he ordered a
      glass-coach—not a coach made of glass, juvenile readers, in which
      we could see a gentleman disparting himself like a gold-fish in a
      glass bowl, but a better sort of hackney coach with a less filthy
      driver, which, by a “beautiful fiction” of the times, used to be
      considered the hirer’s “private carriage.”

      It was not the “thing” in those days to drive up to a gentleman’s
      door in a public conveyance, and doing the magnificent was very
      expensive: for the glass fiction involved a pair of gaunt
      raw-boned horses, which, with the napless-hatted
      drab-turned-up-with-grease-coated-coachman, left very little
      change out of a sovereign. How thankful we ought to be to
      railways and Mr. Fitzroy for being able to cut about openly at
      the rate of sixpence a mile. The first great man who drove up St.
      James’s Street at high tide in a Hansom, deserves to have his
      portrait painted at the public expense, for he opened the door of
      common sense and utility.

      What a follow-my-leader-world it is! People all took to street
      cabs simultaneously, just as they did to walking in the Park on a
      Sunday when Count D’Orsay set up his “‘andsomest ombrella in de
      vorld,” being no longer able to keep a horse. But we are getting
      into recent times instead of attending Mr. Pringle to his party.
      He is supposed to have ordered his glass phenomenon.

      Now Mr. Forage, the job-master, in Lamb’s Conduit Street, with
      whom our friend did his magnificence, “performed funerals” also,
      as his yard-doors indicated, and being rather “full,” or more
      properly speaking, empty, he acted upon the principle of all
      coaches being black in the dark, and sent a mourning one, so
      there was a striking contrast between the gaiety of the Royal
      Epping Archers’ uniform—pea-green coat with a blue collar,
      salmon-coloured vest and shorts—in which Mr. Pringle was attired,
      and the gravity of the vehicle that conveyed him. However, our
      lover was so intent upon taking care of his pumps, for the fog
      had made the flags both slippery and greasy, that he popped in
      without noticing the peculiarity, and his stuttering knock-knee’d
      hobble-de-hoy, yclept “Paul,” having closed the door and mounted
      up behind, they were presently jingling away to the west, Billy
      putting up first one leg and then the other on to the opposite
      seat to admire his white-gauze-silk-encased calves by the gas and
      chemists’ windows as they passed. So he went fingering and
      feeling at his legs, and pulling and hauling at his coat,—for the
      Epping Archer uniform had got rather tight, and, moreover, had
      been made on the George-the-Fourth principle, of not being easily
      got into—along Oxford Street, through Hanover Square, and up
      Brook Street, to the spacious region that contained the object of
      his adoration. The coach presently drew up at a stately
      Italian-column porticoed mansion: down goes Paul, but before he
      gets half through his meditated knock, the door opens suddenly in
      his face, and he is confronted by Big Ben in the full livery,—we
      beg pardon,—uniform of the Delacey family, beetroot-coloured
      coat, with cherry-coloured vest and shorts, the whole elaborately
      bedizened with gold-lace.



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      The unexpected apparition, rendered more formidable by the
      blazing fire in the background, throwing a lurid light over the
      giant, completely deprived little Paul of his breath, and he
      stood gaping and shaking as if he expected the monster to address
      him.

      “Who may you please to want?” at length demanded Ben, in a deep
      sonorous tone of mingled defiance and contempt.

      “P—p—p—please, wo—wo—wo—want,” stuttered little Paul, now
      recollecting that he had never been told who to ask for.

      “Yes, who do you wish to see?” demanded Ben, in a clear
      explanatory tone, for though he had agreed to dress up for the
      occasion on the reciprocity principle of course—Miss Willing
      winking at his having two nephews living in the house—he by no
      means undertook to furnish civility to any of the undergraduates
      of life, as he called such apologies as Paul.

      “I—I—I’ll ask,” replied Paul, glad to escape back to the coach,
      out of which the Royal Archer’s bull-head was now protruding,
      anxious to be emancipated.

      “Who—ho—ho am I to a—a—ask for, pa—pa—per—please?” stuttered
      Paul, trembling all over with fear and excitement, for he had
      never seen such a sight except in a show.

      “Ask for!” muttered Billy, now recollecting for the first time
      that the fair lady and he were mutually ignorant of each other’s
      names. “Ask for! What if it should be a hoax?” thought he; “how
      foolish he would look!”

      While these thoughts were revolving in Billy’s mind, Big Ben,
      having thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his
      cherry-coloured shorts, was contemplating the dismal-looking
      coach in the disdainful cock-up-nose sort of way that a high-life
      Johnny looks at what he considers a low-life equipage; wondering,
      we dare say, who was to be deceived by such a thing.

      Billy, seeing the case was desperate, resolved to put a bold face
      on the matter, especially as he remembered his person could not
      be seen in the glass coach; so, raising his crush hat to his
      face, he holloaed out, “_I say! is this the Earl of Delacey’s?_”

      “It is,” replied Ben, with a slight inclination of his gigantic
      person.

      “Then, let me out,” demanded Billy of Paul. And this request
      being complied with, Billy skipped smartly across the flags, and
      was presently alongside of Ben, whispering up into his now
      slightly-inclined ear, “_I say, was there a lady arrived here
      last night from the country?_” (He was going to say “by the
      coach,” but he checked himself when he got to the word country.)

      “There was, sir,” replied Ben, relaxing into something like
      condescension.

      “Then I’m come to see her,” whispered Billy, with a grin.

      “Your name, if you please, sir?” replied Ben, still getting up
      the steam of politeness.

      “Mr. Pringle—Mr. William Pringle!” replied Billy with firmness.

      “All right, sir,” replied the blood-red monster, pretending to
      know more than he did; and, motioning Billy onward into the black
      and white marble-flagged entrance hall, he was about to shut him
      in, when Billy, recollecting himself, holloaed, “‘_Ome!_” to his
      coachman, so that he mightn’t be let in for the two days’ hire.
      The door then closed, and he was in for an adventure.

      It will be evident to our fair friends that the Archer bold had
      the advantage over the lady, in having all his raiment in town,
      while she had all hers, at least all the pick of hers,—her
      first-class things,—in the country. Now every body knows that
      what looks very smart in the country looks very seedy in London,
      and though the country cousins of life do get their new things to
      take back with them there, yet regular town-comers have theirs
      ready, or ready at all events to try on against they arrive, and
      so have the advantage of looking like civilised people while they
      are up. London, however, is one excellent place for remedying any
      little deficiency of any sort, at least if a person has only
      either money or credit, and a lady or gentleman can soon be
      rigged out by driving about to the different shops.

      Now it so happened that Miss Willing had nothing of her own in
      town, that she felt she would be doing herself justice to appear
      before Billy in, and had omitted bringing her ladyship’s keys,
      whereby she might have remedied the deficiency out of that
      wardrobe; however, with such a commission as she held, there
      could be no difficulty in procuring the loan of whatever was
      wanted from her ladyship’s milliner. We may mention that on
      accepting office under Lady Delacey, Miss Willing, with the
      greatest spirit of fairness, had put her ladyship’s custom in
      competition among three distinguished modistes, viz. her old
      friend Madame Adelaide Banboxeney, Madame Celeste de Montmorency,
      of Dover Street, and Miss Julia Freemantle, of Cowslip Street,
      May Fair; and Miss Freemantle having offered the same percentage
      on the bill (£15) as the other two, and £20 a year certain money
      more than Madame Banboxeney, and £25 more than Madame Celeste de
      Montmorency, Miss Freemantle had been duly declared the
      purchaser, as the auctioneers say, and in due time (as soon as a
      plausible quarrel could be picked with the then milliner) was in
      the enjoyment of a very good thing, for though the Countess
      Delacey, in the Gilpin-ian spirit of the age, tried to tie Miss
      Freemantle down to price, yet she overlooked the extras, the
      little embroidery of a bill, if we may so call it, such as four
      pound seventeen and sixpence for a buckle, worth perhaps the odd
      silver, and the surreptitious lace, at no one knows what, so long
      as they were not all in one item, and were cleverly scattered
      about the bill in broken sums, just as the lady thought the
      ribbon dear at a shilling a yard, but took it when the
      counter-skipper replied, “S’pose, marm, then, we say thirteen
      pence”—Miss Willing having had a consultation with Miss
      Freemantle as to the most certain means of quashing the Countess
      of Honiton, broached her own little requirements, and Miss
      Freemantle, finding that she only wanted the dress for one night,
      agreed to lend her a very rich emerald-green Genoa velvet
      evening-dress, trimmed with broad Valenciennes lace, she was on
      the point of furnishing for Alderman Boozey’s son’s bran-new
      wife; Miss Freemantle feeling satisfied, as she said, that Miss
      Willing would do it no harm; indeed, would rather benefit it by
      the sit her fine figure would give it, in the same way as
      shooters find it to their advantage to let their keepers have a
      day or two’s wear out of their new shoes in order to get them to
      go easy for themselves.

      The reader will therefore have the goodness to consider Miss
      Willing arrayed in Alderman Boozey’s son’s bran-new wife’s
      bran-new Genoa velvet dress, with a wreath of pure white
      camellias on her beautiful brown Madonna-dressed hair, and a
      massive true-lover’s-knot brooch in brilliants at her bosom. On
      her right arm she wears a magnificent pearl armlet, which Miss
      Freemantle had on sale or return from that equitable
      diamond-merchant, Samuel Emanuel Moses, of the Minories, the
      price ranging, with Miss Freemantle, from eighty to two hundred
      and fifty guineas, according to the rank and paying properties of
      the inquirer, though as between Moses and “Mantle,” the price was
      to be sixty guineas, or perhaps pounds, depending upon the humour
      Moses might happen to be in, when she came with the dear £. s. d.
      The reader will further imagine an elegant little boudoir with
      its amber-coloured silk fittings and furniture, lit up with the
      united influence of the best wax and Wallsend, and Miss Willing
      sitting at an inlaid centre-table, turning over the leaves of
      Heath’s “Picturesque Annual” of the preceding year. Opposite the
      fire are large white and gold folding-doors, opening we know not
      where, outside of which lurks Pheasant-feathers, placed there by
      Miss Willing on a service of delicacy.



      CHAPTER V. THE LADY’S BOUDOIR.—A DECLARATION.


      THIS way, sir,—please, sir,—yes, sir,” bowed the now obsequious
      Ben, guiding Billy by the light of a chamber candle through the
      intricacies of the half-lit inner entrance. “Take care, sir,
      there’s a step, sir,” continued he, stopping and showing where
      the first stumbling-block resided. Billy then commenced the
      gradual accent of the broad, gently-rising staircase, each step
      increasing his conviction of the magnitude of the venture, and
      making him feel that his was not the biggest house in town. As he
      proceeded he wondered what Nothin’-but-what’s-right Jerry, or
      Half-a-yard-of-the-table Joe, above all Mrs.
      Half-a-yard-of-the-table, would say if they could see him thus
      visiting at a nobleman’s house, it seemed more like summut in a
      book or a play than downright reality. Still there was no reason
      why a fine lady should not take a fancy to him—many deuced deal
      uglier fellows than he had married fine ladies, and he would take
      his chance along with the rest of them—so he laboured up after
      Ben, hoping he might not come down stairs quicker than he went
      up.

      The top landing being gained, they passed through lofty
      folding-doors into the suite of magnificent but now put-away
      drawing-rooms, whose spectral half collapsed canvas bags, and
      covered statues and sofas, threw a Kensal-Green-Cemetery sort of
      gloom over Billy’s spirits; speedily, however, to be dispelled by
      the radiance of the boudoir into which he was now passed through
      an invisible door in the gilt-papered wall. “Mr. William Pringle,
      ma’m,” whispered Ben, in a tone that one could hardly reconcile
      to the size of the monster: and Miss Willing having risen at the
      sound of the voice, bowing, Billy and she were presently locked
      hand in hand, smiling and teeth-showing most extravagantly. “I’ll
      ring for tea presently,” observed she to Ben, who seemed disposed
      to fuss and loiter about the room. “If you please, my lady,”
      replied Ben, bowing himself backwards through the panel. Happy
      Billy was then left alone with his charmer, save that
      beetroot-coloured Ben was now listening at one door on his own
      account, and Pheasant-feathers at the other on Miss Willing’s.

      Billy was quite taken aback. If he had been captivated in the
      coach what chance had he now, with all the aid of dress, scenery,
      and decorations. He thought he had never seen such a beauty—he
      thought he had never seen such a bust—he thought he had never
      seen such an arm! Miss Titterton—pooh!—wasn’t to be mentioned in
      the same century—hadn’t half such a waist. “Won’t you be seated?”
      at length asked Miss Willing, as Billy still stood staring and
      making a mental inventory of her charms. “Seat”—(puff)—“seat”
      (wheeze), gasped Billy, looking around at the shining
      amber-coloured magnificence by which he was surrounded, as if
      afraid to venture, even in his nice salmon-coloured shorts. At
      length he got squatted on a gilt chair by his charmer’s side,
      when taking to look at his toes, she led off the ball of
      conversation. She had had enough of the billing and cooing or
      gammon and spinach of matrimony, and knew if she could not bring
      him to book at once, time would not assist her. She soon probed
      his family circle, and was glad to find there was no “mamma” to
      “ask,” that dread parent having more than once been too many for
      her. She took in the whole range of connection with the precision
      of an auctioneer or an equity draftsman.

      There was no occasion for much diplomacy on her part, for Billy
      came into the trap just like a fly to a “Ketch-’em-alive O!” The
      conversation soon waxed so warm that she quite forgot to ring for
      the tea; and Ben, who affected early hours in the winter, being
      slightly asthmatical, as a hall-porter ought to be, at length
      brought it in of his own accord. Most polite he was; “My lady”
      and “Your ladyship-ing” Miss Willing with accidental intention
      every now and then, which raised Billy’s opinion of her
      consequence very considerably. And so he sat, and sipped and
      sipped, and thought what a beauty she would be to transfer to
      Doughty Street. Tea, in due time, was followed by the tray—Melton
      pie, oysters, sandwiches, anchovy toast, bottled stout, sherry
      and Seltzer water, for which latter there was no demand.

      A profane medicine-chest-looking mahogany case then made its
      appearance, which, being opened, proved to contain four cut-glass
      spirit-bottles, labelled respectively, “Rum,” “Brandy,”
      “Whiskey,” “Gin,” though they were not true inscriptions, for
      there were two whiskey’s and two brandy’s. A good old-fashioned
      black-bottomed kettle having next mounted a stand placed on the
      top bar, Miss intimated to Ben that if they had a few more coals,
      he need not “trouble to sit up;” and these being obtained, our
      friends made a brew, and then drew their chairs together to enjoy
      the feast of reason and the flow of soul; Miss slightly raising
      Alderman Boozey’s son’s bran-new wife’s bran-new emerald-green
      velvet dress to show her beautiful white-satin slippered foot, as
      it now rested on the polished steel fender.

      The awkwardness of resuming the interrupted addresses being at
      length overcome by sundry gulphs of the inspiring fluid, our
      friend Mr. Pringle was soon in full fervour again. He
      anathematised the lawyers and settlements, and delay, and was all
      for being married off-hand at the moment.

      Miss, on her part, was dignified and prudent. All she would say
      was that Mr. William Pringle was not indifferent to her,—“No,”
      sighed she, “he wasn’t”—but there were many, many considerations,
      and many, many points to be discussed, and many, many questions
      to be asked of each other, before they could even begin to _talk_
      of such a thing as immediate—“hem”—(she wouldn’t say the word)
      turning away her pretty head.

      “_Ask away, then!_” exclaimed Billy, helping himself to another
      beaker of brandy—for he saw he was approaching the
      “Ketch-’em-alive O.” Miss then put the home-question whether his
      family knew what he was about, and finding they did not, she saw
      there was no time to lose; so knocking off the expletives, she
      talked of many considerations and points, the main one being to
      know how she was likely to be kept,—whether she was to have a
      full-sized footman, or an under-sized stripling, or a buttony boy
      of a page, or be waited upon by that greatest aversion to all
      female minds, one of her own sex. Not that she had the slightest
      idea of saying “No,” but her experience of life teaching her that
      all early grandeur may be mastered by footmen, she could very
      soon calculate what sort of a set down she was likely to have by
      knowing the style of her attendant. “Show me your footman, and I
      will tell you what you are,” was one of her maxims. Moreover, it
      is well for all young ladies to have a sort of rough estimate, at
      all events, of what they are likely to have,—which, we will
      venture to say, unlike estimates in general, will fall very far
      short of the reality. Our friend Billy, however, was quite in the
      promising mood, and if she had asked for half-a-dozen Big Bens he
      would have promised her them, canes, powder, and all.

      “Oh! she should have anything, everything she wanted! A tall man
      with good legs, and all right about the mouth,—an Arab horse, an
      Erard harp, a royal pianoforte, a silver tea-urn, a gold
      coffee-pot, a service of gold—_eat gold_, if she liked,” and as
      he declared she might eat gold if she liked, he dropped upon his
      salmon-coloured knees, and with his glass of brandy in one hand,
      and hers in the other, looked imploringly up at her, a beautiful
      specimen of heavy sentimentality; and Miss, thinking she had got
      him far enough, and seeing it was nearly twelve o’clock, now
      urged him to rise, and allow her maid to go and get him a coach.
      Saying which, she disengaged her hand, and slipping through the
      invisible door, was presently whispering her behests to the
      giggling Pheasant-feathers, on the other side of the folding
      ones. A good half-hour, however, elapsed before one of those
      drowsy vehicles could be found, during which time our suitor
      obtained the fair lady’s consent to allow him to meet her at her
      friend Mrs. Freemantle’s, as she called her, in Cowslip Street,
      May Fair, at three o’clock in the following afternoon; and the
      coach having at length arrived, Miss Willing graciously allowed
      Mr. Pringle to kiss her hand, and then accompanied him to the
      second landing of the staircase, which commanded the hall, in
      order to check any communication between Pheasant-feathers and
      him.

      The reader will now perhaps accompany us to this famed milliner,
      dress and mantle-maker’s, who will be happy to execute any orders
      our fair ones may choose to favour her with.

      Despite the anathemas of a certain law lord, match-forwarding is
      quite the natural prerogative and instinct of women. They all
      like it, from the duchess downwards, and you might as well try to
      restrain a cat from mousing as a woman from match-making. Miss
      Freemantle (who acted Mrs. on this occasion) was as fond of the
      pursuit as any one. She looked Billy over with a searching,
      scrutinising glance, thinking what a flat he was, and wondered
      what he would think of himself that time twelvemonths. Billy, on
      his part, was rather dumb-foundered. Talking before two women was
      not so easy as talking to one; and he did not get on with the
      immediate matrimony story half so well as he had done over-night.
      The ladies saw his dilemma, and Miss Willing quickly essayed to
      relieve him. She put him through his pleadings with all the skill
      of the great Serjeant Silvertougue, making Billy commit himself
      most irretrievably.

      “Mamma” (Miss Freemantle that is to say) then had her innings.

      She was much afraid it couldn’t be done off-hand—indeed she was.
      There was a place on the Border—Gretna Green—she dare say’d he’d
      heard of it; but then it was a tremendous distance, and would
      take half a lifetime to get to it. Besides, Miss p’raps mightn’t
      like taking such a journey at that time of year.

      Miss looked neither yes nor no. Mamma was more against it than
      her, Mamma feeling for the countess’s coming contest and her
      future favours. Other difficulties were then discussed,
      particularly that of publicity, which Miss dreaded more than the
      journey to Gretna. It must be kept secret, whatever was done.
      Billy must be sworn to secrecy, or Miss would have nothing to say
      to him. Billy was sworn accordingly.

      Mamma then thought the best plan was to have the banns put up in
      some quiet church, where no questions would be asked as to where
      they lived, and it would be assumed that they resided within the
      parish, and when they had been called out, they could just go
      quietly and get married, which would keep things square with the
      countess and everybody else. And this arrangement being
      perfected, and liberty given to Billy to write to his bride,
      whose name and address were now furnished him, he at length took
      his departure; and the ladies having talked him over, then
      resolved themselves into a committee of taste, to further the
      forthcoming tournament. And by dint of keeping all hands at work
      all night, Miss Willing was enabled to return to the countess
      with the first instalment of such a series of lady-killing
      garments as mollified her heart, and enabled her to sustain the
      blow that followed, which however was mitigated by the assurance
      that Mr. and Mrs. William Pringle were going to live in London,
      and that Madam’s taste would always be at her ladyship’s command.

      We wish we could gratify our lady readers with a description of
      the brilliant attire that so completely took the shine out of the
      Countess of Honiton as has caused her to hide her diminished head
      ever since, but our pen is unequal to the occasion, and even if
      we had had a John Leech to supply our deficiencies, the dresses
      of those days would look as nothing compared to the rotatory
      haystacks of the present one.

      What fair lady can bear the sight of her face painted in one of
      the old poke bonnets of former days? To keep things right, the
      bonnet ought to be painted to the face every year or two.

      But to the lovers.

      In due time “Mamma” (Miss Freemantle) presented her blooming
      daughter to the happy Billy, who was attended to the hymeneal
      alter by his confidential clerk, Head-and-shoulders Smith. Big
      Ben, who was dressed in a blue frock coat with a velvet collar,
      white kerseymere trousers, and varnished boots, looking very like
      one of the old royal dukes, was the only other person present at
      the interesting ceremony, save Pheasant-feathers, who lurked in
      one of the pews.

      The secret had been well kept, for the evening papers of that day
      and the morning ones of the next first proclaimed to the “great
      world,” that sphere of one’s own acquaintance, that William
      Pringle, Esquire, of Doughty Street, Russell Square, was married
      to Miss Emma Willing, of—the papers did not say where.



      CHAPTER VI. THE HAPPY UNITED FAMILY.—CURTAIN CRESCENT.

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      THE PRINGLES of course were furious when they read the
      announcement of Billy’s marriage. Such a degradation to such a
      respectable family, and communicated in such a way. We need
      scarcely say that at first they all made the worst of it, running
      Mrs. William down much below her real level, and declaring that
      Billy though hard enough in money matters, was soft enough in
      love affairs. Then Mrs. Half-a-yard-of-the-table Joe, who up to
      that time had been the _belle_ of the family, essayed to pick her
      to pieces, intimating that she was much indebted to her
      dress—that fine feathers made fine birds—hoped that Billy would
      like paying for the clothes, and wondered what her figure would
      be like a dozen years thence. Mrs. Joe had preserved hers, never
      having indeed having been in the way of spoiling it. Joe looked
      as if he was to perpetuate the family name. By-and-by, when it
      became known that the Countess Delacey’s yellow carriage, with
      the high-stepping greys and the cocked-up-nose
      beet-root-and-cherry-coloured Johnnies, was to be seen
      astonishing the natives in Doughty Street, they began to think
      better of it; and though they did not stint themselves for
      rudeness (disguised as civility of course), they treated her less
      like a show, more especially when Billy was present. Still,
      though they could not make up their minds to be really civil to
      her, they could not keep away from her, just as the moth will be
      at the candle despite its unpleasant consequences. Indeed, it is
      one of the marked characteristics of Snobbism, that they won’t be
      cut. At least, if you do get a Snob cut, ten to one but he will
      take every opportunity of rubbing up against you, or sitting down
      beside you in public, or overtaking you on the road, or stopping
      a mutual acquaintance with you in the street, either to show his
      indifference or his independence, or in the hope of its passing
      for intimacy. There are people who can’t understand any coolness
      short of a kick. The Pringles were tiresome people. They would
      neither be in with Mrs. William, nor out with her. So there was
      that continual knag, knag, knagging going on in the happy united
      family, that makes life so pleasant and enjoyable. Mrs. William
      well knew, when any of them came to call upon her, that her
      sayings and doings would furnish recreation for the rest of the
      cage. It is an agreeable thing to have people in one’s house
      acting the part of spies. One day Mrs. Joe, who lived in
      Guildford Street, seeing the Countess’s carriage-horses
      cold-catching in Doughty Street, while her ladyship discussed
      some important millinery question with Mrs. William, could not
      resist the temptation of calling, and not being introduced to the
      Countess, said to Mis. William, with her best vinegar sneer, the
      next time they met. She “‘oped she had told her fine friend that
      the vulgar woman she saw at her ‘ouse was no connection of
      her’s.” But enough of such nonsense. Let us on to something more
      pleasant.

      Well, then, of course the next step in our story is the
      appearance of our hero, the boy Billy——Fine Billy, aforesaid.
      Such a boy as never was seen! All other mammas went away
      dissatisfied with theirs, after they had got a peep of our Billy.
      If baby-shows had been in existence in those days, Mrs. Billy
      might have scoured the country and carried away all the prizes.
      Everybody was struck in a heap at the sight of him, and his
      sayings and doings were worthy of a place in Punch. So thought
      his parents, at least. What perfected their happiness, of course,
      operated differently with the family, and eased the minds of the
      ladies, as to the expediency of further outward civility to Mrs.
      William, who they now snubbed at all points, and prophesied all
      sorts of uncharitableness of. Mrs., on her side, surpassed them
      all in dress and good looks, and bucked Billy up into a very
      produceable-looking article. Though he mightn’t exactly do for
      White’s bay-window on a summer afternoon, he looked uncommonly
      well on “‘Change,” and capitally in the country. Of course, he
      came in for one of the three cardinal sources of abuse the world
      is always so handy with, viz., that a man either behaves ill to
      his wife, is a screw, or is out-running the constable, the
      latter, of course, being Billy’s crime, which admitted of a large
      amount of blame being laid on the lady, though, we are happy to
      say, Billy had no trial of speed with the constable, for his
      wife, by whose permission men thrive, was a capital manager, and
      Billy slapped his fat thigh over his beloved balance-sheets every
      Christmas, exclaiming, as he hopped joyously round on one leg,
      snapping his finger and thumb, “_Our Billy shall be a gent! Our
      Billy shall be a gent!_” And he half came in to the oft-expressed
      wish of his wife, that he might live to see him united to a
      quality lady: Mr. and Lady Arabella Pringle, Mr. and Lady Sophia
      Pringle, or Mr. and Lady Charlotte Elizabeth Pringle, as the case
      might be.

      Vainglorious ambition! After an inordinate kidney supper, poor
      Billy was found dead in his chair. Great was the consternation
      among the Pringle family at the lamentable affliction. All except
      Jerry, who, speculating on his habits, had recently effected a
      policy on his life, were deeply shocked at the event. They buried
      him with all becoming pomp, and then, Jerry, who had always
      professed great interest in the boy Billy—so great, indeed, as to
      induce his brother (though with no great opinion of Jerry, but
      hoping that his services would never be wanted, and that it might
      ingratiate the nephew with the bachelor uncle,) to appoint him an
      executor and guardian—waited upon the widow, and with worlds of
      tears and pious lamentations, explained to her in the most
      unexplanatory manner possible, all how things were left, but
      begging that she would not give herself any trouble about her
      son’s affairs, for, if she would attend to his spiritual wants,
      and instil high principles of honour, morality, and fine feeling
      into his youthful mind, he would look after the mere worldly
      dross, which was as nothing compared to the importance of the
      other. “Teach him to want nothin’ but what’s right,” continued
      Jerry, as he thought most impressively. “Teach him to want
      nothin’ but what’s right, and when he grows up to manhood marry
      him to some nice, pious respectable young woman in his own rank
      of life, with a somethin’ of her own; gentility is all very well
      to talk about, but it gets you nothin’ at the market,” added he,
      forgetting that he was against the mere worldly dross.

      But Mrs. Pringle, who knew the value of the article, intimated at
      an early day, that she would like to be admitted into the money
      partnership as well, whereupon Jerry waxing wroth, said with an
      irate glance of his keen grey eyes, “My dear madam, these family
      matters, in my opinion, require to be treated not only in a
      business-like way, but with a very considerable degree of
      delicacy,” an undisputed dogma, acquiring force only by the
      manner in which it was delivered. So the pretty widow saw she had
      better hold her tongue, and hope for the best from the little
      fawning bully.



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      The melancholy catastrophe with which we closed our last chapter
      found our hero at a preparatory school, studying for Eton,
      whither papa proposed sending him on the old principle of getting
      him into good society; though we believe it is an experiment that
      seldom succeeds. The widow, indeed, took this view of the matter,
      for her knowledge of high life caused her to know that though a
      “proud aristocracy” can condescend, and even worship wealth, yet
      that they are naturally clannish and exclusive, and tenacious of
      pedigree. In addition to this, Mrs. Pringle’s experience of men
      led her to think that the solemn pedantic “Greek and Latin ones,”
      as she called them, who know all about Julius Cæsar coming,
      “_summa diligentia_,” on the top of the diligence, were not half
      so agreeable as those who could dance and sing, and knew all that
      was going on in the present-day world; which, in addition to her
      just appreciation of the delicate position of her son, made her
      resolve not to risk him among the rising aristocracy at Eton,
      who, instead of advancing, might only damage his future prospects
      in life, but to send him to Paris, where, besides the three
      R’s,—“reading, riting, and rithmetic,”—he would acquire all the
      elegant accomplishments and dawn fresh upon the world an
      unexpected meteor.

      This matter being arranged, she then left Dirty Street, as she
      called Doughty Street, with all the disagreeable Pringle family
      espionage, and reminiscences, and migrated westward, taking up
      her abode in the more congenial atmosphere of Curtain Crescent,
      Pimlico, or Belgravia, as, we believe the owners of the houses
      wish to have it called. Here she established herself in a very
      handsome, commodious house, with porticoed doorway and balconied
      drawing-rooms—every requisite for a genteel family in short; and
      such a mansion being clearly more than a single lady required,
      she sometimes accommodated the less fortunate, through the medium
      of a house-agent, though both he and she always begged it to be
      distinctly understood that she did not let lodgings, but
      “apartments;” and she always requested that the consideration
      might be sent to her in a sealed envelope by the occupants, in
      the same manner as she transmitted them the bill. So she managed
      to make a considerable appearance at a moderate expense, it being
      only in the full season that her heart yearned towards the
      houseless, when of course a high premium was expected. There is
      nothing uncommon in people letting their whole houses; so why
      should there be anything strange in Mrs. Pringle occasionally
      letting a part of one? Clearly nothing. Though Mrs. Joe did say
      she had turned a lodging-house keeper, she could not refrain from
      having seven-and-sixpence worth of Brougham occasionally to see
      how the land lay.

      It is but justice to our fair friend to say that she commenced
      with great prudence. So handsome unprotected a female being open
      to the criticisms of the censorious, she changed her good-looking
      footman for a sedate elderly man, whose name, Properjohn, John
      Properjohn, coupled with the severe austerity of his manners, was
      enough to scare away intruders, and to keep the young girls in
      order, whom our friend had consigned to her from the country, in
      the hopes that her drilling and recommendation would procure them
      admission into quality families.



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      Properjohn had been spoiled for high service by an attack of the
      jaundice, but his figure was stately and good, and she sought to
      modify his injured complexion by a snuff-coloured, Quaker-cut
      coat and vest, with claret-coloured shorts, and buckled shoes.
      Thus attired, with his oval-brimmed hat looped up with gold cord,
      and a large double-jointed brass-headed cane in his hand, he
      marched after his mistress, a damper to the most audacious.
      Properjohn, having lived in good families until he got spoiled by
      the jaundice, had a very extensive acquaintance among the
      aristocracy, with whom Mrs. Pringle soon established a peculiar
      intercourse. She became a sort of ultimate Court of Appeal, a
      _Cour de Cassation_, in all matters of taste in apparel,—whether
      a bonnet should be lilac or lavender colour, a dress deeply
      flounced or lightly, a lady go to a ball in feathers or diamonds,
      or both—in all those varying and perplexing points that so excite
      and bewilder the female mind: Mrs. Pringle would settle all
      these, whatever Mrs. Pringle said the fair applicants would abide
      by, and milliners and dress-makers submitted to her judgment.
      This, of course, let her into the privacies of domestic life. She
      knew what husbands stormed at the milliners’ and dress-makers’
      bills, bounced at the price of the Opera-box, and were eternally
      complaining of their valuable horses catching cold. She knew who
      the cousin was who was always to be admitted in Lavender Square,
      and where the needle-case-shaped note went to after it had
      visited the toy-shop in Arcadia Street. If her own information
      was defective, Properjohn could supply the deficiency. The two,
      between them, knew almost everything.

      Nor was Mrs. Pringle’s influence confined to the heads of houses,
      for it soon extended to many of the junior members also. It is a
      well known fact that, when the gorgeous Lady Rainbow came to
      consult her about her daughter’s goings on with Captain Conquest,
      the Captain and Matilda saw Mamma alight from the flaunting
      hammer-clothed tub, as they stood behind the figured yellow
      tabaret curtains of Mrs. Pringle’s drawing-room window, whither
      they had been attracted by the thundering of one of the old noisy
      order of footmen. Blessings on the man, say we, who substituted
      bells for knockers—so that lovers may not be disturbed, or
      visitors unaccustomed to public knocking have to expose their
      incompetence.

      We should, however, state, that whenever Mrs. Pringle was
      consulted by any of the juveniles upon their love affairs, she
      invariably suggested that they had better “Ask Mamma,” though
      perhaps it was only done as a matter of form, and to enable her
      to remind them at a future day, if things went wrong, that she
      had done so. Many people make offers that they never mean to have
      accepted, but still, if they are not accepted, _they made them
      you know_. If they are accepted, why then they wriggle out of
      them the best way they can. But we are dealing in generalities,
      instead of confining ourselves to Mrs. Pringle’s practice. If the
      young lady or gentleman—for Mrs. Pringle was equally accessible
      to the sexes—preferred “asking” her to “Asking Mamma,” Mrs.
      Pringle was always ready to do what she could for them; and the
      fine Sèvres and Dresden china, the opal vases, the Bohemian
      scent-bottles, the beautiful bronzes, the or-molu jewel caskets,
      and Parisian clocks, that mounted guard in the drawing-room when
      it was not “in commission” (occupied as apartments), spoke
      volumes for the gratitude of those she befriended. Mrs. Pringle
      was soon the repository of many secrets, but we need not say that
      the lady who so adroitly concealed Pheasant Feathers on her own
      account was not likely to be entrapped into committing others;
      and though she was often waited upon by pleasant
      conversationalists on far-fetched errands, who endeavoured to
      draw carelessly down wind to their point, as well as by seedy and
      half-seedy gentlemen, who proceeded in a more business-like
      style, both the pleasant conversationalists and the seedy and the
      half-seedy gentlemen went away as wise as they came. She never
      knew anything; it was the first she had heard of anything of the
      sort.

      Altogether, Mrs. Pringle was a wonderful woman, and not the least
      remarkable trait in her character was that, although servants,
      who, like the rest of the world, are so ready to pull people down
      to their own level, knew her early professional career, yet she
      managed them so well that they all felt an interest in elevating
      her, from the Duke’s Duke, down to old quivering-calved Jeames de
      la Pluche, who sipped her hop champagne, and told all he heard
      while waiting at table—that festive period when people talk as if
      their attendants were cattle or inanimate beings.

      The reader will now have the goodness to consider our friend,
      Fine Billy, established with his handsome mother in Curtain
      Crescent—not Pimlico, but Belgravia—with all the airs and action
      described in our opening chapter. We have been a long time in
      working up to him, but the reader will not find the space wasted,
      inasmuch as it has given him a good introduction to “Madam,”
      under whose auspices Billy will shortly have to grapple with the
      “Ask Mamma” world. Moreover, we feel that if there has been a
      piece of elegance overlooked by novelists generally, it is the
      delicate, sensitive, highly-refined lady’s-maid. With these
      observations, we now pass on to the son He had exceeded, if
      possible, his good mother’s Parisian anticipations, for if he had
      not brought away any great amount of learning, if he did not know
      a planet from a fixed star, the difference of oratory between
      Cicero and Demosthenes, or the history of Cupid and the minor
      heathen deities, he was nevertheless an uncommonly good hand at a
      polka, could be matched to waltz with any one, and had a
      tremendous determination of words to the mouth. His dancing
      propensities, indeed, were likely to mislead him at starting;
      for, not getting into the sort of society Mrs. Pringle wished to
      see him attain, he took up with Cremorne and Casinos, and
      questionable characters generally.

      Mrs. Pringle’s own establishment, we are sorry to say, soon
      furnished her with the severest cause of disquietude; for having
      always acted upon the principle of having pretty maids—the
      difference, as she said, between pretty and plain ones being,
      that the men ran after the pretty ones, while the plain ones ran
      after the men—having always, we say, acted upon the principle of
      having pretty ones, she forgot to change her system on the return
      of her hopeful son; and before she knew where she was, he had
      established a desperate _liaison_ with a fair maid whose aptitude
      for breakage had procured for her the _sobriquet_ of Butter
      Fingers. Now, Butter Fingers, whose real name was Disher—Jane
      Disher—was a niece of our old friend, Big Ben, now a flourishing
      London hotel landlord, and Butter Fingers partook of the goodly
      properties and proportions for which the Ben family are
      distinguished. She was a little, plump, fair, round-about thing,
      with every quality of a healthy country beauty.

      Fine Billy was first struck with her one Sunday afternoon,
      tripping along in Knightsbridge, as she was making her way home
      from Kensington Gardens, when the cheap finery—the parasol, the
      profusely-flowered white gauze bonnet, the veil, the machinery
      laced cloak, the fringed kerchief, worked sleeves, &c., which she
      kept at Chickory the greengrocer’s in Sun Street, and changed
      there for the quiet apparel in which she left Mrs. Pringle’s
      house in Curtain Crescent—completely deceived him; as much as did
      the half-starting smile of recognition she involuntarily gave him
      on meeting. Great was his surprise to find that such a smart,
      neat-stepping, well-set-up, _bien chaussée_ beauty and he came
      from the same quarters. We need not say what followed: how
      Properjohn couldn’t see what everybody else saw; and how at
      length poor Mrs. Pringle, having changed her mind about going to
      hear Mr. Spurgeon, caught the two sitting together, on her richly
      carved sofa of chaste design, in the then non-commissioned
      put-away drawing room. There was Butter Fingers in a flounced
      book-muslin gown with a broad French sash, and her hair clubbed
      at the back _à la_ crow’s-nest. It was hard to say which of the
      three got the greatest start, though the blow was undoubtedly the
      severest on the poor mother, who had looked forward to seeing her
      son entering the rank of life legitimately in which she had
      occupied a too questionable position. The worst of it was, she
      did not know what to do—whether to turn her out of the house at
      the moment, and so infuriate the uncle and her son also, or give
      her a good scolding, and get rid of her on the first plausible
      opportunity. She had no one to consult. She knew what
      “Want-nothin’-but-what’s-right Jerry” would say, and that nothing
      would please Mrs. Half-a-yard-of-the-table Joe more than to read
      the marriage of Billy and Butter Fingers.

      Mrs. Pringle was afraid too of offending Big Ben by the abrupt
      dismissal of his niece, and dreaded if Butter Fingers had gained
      any ascendancy over William, that he too might find a convenient
      marrying place as somebody else had done.

      Altogether our fair friend was terribly perplexed. Thrown on the
      natural resources of her own strong mind, she thought, perhaps,
      the usual way of getting young ladies off bad matches, by showing
      them something better, might be tried with her son. Billy’s
      _début_ in the metropolis had not been so flattering as she could
      have wished, but then she could make allowances for town
      exclusiveness, and the pick and choice of dancing activity which
      old family connections and associations supplied. The country was
      very different; there, young men were always in request, and were
      taken with much lighter credentials.

      If, thought she, sweet William could but manage to establish a
      good country connection, there was no saying but he might retain
      it in town; at all events, the experiment would separate him from
      the artful Butter Fingers, and pave the way for her dismissal.

      To accomplish this desirable object, Mrs. Pringle therefore
      devoted her undivided attention.



      CHAPTER VII. THE EARL OF LADYTHORNE.—MISS DE GLANCEY.


      AMONG Mrs. Pringle’s many visitors was that gallant old
      philanthropist, the well-known Earl of Ladythorne, of Tantivy
      Castle, Featherbedfordshire and Belvedere House, London.

      His lordship had known her at Lady Delacey’s, and Mrs. Pringle
      still wore and prized a ruby ring he slipped upon her finger as
      he met her (accidentally of course) in the passage early one
      morning as he was going to hunt. His saddle-horses might often be
      seen of a summer afternoon, tossing their heads up and down
      Curtain Crescent, to the amusement of the inhabitants of that
      locality. His lordship indeed was a well-known general patron of
      all that was fair and fine and handsome in creation, fine women,
      fine houses, fine horses, fine hounds, fine pictures, fine
      statues, fine every thing. No pretty woman either in town or
      country ever wanted a friend if he was aware of it.

      He had long hunted Featherbedfordshire in a style of great
      magnificence, and though latterly his energies had perhaps been
      as much devoted to the pursuit of the fair as the fox, yet, as he
      found the two worked well together, he kept up the hunting
      establishment with all the splendour of his youth. Not that he
      was old: as he would say, “_far from it!_” Indeed, to walk behind
      him down St. James’s Street (he does not go quite so well up),
      his easy jaunty air, tall graceful figure, and elasticity of
      step, might make him pass for a man in that most uncertain period
      of existence the “prime of life,” and if uncivil, unfriendly,
      inexorable time has whitened his pow, his lordship carries it off
      with the aid of gay costume and colour. He had a great reputation
      among the ladies, and though they all laughed and shook their
      heads when his name was mentioned, from the pretty simpering Mrs.
      Ringdove, of Lime-Tree Grove, who said he was a “naughty man,”
      down to the buxom chambermaid of the Rose and Crown, who giggled
      and called him a “gay old gentleman,” they all felt pleased and
      flattered by his attentions.

      Hunting a country undoubtedly gives gay old gentlemen great
      opportunities, for, under pretence of finding a fox, they may
      rummage any where from the garret[1] to the cellar.


 [1] Ex. gra., As we say in the classics. “A Fox Run into a Lady’s
 Dressing-Room.—The Heythrop hounds met at Ranger’s Lodge, within about
 a mile of Charlbury, found in Hazell Wood, and went away through Great
 Cranwell, crossing the park of Cornbury, on by the old kennel to Live
 Oak, taking the side hill, leaving Leafield (so celebrated for
 clay-pipes) to his left, crossed the bottom by Five Ashes; then turned
 to the right, through King’s Wood. Smallstones, Knighton Copse, over
 the plain to Ranger’s Lodge, with the hounds close at his brush, where
 they left him in a mysterious manner. After the lapse of a little time
 he was discovered by a maid- servant in the ladies’ dressing-room,
 from which he immediately bolted on the appearance of the petticoats,
 without doing the slightest damage to person or property."—Bell’s
 Life. What a gentlemanly fox!


      In this interesting pursuit, his lordship was ably assisted by
      his huntsman, Dicky Boggledike. Better huntsman there might be
      than Dicky, but none so eminently qualified for the double
      pursuit of the fox and the fine. He had a great deal of tact and
      manner, and looked and was essentially a nobleman’s servant. He
      didn’t come blurting open-mouthed with “I’ve seen a davilish,”
      for such was his dialect, “I’ve seen a davilish fine oss, my
      lord,” or “They say Mrs. Candle’s cow has gained another prize,”
      but he would take an opportunity of introducing the subject
      neatly and delicately, through the medium of some allusion to the
      country in which they were to be found, some cover wanting
      cutting, some poacher wanting trouncing, or some puppy out at
      walk, so that if his lordship didn’t seem to come into the humour
      of the thing, Dicky could whip off to the other scent as if he
      had nothing else in his mind. It was seldom, however, that his
      lordship was not inclined to profit by Dicky’s experience, for he
      had great sources of information, and was very careful in his
      statements. His lordship and Dicky had now hunted
      Featherbedfordshire together for nearly forty years, and though
      they might not be so punctual in the mornings, or so late in
      leaving off in the evenings, as they were; and though his
      lordship might come to the meet in his carriage and four with the
      reigning favourite by his side, instead of on his neat cover
      hack, and though Dicky did dance longer at his fences than he
      used, still there was no diminution in the scale of the
      establishment, or in Dicky’s influence throughout the country.
      Indeed, it would rather seem as if the now well-matured hunt ran
      to show instead of sport, for each succeeding year brought out
      either another second horseman (though neither his lordship nor
      Dicky ever tired one), or another man in a scarlet and cap, or
      established another Rose and Crown, whereat his lordship kept dry
      things to change in case he got wet. He was uncommonly kind to
      himself, and hated his heir with an intensity of hatred which was
      at once the best chance for longevity and for sustaining the
      oft-disappointed ambitious hopes of the fair.

      Now Mrs. Pringle had always had a very laudable admiration of
      fox-hunters. She thought the best introduction for a young man of
      fortune was at the cover side, and though Jerry Pringle (who
      looked upon them as synonymous) had always denounced “gamblin’
      and huntin’” as the two greatest vices of the day, she could
      never come in to that opinion, as far as hunting was concerned.

      She now thought if she could get Billy launched under the
      auspices of that distinguished sportsman, the Earl of Ladythorne,
      it might be the means of reclaiming him from Butter Fingers, and
      getting him on in society, for she well knew how being seen at
      one good place led to another, just as the umbrella-keepers at
      the Royal Academy try to lead people into giving them something
      in contravention of the rule above their heads, by jingling a few
      half-pence before their faces. Moreover, Billy had shown an
      inclination for equitation—by nearly galloping several of Mr.
      Spavin, the neighbouring livery-stable-keeper’s horses’ tails
      off; and Mrs. Pringle’s knowledge of hunting not being equal to
      her appreciation of the sport, she thought that a master of
      hounds found all the gentlemen who joined his hunt in horses,
      just as a shooter finds them in dogs or guns, so that the thing
      would be managed immediately.

      Indeed, like many ladies, she had rather a confused idea of the
      whole thing, not knowing but that one horse would hunt every day
      in the week; or that there was any distinction of horses, further
      than the purposes to which they were applied. Hunters and
      racehorses she had no doubt were the same animals, working their
      ways honestly from year’s end to year’s end, or at most with only
      the sort of difference between them that there is between a
      milliner and a dressmaker. Be that as it may, however, all things
      considered, Mrs. Pringle determined to test the sincerity of her
      friend the Earl of Ladythorne: and to that end wrote him a
      gossiping sort of letter, asking, in the postscript, when his
      dogs would be going out, as her son was at home and would “_so
      like_” to see them.

      Although we introduced Lord Ladythorne as a philanthropist, his
      philanthropy, we should add, was rather lop-sided, being chiefly
      confined to the fair. Indeed, he could better stand a dozen women
      than one man. He had no taste or sympathy, for the hirsute tribe,
      hence his fields were very select, being chiefly composed of his
      dependents and people whom he could d—— and do what he liked
      with. Though the Crumpletin Railway cut right through his
      country, making it “varry contagious,” as Harry Swan, his first
      whip, said, for sundry large towns, the sporting inhabitants
      thereof preferred the money-griping propensities of a certain
      Baronet—Sir Moses Mainchance—whose acquaintance the reader will
      presently make, to the scot-free sport with the frigid civilities
      of the noble Earl. Under ordinary circumstances, therefore, Mrs.
      Pringle had made rather an unfortunate selection for her son’s
      _début_, but it so happened that her letter found the Earl in
      anything but his usual frame of mind.

      He was suffering most acutely for the hundred and twentieth time
      or so from one of Cupid’s shafts, and that too levelled by a hand
      against whose attacks he had always hitherto been thought
      impervious. This wound had been inflicted by the
      well-known—perhaps to some of our readers too
      well-known—equestrian coquette, Miss de Glancey of
      Half-the-watering-places-in-England-and-some-on-the-Continent,
      whose many conquests had caused her to be regarded as almost
      irresistible, and induced, it was said—with what degree of truth
      we know not—a party of England’s enterprising sons to fit her out
      for an expedition against the gallant Earl of Ladythorne under
      the Limited Liability Act.

      Now, none but a most accomplished, self-sufficient coquette, such
      as Miss de Glancey undoubtedly was, would have undertaken such an
      enterprise, for it was in direct contravention of two of the
      noble Earl’s leading principles, namely, that of liking large
      ladies (fine, coarse women, as the slim ones call them,) and of
      disliking foxhunting ones, the sofa and not the saddle being, as
      he always said, the proper place for the ladies; but Miss de
      Glancey prided herself upon her power of subjugating the tyrant
      man, and gladly undertook to couch the lance of blandishment
      against the hitherto impracticable nobleman. In order, however,
      to understand the exact position of parties, perhaps the reader
      will allow us to show how his lordship came to be seized with his
      present attack, and also how he treated it.

      Well, the ash was yellow, the beech was brown, and the oak ginger
      coloured, and the indomitable youth was again in cub-hunting
      costume—a white beaver hat, a green cut-away, a buff vest, with
      white cords and caps, attended by Boggledike and his whips in
      hats, and their last season’s pinks or purples, disturbing the
      numerous litters of cubs with which the country abounded, when,
      after a musical twenty minutes with a kill in Allonby Wood, his
      lordship joined horses with Dicky, to discuss the merits of the
      performance, as they rode home together.

      “Yas, my lord, yas,” replied Dicky, sawing away at his hat, in
      reply to his lordship’s observation that they ran uncommonly
      well; “yas, my lord, they did. I don’t know that I can ever
      remamber bein’ better pleased with an entry than I am with this
      year’s. I really think in a few more seasons we shall get ’em as
      near parfection as possible. Did your lordship notish that
      Barbara betch, how she took to runnin’ to-day? The first time she
      has left my oss’s eels. Her mother, old Blossom, was jest the
      same. Never left my oss’s eels the first season, and everybody
      said she was fit for nothin’ but the halter; but my!” continued
      he, shaking his head, “what a rare betch she did become.”

      “She did that,” replied his lordship, smiling at Dicky’s
      pronunciation.

      “And that reminds me,” continued Dicky, emboldened by what he
      thought the encouragement, “I was down at Freestone Banks
      yasterday, where Barbara was walked, a seein’ a pup I have there
      now, and I think I seed the very neatest lady’s pad I ever set
      eyes on!”—Dicky’s light-blue eyes settling on his lordship’s
      eagle ones as he spoke. “Aye! who’s was that?” asked the gay old
      gentleman, catching at the word “lady.”

      “Why, they say she belongs to a young lady from the south—a Miss
      Dedancey, I think they call her,” with the aptitude people have
      for mistaking proper names.

      “Dedancey,” repeated his lordship, “Dedancey; never heard of the
      name before—what’s set her here?”

      “She’s styin’ at Mrs. Roseworth’s, at Lanecroft House, but her
      osses stand at the Spread Heagle, at Bush Dill—Old Sam
      ‘Utchison’s, you know.”

      _Indomitable Youth_. Horses! what, has she more than one?

      _Dicky_. Two, a bay and a gray,—it’s the bay that takes my fancy
      most:—the neatest stepper, with the lightest month, and fairest,
      freeest, truest action I ever seed.

      _Indomitable Youth_. What’s she going to do with them?

      _Dicky._ Ride them, ride them! They say she’s the finest
      oss-woman that ever was seen.

      “In-deed,” mused his lordship, thinking over the _pros_ and
      _cons_ of female equestrianism,—the disagreeableness of being
      beat by them,—the disagreeableness of having to leave them in the
      lurch,—the disagreeableness of seeing them floored,—the
      disagreeableness of seeing them all running down with
      perspiration;—the result being that his lordship adhered to his
      established opinion that women have no business out hunting.

      Dicky knew his lordship’s sentiments, and did not press the
      matter, but drew his horse a little to the rear, thinking it
      fortunate that all men are not of the same way of thinking. Thus
      they rode on for some distance in silence, broken only by the
      occasional flopping and chiding of Harry Swan or his brother whip
      of some loitering or refractory hound. His lordship had a great
      opinion of Dicky’s judgment, and though they might not always
      agree in their views, he never damped Dicky’s ardour by openly
      differing with him. He thought by Dicky’s way of mentioning the
      lady that he had a good opinion of her, and, barring the riding,
      his lordship saw no reason why he should not have a good opinion
      of her too. Taking advantage of the Linton side-bar now bringing
      them upon the Somerton-Longville road, he reined in his horse a
      little so as to let Dicky come alongside of him again.

      “What is this young lady like?” asked the indomitable youth, as
      soon as they got their horses to step pleasantly together again.

      “Well now,” replied Dicky, screwing up his mouth, with an
      apologetic touch of his hat, knowing that that was his weak
      point, “well now, I don’t mean to say that she’s zactly—no, not
      zactly, your lordship’s model,—not a large full-bodied woman like
      Mrs. Blissland or Miss Poach, but an elegant, _very_ elegant,
      well-set-up young lady, with a high-bred hair about her that one
      seldom sees in the country, for though we breeds our women very
      beautiful—uncommon ‘andsome, I may say—we don’t polish them hup
      to that fine degree of parfection that they do in the towns, and
      even if we did they would most likely spoil the ‘ole thing by
      some untoward unsightly dress, jest as a country servant spoils a
      London livery by a coloured tie, or goin’ about with a great
      shock head of ‘air, or some such disfigurement; but this young
      lady, to my mind, is a perfect pictor, self, oss, and seat,—all
      as neat and perfect as can be, and nothing that one could either
      halter or amend. She is what, savin’ your lordship’s presence, I
      might call the ‘pink of fashion and the mould of form!’—Dicky
      sawing away at his hat as he spoke.

      “Tall, slim, and genteel, I suppose,” observed his lordship
      drily.

      “Jest so,” assented Dicky, with a chuck of the chin, making a
      clean breast of it, “jest so,” adding, “at least as far as one
      can judge of her in her ‘abit, you know.”

      “Thought so,” muttered his lordship.

      And having now gained one of the doors in the wall, they cut
      across the deer-studded park, and were presently back at the
      Castle. And his lordship ate his dinner, and quaffed his sweet
      and dry and twenty-five Lafitte without ever thinking about
      either the horse, or the lady, or the habit, or anything
      connected with the foregoing conversation, while the reigning
      favourite, Mrs. Moffatt, appeared just as handsome as could be in
      his eyes.



      CHAPTER VIII. CUB-HUNTING.



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      THOUGH his lordship, as we said before, would stoutly deny being
      old, he had nevertheless got sufficiently through the morning of
      life not to let cub-hunting get him out of bed a moment sooner
      than usual, and it was twelve o’clock on the next day but one to
      that on which the foregoing conversation took place, that Mr.
      Boggledike was again to be seen standing erect in his stirrups,
      yoiking and coaxing his hounds into Crashington Gorse. There was
      Dicky, cap-in-hand, in the Micentre ride, exhorting the young
      hounds to dive into the strong sea of gorse. “_Y-o-o-icks! wind
      him! y-o-o-icks! pash him up!_” cheered the veteran, now turning
      his horse across to enforce the request. There was his lordship
      at the high corner as usual, ensconced among the clump of
      weather-beaten blackthorns—thorns that had neither advanced nor
      receded a single inch since he first knew them,—his eagle eye
      fixed on the narrow fern and coarse grass-covered dell down which
      Reynard generally stole. There was Harry Swan at one corner to
      head the fox back from the beans, and Tom Speed at the other to
      welcome him away over the corn-garnered open. And now the whimper
      of old sure-finding Harbinger, backed by the sharp “yap” of the
      terrier, proclaims that our friend is at home, and presently a
      perfect hurricane of melody bursts from the agitated gorse,—every
      hound is in the paroxysm of excitement, and there are
      five-and-twenty couple of them, fifty musicians in the whole!

      “_Tally-ho!_ there he goes across the ride!”

      “_Cub!_” cries his lordship.

      “_Cub!_” responded Dicky.

      “_Crack!_” sounds the whip.

      Now the whole infuriated phalanx dashed across the ride and dived
      into the close prickly gorse on the other side as if it were the
      softest, pleasantest quarters in the world. There is no occasion
      to coax, and exhort, and ride cap-in-hand to them now. It’s all
      fury and commotion. Each hound seems to consider himself
      personally aggrieved,—though we will be bound to say the fox and
      he never met in their lives,—and to be bent upon having immediate
      satisfaction. And immediate, any tyro would think it must
      necessarily be, seeing such preponderating influence brought to
      bear upon so small an animal. Not so, however: pug holds his own;
      and, by dint of creeping, and crawling, and stopping, and
      listening, and lying down, and running his foil, he brings the
      lately rushing, clamorous pack to a more plodding, pains-taking,
      unravelling sort of performance.

      Meanwhile three foxes in succession slip away, one at Speed’s
      corner, two at Swan’s; and though Speed screeched, and screamed,
      and yelled, as if he were getting killed, not a hound came to see
      what had happened. They all stuck to the original scent.

      “Here he comes again!” now cries his lordship from his
      thorn-formed bower, as the cool-mannered fox again steals across
      the ride, and Dicky again uncovers, and goes through the capping
      ceremony. Over come the pack, bristling and lashing for
      blood—each hound looking as if he would eat the fox
      single-handed. Now he’s up to the high corner as though he were
      going to charge his lordship himself, and passing over fresh
      ground the hounds get the benefit of a scent, and work with
      redoubled energy, making the opener gorse bushes crack and bend
      with their pressure. Pug has now gained the rabbit-burrowed bank
      of the north fence, and has about made up his mind to follow the
      example of his comrades, and try his luck in the open, when a
      cannonading crack of Swan’s whip strikes terror into his heart,
      and causes him to turn tail, and run the moss-grown mound of the
      hedge. Here he unexpectedly meets young Prodigal face to face,
      who, thinking that rabbit may be as good eating as fox, has got
      up a little hunt of his own, and who is considerably put out of
      countenance by the _rencontre_; but pug, not anticipating any
      such delicacy on the part of a pursuer, turns tail, and is very
      soon in the rear of the hounds, hunting them instead of their
      hunting him. The thing then becomes more difficult, businesslike,
      and sedate—the sages of the pack taking upon them to guide the
      energy of the young. So what with the slow music of the hounds,
      the yap, yap, yapping of the terriers, and the shaking of the
      gorse, an invisible underground sort of hunt is maintained—his
      lordship sitting among his blackthorn bushes like a gentleman in
      his opera-stall, thinking now of the hunt, now of his dinner, now
      of what a good thing it was to be a lord, with a good digestion
      and plenty of cash, and nobody to comb his head.


      At length pug finds it too hot to hold him. The rays of an
      autumnal sun have long been striking into the gorse, while a warm
      westerly wind does little to ventilate it from the steam of the
      rummaging inquisitive pack. Though but a cub, he is the son of an
      old stager, who took Dicky and his lordship a deal of killing,
      and with the talent of his sire, he thus ruminates on his
      uncomfortable condition.

      “If,” says he, “I stay here, I shall either be smothered or fall
      a prey to these noisy unrelenting monsters, who seem to have the
      knack of finding me wherever I go. I’d better cut my stick as I
      did the time before, and have fresh air and exercise at all
      events, in the open:” so saying he made a dash at the hedge near
      where Swan was stationed, and regardless of his screams and the
      cracks of his whip, cut through the beans and went away, with a
      sort of defiant whisk of his brush.

      What a commotion followed his departure! How the screeches of the
      men mingled with the screams of the hounds and the twangs of the
      horn! In an instant his lordship vacates his opera-stall and is
      flying over the ragged boundary fence that separates him from the
      beans; while Mr. Boggledike capers and prances at a much smaller
      place, looking as if he would fain turn away were it not for the
      observation of the men. Now Dicky is over! Swan and Speed take it
      in their stride, just as the last hound leaves the gorse and
      strains to regain his distant companions. A large grass field,
      followed by a rough bare fallow, takes the remaining strength out
      of poor pug; and, turning short to the left, he seeks the
      friendless shelter of a patch of wretched oats. The hounds
      overrun the scent, but, spreading like a rocket, they quickly
      recover it; and in an instant, fox, hounds, horses, men, are
      among the standing corn,—one ring in final destruction of the
      beggarly crop, and poor pug is in the hands of his pursuers. Then
      came the grand _finale_, the _who hoop!_ the baying, the blowing,
      the beheading, &c. Now Harry Swan, whose province it is to
      magnify sport and make imaginary runs to ground, exercises his
      calling, by declaring it was five-and-thirty minutes (twenty
      perhaps), and the finest young fox he ever had hold of. Now his
      lordship and Dicky take out their _tootlers_ and blow a shrill
      reverberating blast; while Swan stands straddling and yelling,
      with the mangled remains high above his head, ready to throw it
      into the sea of mouths that are baying around to receive it.
      After a sufficiency of noise, up goes the carcase; the wave of
      hounds breaks against it as it falls, while a half-ravenous,
      half-indignant, growling worry succeeds the late clamourous
      outcry.

      “Tear ‘im and eat ‘im!” cries Dicky.

      “Tear ‘im and eat ‘im!” shouts his lordship.

      “Tear ‘im and eat ‘im!” shrieks Speed.

      “_Hie worry! worry! worry!_” shouts Swan, trying to tantalize the
      young hounds with a haunch, which, however, they do not seem much
      to care about.



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      The old hounds, too, seem as if they had lost their hunger with
      their anger; and Marmion lets Warrior run off with his leg with
      only a snap and an indignant rise of his bristles.

      Altogether the froth and effervescence of the thing has
      evaporated; so his lordship and Dicky turning their horses’
      heads, the watchful hounds give a bay of obedient delight as they
      frolic under their noses; and Swan having reclaimed his horse
      from Speed, the onward procession is formed to give Brambleton
      Wood a rattle by way of closing the performance of the day.

      His lordship and Dicky ride side by side, extolling the merits of
      the pack and the excellence of Crashington Gorse. Never was so
      good a cover. Never was a better pack. Mainchance’s! _pooh!_ Not
      to be mentioned in the same century. So they proceed, magnifying
      and complimenting themselves in the handsomest terms possible,
      down Daisyfield lane, across Hill House pastures, and on by
      Duston Mills to Broomley, which is close to Brambleton Wood.

      Most of our Featherbedfordshire friends will remember that after
      leaving Duston Mills the roads wind along the impetuous Lime,
      whose thorn and broom-grown banks offer dry, if not very secure,
      accommodation for master Reynard; and the draw being pretty, and
      the echo fine, his lordship thought they might as well run the
      hounds along the banks, not being aware that Peter Hitter, Squire
      Porker’s keeper, had just emerged at the east end as they came up
      at the west. However, that was neither here nor there, Dicky got
      his _Y-o-o-icks_, his lordship got his view, Swan and Speed their
      cracks and canters, and it was all in the day’s work. No fox, of
      course, was the result. “_Tweet, tweet, tweet_,” went the horns,
      his lordship taking a blow as well as Dicky, which sounded up the
      valley and lost itself among the distant hills. The hounds came
      straggling leisurely out of cover, as much as to say, “You know
      there never _is_ a fox there, so why bother us?”

      All hands being again united, the cavalcade rose the hill, and
      were presently on the Longford and Aldenbury turnpike. Here the
      Featherbedfordshire reader’s local knowledge will again remind
      him that the Chaddleworth lane crosses the turnpike at right
      angles, and just as old Ringwood, who, as usual, was trotting
      consequentially in advance of the pack, with the fox’s head in
      his mouth, got to the finger-post, a fair equestrian on a tall
      blood bay rode leisurely past with downcast eyes in full view of
      the advancing party. Though her horse whinnied and shied, and
      seemed inclined to be sociable, she took no more notice of the
      cause than if it had been a cart, merely coaxing and patting him
      with her delicate primrose-coloured kid gloves. So she got him
      past without even a sidelong look from herself.

      But though she did not look my lord did, and was much struck with
      the air and elegance of everything—her mild classic features—her
      black-felt, Queen’s-patterned, wide-awake, trimmed with
      lightish-green velvet, and green cock-feathered plume, tipped
      with straw-colour to match the ribbon that now gently fluttered
      at her fair neck,—her hair, her whip, her gloves, her _tout
      ensemble_. Her lightish-green habit was the quintessence of a
      fit, and altogether there was a high-bred finish about her that
      looked more like Hyde Park than what one usually sees in the
      country.

      “Who the deuce is that, Dicky?” asked his lordship, as she now
      got out of hearing.

      “That be _her_, my lord,” whispered Dicky, sawing away at his
      hat. “That be _her_,” repeated he with a knowing leer.

      “_Her!_ who d’ye mean?” asked his lordship, who had forgotten all
      Dicky’s preamble.

      “Well,—Miss—Miss—What’s her name—Dedancev, Dedancey,—the lady I
      told you about.”

      And the Earl’s heart smote him, for he felt that he had done
      injustice to Dicky, and moreover, had persevered too long in his
      admiration of large ladies, and in his repudiation of
      horsemanship. He thought he had never seen such a graceful seat,
      or such a piece of symmetrical elegance before, and inwardly
      resolved to make Dicky a most surprising present at Christmas,
      for he went on the principle of giving low wages, and of
      rewarding zeal and discretion, such as Dicky’s, profusely. And
      though he went and drew Brambleton Wood, he was thinking far more
      of the fair maid, her pensive, downcast look, her long eyelashes,
      her light silken hair, her graceful figure, and exquisite seat,
      than of finding a fox; and he was not at all sorry when he heard
      Dicky’s horn at the bridle-gate at the Ashburne end blowing the
      hounds out of cover. They then went home, and his lordship was
      very grumpy all that evening with his fat fair-and-forty friend,
      Mrs. Moffatt, who could not get his tea to his liking at all.

      We dare say most of our readers will agree with us, that when a
      couple want to be acquainted there is seldom much difficulty
      about the matter, even though there be no friendly go-between to
      mutter the cabalistic words that constitute an introduction; and
      though Miss de Glancey did ride so unconcernedly past, it was a
      sheer piece of acting, as she had long been waiting at Carlton
      Clumps, which commands a view over the surrounding country,
      timing herself for the exact spot where she met the too
      susceptible Earl and his hounds.

      No one knew better how to angle for admiration than this renowned
      young lady,—when to do the bold—when the bashful—when the
      timid—when the scornful and retiring, and she rightly calculated
      that the way to attract and win the young old Earl was to look as
      if she didn’t want to have anything to say to him. Her downcast
      look, and utter indifference to that fertile source of
      introduction, a pack of hounds, had sunk deeper into his tender
      heart than if she had pulled up to admire them collectively, and
      to kiss them individually. We all know how useful a dog can be
      made in matters of this sort—how the fair creatures can express
      their feelings by their fondness. And if one dog can be so
      convenient, by how much more so can a whole pack of hounds be
      made!



      CHAPTER IX. A PUP AT WALK.—IMPERIAL JOHN.


      N ext day his lordship, who was of the nice old Andlesey school
      of dressers, was to be seen in regular St. James’s Street attire,
      viz. a bright blue coat with gilt buttons, a light blue scarf, a
      buff vest with fawn-coloured leathers, and brass heel spurs,
      capering on a long-tailed silver dun, attended by a diminutive
      rosy-cheeked boy—known in the stables as Cupid-without-Wings—on a
      bay.

      He was going to see a pup he had at walk at Freestone Banks, of
      which the reader will remember Dicky had spoken approvingly on a
      previous day; and the morning being fine and sunny, his lordship
      took the bridle-road over Ashley Downs, and along the range of
      undulating Heathmoor Hills, as well for the purpose of enjoying
      the breeze as of seeing what was passing in the vale below. So he
      tit-up’d and tit-up’d away, over the sound green sward, on his
      flowing-tailed steed, his keen far-seeing eye raking all the
      roads as he went. There seemed to be nothing stirring but heavy
      crushing waggons, with doctor’s gigs and country carts, and here
      and there a slow-moving steed of the grand order of agriculture.

      When, however, he got to the broken stony ground where all the
      independent hill tracks join in common union to effect the
      descent into the vale, his hack pricked his ears, and looking
      a-head to the turn of the lane into which the tracks ultimately
      resolved themselves, his lordship first saw a fluttering,
      light-tipped feather, and then the whole figure of a horsewoman,
      emerge from the concealing hedge as it were on to the open space
      beyond. Miss, too, had been on the hills, as the Earl might have
      seen by her horse’s imprints, if he had not been too busy looking
      abroad; and she had just had time to effect the descent as he
      approached. She was now sauntering along as unconcernedly as if
      there was nought but herself and her horse in the world. His
      lordship started when he saw her, and a crimson flush suffused
      his healthy cheeks as he drew his reins, and felt his hack gently
      with his spur to induce him to use a little more expedition down
      the hill. Cupid-without-Wings put on also, to open the rickety
      gate at the bottom, and his lordship telling him, as he passed
      through, to “shut it gently,” pressed on at a well-in-hand trot,
      which he could ease down to a walk as he came near the object of
      his pursuit. Miss’s horse heard footsteps coming and looked
      round, but she pursued the even tenour of her way apparently
      indifferent to everything—even to a garotting. His lordship,
      however, was not to be daunted by any such coolness; so stealing
      quietly alongside of her, he raised his hat respectfully, and
      asked, in his mildest, blandest tone, if she had “seen a man with
      a hound in a string?”

      “_Hound! me! see!_” exclaimed Miss de Glancey, with a well
      feigned start of astonishment. “_No, sir, I have not,_” continued
      she haughtily, as if recovering herself, and offended by the
      inquiry.

      “I’m afraid my hounds startled your horse the other day,”
      observed his lordship, half inclined to think she didn’t know
      him.

      “Oh, no, they didn’t,” replied she with an upward curl of her
      pretty lip; “my horse is not so easily startled as that; are you,
      Cock Robin?” asked she, leaning forward to pat him.

      Cock Robin replied by laying back his ears, and taking a snatch
      at his lordship’s hack’s silver mane, which afforded him an
      opportunity of observing that Cock Robin was not very sociable.

      “_Not with strangers_,” pouted Miss de Glancey, with a flash of
      her bright hazel eyes. So saying, she touched her horse lightly
      with her gold-mounted whip, and in an instant she was careering
      away, leaving his lordship to the care of the now grinning
      Cupid-without-Wings.



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      And thus the mynx held the sprightly youth in tow, till she
      nearly drove him mad, not missing any opportunity of meeting him,
      but never giving him too much of her company, and always pouting
      at the suggestion of _her_ marrying a “_mere fox-hunter._” The
      whole thing, of course, furnished conversation for the gossips,
      and Mr. Boggledike, as in duty bound, reported what he heard. She
      puzzled his lordship more than any lady he had ever had to do
      with, and though he often resolved to strike and be free, he had
      only to meet her again to go home more subjugated than ever. And
      so what between Miss de Glancey out of doors and Mrs. Moffatt in,
      he began to have a very unpleasant time of it. His hat had so
      long covered his family, that he hardly knew how to set about
      obtaining his own consent to marry; and yet he felt that he ought
      to marry if it was only to spite his odious heir—_old_ General
      Binks; for his lordship called him old though the General was ten
      years younger than himself; but still he would like to look about
      him a little longer. What he would now wish to do would be to
      keep Miss de Glancey in the country, for he felt interested in
      her, and thought she would be ornamental to the pack. Moreover,
      he liked all that was handsome, _piquant_, and gay, and to be
      joked about the Featherbedfordshire witches when he went to town.
      So he resolved himself into a committee of ways and means, to
      consider how the object was to be effected, without surrendering
      himself. That must be the last resource at all events, thought
      he.

      Now upon his lordship’s vast estates was a most unmitigated
      block-head called Imperial John, from his growing one of those
      chin appendages. His real name was Hybrid—John Hybrid, of Barley
      Hill Farm; but his handsome sister, “Imperial Jane,” as the wags
      called her, having attracted his lordship’s attention, to the
      danger as it was thought of old Binks, on leaving her furnishing
      seminary at Turnham Green, John had been taken by the hand, which
      caused him to lose his head, and make him set up for what he
      called “a gent.” He built a lodge and a portico to Barley Hill
      Farm, rough cast, and put a pine roof on to the house, and then
      advertised in the “Featherbedfordshire Gazette,” that letters and
      papers were for the future to be addressed to John Hybrid,
      Esquire, Barley Hill Hall, and not Farm as they had hitherto
      been. And having done so much for the place, John next revised
      his own person, which, though not unsightly, was coarse, and a
      long way off looking anything like that of a gentleman. He first
      started the imperial aforesaid, and not being laughed at as much
      as he expected for that, he was emboldened to order a red coat
      for the then approaching season. Mounting the pink is a critical
      thing, for if a man does not land in the front rank they will not
      admit him again into the rear, and he remains a sort of red bat
      for the rest of his life,—neither a gentleman nor a farmer.

      John, however, feeling that he had his lordship’s countenance,
      went boldly at it, and the first day of the season before that
      with which we are dealing, found him with his stomach buttoned
      consequentially up in a spic and span scarlet with fancy buttons,
      looking as bumptious as a man with a large balance at his
      banker’s. He sat bolt upright, holding his whip like a
      field-marshal’s bâton, on his ill-groomed horse, with a
      tight-bearing rein chucking the Imperial chin well in the air,
      and a sort of half-defiant “you’d better not laugh at me” look.
      And John was always proud to break a fence, or turn a hound, or
      hold a horse, or do anything his lordship bid him, and became a
      sort of hunting aide-de-camp to the great man. He was a boasting,
      bragging fool, always talking about m-o-y hall, and m-o-y lodge,
      and m-o-y plate in m-o-y drawing-room, for he had not discovered
      that plate was the appendage of a dining-room, and altogether he
      was very magnificent.

      Imperial Jane kept old Binks on the fret for some time, until
      another of his lordship’s tenants, young Fred Poppyfield,
      becoming enamoured of her charms, and perhaps wishing to ride in
      scarlet too, sought her fair hand, whereupon his lordship, acting
      with his usual munificence, set them up on a farm at so low a
      rent that it acquired the name of Gift Hall Farm. This
      arrangement set Barley Hall free so far as the petticoats were
      concerned, and his lordship little knowing how well she was “up”
      in the country, thought this great gouk of a farmer, with his
      plate in his drawing-room, might come over the accomplished Miss
      de Glancey,—the lady who sneered at himself as “a mere
      fox-hunter.” And the wicked monkey favoured the delusion, which
      she saw through the moment his lordship brought the pompous
      egotist up at Newington Gorse, and begged to be allowed to
      introduce his friend, Mr Hybrid, and she inwardly resolved to
      give Mr. Hybrid a benefit. Forsaking his lordship therefore
      entirely, she put forth her most seductive allurements at
      Imperial John, talked most amazingly to him, rode over whatever
      he recommended, and seemed quite smitten with him.

      And John, who used to boast that somehow the “gals couldn’t
      withstand him,” was so satisfied with his success, that he
      presently blundered out an offer, when Miss de Glancey, having
      led him out to the extreme length of his tether, gave such a
      start and shudder of astonishment as Fanny Kemble, or Mrs.
      Siddons herself, might have envied.

      “O, Mr. Hybrid! O, Mr. Hybrid!” gasped she, opening wide her
      intelligent eyes, as if she had but just discovered his meaning.
      “O, Mr. Hybrid!” exclaimed she for the third time,
      “_you—you—you_,” and turning aside as if to conceal her emotion,
      she buried her face in her laced-fringed, richly-cyphered
      kerchief.

      John, who was rather put out by some women who were watching him
      from the adjoining turnip-field, construing all this into the
      usual misfortune of the ladies not being able to withstand him,
      returned to the charge as soon as he got out of their hearing,
      when he was suddenly brought up by such a withering “_Si-r-r-r!
      do you mean to insult me?_” coupled with a look that nearly
      started the basket-buttons of his green cut-away, and convinced
      him that Miss de Glancey, at all events, could withstand him. So
      his Majesty slunk off, consoling himself with the reflection,
      that riding-habits covered a multitude of sins, and that if he
      was not much mistaken, she would want a deal of oil-cake, or cod
      liver oil, or summut o’ that sort, afore she was fit to show.

      And the next time Miss met my lord (which, of course, she did by
      accident), she pouted and frowned at the “mere fox-hunter,” and
      intimated her intention of leaving the country—going home to her
      mamma, in fact.

      It was just at this juncture that Mrs. Pringle’s letter arrived,
      and his lordship’s mind being distracted between love on his own
      account, dread of matrimony, and dislike of old Binks, he caught
      at what he would in general have stormed at, and wrote to say
      that he should begin hunting the first Monday in November, and if
      Mrs. Pringle’s son would come down a day or two before, he would
      “put him up” (which meant mount him), and “do for him” (which
      meant board and lodge him), all, in fact, that Mrs. Pringle could
      desire. And his lordship inwardly hoped that Mr. Pringle might be
      more to Miss de Glancey’s liking than his Imperial Highness had
      proved. At all events, he felt it was but a simple act of justice
      to himself to try. Let us now return to Curtain Crescent.



      CHAPTER X. JEAN ROUGIER, OR JACK ROGERS.

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      WE need not say that Mrs. Pringle was overjoyed at the receipt of
      the Earl’s letter. It was so kind and good, and so like him. He
      always said he would do her a good turn if he could: but there
      are so many fine-weather friends in this world that there is no
      being certain of any one. Happy are they who never have occasion
      to test the sincerity of their friends, say we.

      Mrs. Pringle was now all bustle and excitement, preparing Billy
      for the great event.

      His wardrobe, always grand, underwent revision in the
      undergarment line. She got him some magnificently embroidered
      dress shirts, so fine that the fronts almost looked as if you
      might blow them out, and regardful of the _rôle_ he was now about
      to play, she added several dozen with horses, dogs, birds, and
      foxes upon them, “suitable for fishing, shooting, boating, &c.,”
      as the advertisements said. His cambric kerchiefs were of the
      finest quality, while his stockings and other things were in
      great abundance, the whole surmounted by a splendid
      dressing-case, the like of which had ne’er been seen since the
      days of Pea-Green Haine. Altogether he was capitally provided,
      and quite in accordance with a lady’s-maid’s ideas of gentility.

      Billy, on his part, was active and energetic too, for though he
      had his doubts about being able to sit at the jumps, he had no
      objection to wear a red coat; and mysterious-looking boys, with
      blue bags, were constantly to be found seated on the mahogany
      bench, in the Curtain Crescent passage, waiting to try on his top
      boots; while the cheval glass up-stairs was constantly reflecting
      his figure in scarlet, _à la_ Old Briggs. The concomitants of the
      chase, leathers, cords, whips, spurs, came pouring in apace. The
      next thing was to get somebody to take care of them.

      It is observable that the heads of the various branches of an
      establishment are all in favour of “master” spending all his
      money on their particular department. Thus, the coachman would
      have him run entirely to carriages, the groom to horses, the cook
      to the _cuisine_, the butler to wines, the gardener to grapes,
      &c., and so on.

      Mrs. Pringle, we need hardly say, favoured lady’s-maids and
      valets. It has been well said, that if a man wants to get
      acquainted with a gentleman’s private affairs, he should either
      go to the lawyer or else to the valet that’s courting the
      lady’s-maid; and Mrs. Pringle was quite of that opinion.
      Moreover, she held that no man with an efficient, properly
      trained valet, need ever be catspawed or jilted, because the
      lady’s-maid would feel it a point of honour to let the valet know
      how the land lay, a compliment he would return under similar
      circumstances. To provide Billy with this, as she considered,
      most essential appendage to a gentleman, was her next
      consideration—a valet that should know enough and not too
      much—enough to enable him to blow his master’s trumpet properly,
      and not too much, lest he should turn restive and play the wrong
      tune.

      At length she fixed upon the Anglo-Frenchman, whose name stands
      at the head of this chapter—Jean Rougier, or Jack Rogers. Jack
      was the son of old Jack Rogers, so well known as the enactor of
      the Drunken Huzzar, and similar characters of Nutkins’s Circus;
      and Jack was entered to his father’s profession, but disagreeing
      with the clown, Tom Oliver, who used to give him sundry most
      unqualified cuts and cuffs in the Circus, Jack, who was a
      tremendously strong fellow, gave Oliver such a desperate beating
      one night as caused his life to be despaired off. This took place
      at Nottingham, from whence Jack fled for fear of the
      consequences; and after sundry vicissitudes he was next
      discovered as a post-boy, at Sittingbourne, an office that he was
      well adapted for, being short and stout and extremely powerful.
      No brute was ever too bad for Jack’s riding: he would tame them
      before the day was over. Somehow he got bumped down to Dover,
      when taking a fancy to go “foreign,” he sold his master’s horses
      for what they would fetch; and this being just about the time
      that the late Mr. Probert expiated a similar mistake at the Old
      Bailey, Jack hearing of it, thought it was better to stay where
      he was than give Mr. Calcraft any trouble. He therefore accepted
      the situation of boots to the Albion Hotel, Boulogne-sur-mer; but
      finding that he did not get on half so well as he would if he
      were a Frenchman, he took to acquiring the language, which, with
      getting his ears bored, letting his hair and whiskers grow, and
      adopting the French costume in all its integrity, coupled with a
      liberal attack of the small-pox, soon told a tale in favour of
      his fees. After a long absence, he at length returned at the Bill
      Smith Revolution; and vacillating for some time between a courier
      and a valet, finally settled down to what we now find him.

      We know not how it is, if valets are so essentially necessary,
      that there should always be so many out of place, but certain it
      is that an advertisment in a morning paper will always bring a
      full crop to a door.

      Perhaps, being the laziest of all lazy lives, any one can turn
      his hand to valeting, who to dig is unable, and yet to want is
      unwilling.

      Mrs. Pringle knew better than hold a levee in Curtain Crescent,
      letting all the applicants pump Properjohn or such of the maids
      as they could get hold of; and having advertised for written
      applications, stating full particulars of previous service, and
      credentials, to be addressed to F. P. at Chisel the baker’s, in
      Yeast Street, she selected some half-dozen of the most promising
      ones, and appointed the parties to meet her, at different hours
      of course, at the first-class waiting-room of the great Western
      Station, intimating that they would know her by a bunch of red
      geraniums she would hold in her hand. And the second applicant,
      Jean Rougier, looked so like her money, having a sufficient
      knowledge of the English language to be able to understand all
      that was said, and yet at the same time sufficiently ignorant of
      it to invite confidential communications to be made before him;
      that after glancing over the testimonials bound up in his little
      parchment-backed passport book, she got the name and address of
      his then master, and sought an interview to obtain Monsieur’s
      character. This gentleman, Sir Harry Bolter, happening to owe
      Jack three-quarters of a year’s wages, which he was not likely to
      pay, spoke of him in the highest possible terms, glossing over
      his little partiality for drink by saying that, like all
      Frenchmen, he was of a convivial turn; and in consequence of Sir
      Harry’s and Jack’s own recommendations, Mrs. Pringle took him.

      The reader will therefore now have the kindness to consider our
      hero and his valet under way, with a perfect pyramid of luggage,
      and Monsieur arrayed in the foraging cap, the little coatee, the
      petticoat trowsers, and odds and ends money-bag of his long
      adopted country, slung across his ample chest.

      Their arrival and reception at Tantivy Castle will perhaps be
      best described in the following letter from Billy to his mother:—

      Tantivy Castle.

      My dearest Mamma,

      _I write a line to say that I arrived here quite safe by the 5-30
      train, and found the Earl as polite as possible. I should tell
      you that I made a mistake at starting, for it being dark when I
      arrived, and getting confused with a whole regiment of footmen, I
      mistook a fine gentleman who came forward to meet me for the
      Earl, and made him a most respectful bow, which the ass returned,
      and began to talk about the weather; and when the real Earl came
      in I took him for a guest, and was going to weather him. However
      he soon put all matters right, and introduced me to Mrs. Moffatt,
      a very fine lady, who seems to rule the roast here in grand
      style. They say she never wears the same dress twice._

      _There are always at least half-a-dozen powdered footmen, in
      cerulean blue lined with rose-coloured silk, and pink silk
      stockings, the whole profusely illustrated with gold lace, gold
      aigulets, and I don’t know what, lounging about in the halls and
      passages, wailing for company which Rougier says never comes.
      This worthy seems to have mastered the ins and outs of the place
      already, and says, “my lor has an Englishman to cook his
      beef-steak for breakfast, a Frenchman to cook his dinner, and an
      Italian confectioner; every thing that a ‘my lord’ ought to have”
      It is a splendid place,—as you will see by the above picture, *
      more like Windsor than anything I ever saw, and there seems to be
      no expense spared that could by any possibility be incurred. I’ve
      got a beautiful bedroom with warm and cold baths and a
      conservatory attached._


* Our friend was writing on Castle-paper, of course.



      _To-morrow is the first day of the season, and all the world and
      his wife will be there to a grand déjeuner à la Fourchette. The
      hounds meet before the Castle. His lordship says he will put me
      on a safe, steady hunter, and I hope he will, for I am not quite
      sure that I can sit at the jumps. However I’ll let you know how I
      come on. Meanwhile as the gong is sounding for dressing, believe
      me, my dearest mamma,_

      _Ever your truly affectionate son,_

      Wm. PRINGLE.

      Mrs. Pringle,

      Curtain Crescent, Belgrade Square, London.



      CHAPTER XI. THE OPENING DAY.—THE HUNT BREAKFAST.

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      REVERSING the usual order of things, each first Monday in
      November saw the sporting inmates of Tantivy Castle emerge from
      the chrysalis into the butterfly state of existence. His
      lordship’s green-duck hunter and drab caps disappeared, and were
      succeeded by a spic-and-span span new scarlet and white top; Mr.
      Roggledike’s last year’s pink was replaced by a new one, his hat
      was succeeded by a cap; and the same luck attended the garments
      of both Swan and Speed. The stud-groom, the pad-groom, the
      sending-on groom, all the grooms down to our little friend,
      Cupid-without-Wings, underwent renovation in their outward men.
      The whole place smelt of leather and new cloth. The Castle itself
      on this occasion seemed to participate in the general festivity,
      for a bright sun emblazoned the quarterings of the gaily
      flaunting flag, lit up the glittering vanes of the lower towers,
      and burnished the modest ivy of the basements. Every thing was
      bright and sunny, and though Dicky Boggledike did not “zactly
      like” the red sunrise, he “oped the rine might keep off until
      they were done, ‘specially as it was a show day.” Very showy
      indeed it was, for all the gentlemen out of livery,—those strange
      puzzlers—were in full ball costume; while the standard footmen
      strutted like peacocks in their rich blue liveries with
      rose-coloured linings, and enormous bouquets under their noses,
      feeling that for once they were going to have something to do.

      The noble Earl, having got himself up most elaborately in his new
      hunting garments, and effected a satisfactory tie of a
      heart’s-ease embroidered blue satin cravat, took his usual stand
      before the now blazing wood and coal fire in the enormous grate
      in the centre of his magnificent baronial hall, ready to receive
      his visitors and pass them on to Mrs. Moffat in the banqueting
      room. This fair lady was just as fine as hands could make her,
      and the fit of her rich pale satin dress, trimmed with
      swan’s-down, reflected equal credit on her milliner and her maid.
      Looking at her as she now sat at the head of the
      sumptuously-furnished breakfast table, her plainly dressed hair
      surmounted by a diminutive point-lace cap, and her gazelle-like
      eye lighting up an intelligent countenance, it were hardly
      possible to imagine that she had ever been handsomer, or that
      beneath that quiet aspect there lurked what is politely called a
      “high spirit,” that is to say, a little bit of temper.

      That however is more the Earl’s look-out than ours, so we will
      return to his lordship at the entrance hall fire.

      Of course this sort of gathering was of rather an anomalous
      character,—some coming because they wanted something, some
      because they “dirsn’t” stay away, some because they did not know
      Mrs. Moffat would be there, some because they did not care
      whether she was or not. It was a show day, and they came to see
      the beautiful Castle, not Mrs. Anybody.

      The first to arrive were the gentlemen of the second class, the
      agents and dependents of the estate,—Mr. Cypher, the auditor, he
      who never audited; Mr. Easylease, the land agent; his son, Mr.
      John Easylease, the sucking land agent; Mr. Staple, the mining
      agent; Mr. James Staple, the sucking mining agent; Mr. Section,
      the architect; Mr. Pillerton, the doctor; Mr. Brick, the builder;
      &c., who were all very polite ard obsequious, “your lordship” and
      my “my lording” the Earl at every opportunity. These, ranging
      themselves on either side of the fire, now formed the nucleus of
      the court, with the Earl in the centre.

      Presently the rumbling of wheels and the grinding of gravel was
      succeeded by the muffled-drum sort of sound of the wood pavement
      of the grand covered portico, and the powdered footmen threw back
      the folding-doors as if they expected Daniel Lambert or the
      Durham Ox to enter. It was our old friend Imperial John, who
      having handed his pipeclayed reins to his ploughman-groom,
      descended from his buggy with a clumsy half buck, half hawbuck
      sort of air, and entered the spacious portals of the Castle hall.
      Having divested himself of his paletot in which he had been doing
      “the pride that apes humility,” he shook out his red feathers,
      pulled up his sea-green-silk-tied gills, finger-combed his stiff
      black hair, and stood forth a sort of rough impersonation of the
      last year’s Earl. His coat was the same cut, his hat was the same
      shape, his boots and breeches were the same colour, and
      altogether there was the same sort of resemblance between John
      and the Earl that there is between a cart-horse and a race-horse.

      Having deposited his whip and paletot on the table on the
      door-side of a tall, wide-spreading carved oak screen, which at
      once concealed the enterers from the court, and kept the wind
      from that august assembly, John was now ready for the very
      obsequious gentleman who had been standing watching his
      performances without considering it necessary to give him any
      assistance. This bland gentleman, in his own blue coat with a
      white vest, having made a retrograde movement which cleared
      himself of the screen, John was presently crossing the hall,
      bowing and stepping and bowing and stepping as if he was
      measuring off a drain.

      His lordship, who felt grateful for John’s recent services, and
      perhaps thought he might require them again, advanced to meet him
      and gave him a very cordial shake of the hand, as much as to say,
      “Never mind Miss de Glancey, old fellow, we’ll make it right
      another time.” They then fell to conversing about turnips, John’s
      Green Globes having turned out a splendid crop, while his Swedes
      were not so good as usual, though they still might improve.

      A more potent wheel-roll than John’s now attracted his lordship’s
      attention, and through the far windows he saw a large
      canary-coloured ark of a coach, driven by a cockaded coachman,
      which he at once recognised as belonging to his natural enemy
      Major Yammerton, “five-and-thirty years master of haryers,” as
      the Major would say, “without a subscription.” Mr. Boggledike had
      lately been regaling his lordship with some of the Major’s
      boastings about his “haryars” and the wonderful sport they
      showed, which he had had the impudence to compare with his
      lordship’s fox hounds. Besides which, he was always disturbing
      his lordship’s covers on the Roughborough side of the country,
      causing his lordship to snub him at all opportunities. The Major,
      however, who was a keen, hard-bitten, little man, not easily
      choked off when he wanted anything, and his present want being to
      be made a magistrate, he had attired himself in an antediluvian
      swallow-tailed scarlet, with a gothic-arched collar, and brought
      his wife and two pretty daughters to aid in the design. Of course
      the ladies were only coming to see the Castle.

      The cockaded coachman having tied his reins to the rail of the
      driving-box, descended from his eminence to release his
      passengers, while a couple of cerulean-blue gentlemen looked
      complacently on, each with half a door in his hand ready to throw
      open as they approached, the party were presently at the hall
      table, where one of those indispensable articles, a
      looking-glass, enabled the ladies to rectify any little
      derangement incidental to the joltings of the journey, while the
      little Major run a pocket-comb through a fringe of carroty curls
      that encircled his bald head, and disposed of a cream-coloured
      scarf cravat to what he considered the best advantage. Having
      drawn a doeskin glove on to the left hand, he offered his arm to
      his wife, and advanced from behind the screen with his hat in his
      ungloved right hand ready to transfer it to the left should
      occasion require.

      “Ah Major Yammerton!” exclaimed the Earl, breaking off in the
      middle of the turnip dialogue with Imperial John. “Ah, Major
      Yammerton, I’m delighted to see you” (getting a glimpse of the
      girls). “Mrs. Yammerton, this is indeed extremely kind,”
      continued he, taking both her hands in his; “and bringing your
      lovely daughters,” continued he, advancing to greet them.

      Mrs. Yammerton here gave the Major a nudge to remind him of his
      propriety speech. “The gi—gi—girls and Mrs. Ya—Ya—Yammerton,” for
      he always stuttered when he told lies, which was pretty often;
      “the gi—gi—girls and Mrs. Ya—Ya—Yammerton have done me the
      honour—”

      Another nudge from Mrs. Yammerton.

      “I mean to say the gi—gi—girls and Mrs. Ya—Ya—Yammerton,”
      observed he, with a stamp of the foot and a shake of the head,
      for he saw that his dread enemy, Imperial John, was laughing at
      him, “have done themselves the honour of co—co—coming, in hopes
      to be allowed the p—p—p—pleasure of seeing your mama—magnificent
      collection of pi—pi—pictors.” the Major at length getting out
      what he had been charged to say.



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      “By all means!” exclaimed the delighted Earl, “by all means; but
      first let me have the pleasure of conducting you to the
      refreshment-room;” saying which his lordship offered Mrs.
      Yammerton his arm. So passing up the long gallery, and entering
      by the private door, he popped her down beside Mrs. Moffatt
      before Mrs. Yammerton knew where she was.

      Just then our friend Billy Pringle, who, with the aid of Rougier,
      had effected a most successful _logement_ in his hunting things,
      made his appearance, to whom the Earl having assigned the care of
      the young ladies, now beat a retreat to the hall, leaving Mrs.
      Yammerton lost in astonishment as to what her Mrs. Grundy would
      say, and speculations as to which of her daughters would do for
      Mr. Pringle.

      Imperial John, who had usurped the Earl’s place before the fire,
      now shied off to one side as his lordship approached, and made
      his most flexible obeisance to the two Mr. Fothergills and Mr.
      Stot, who had arrived during his absence. These, then, gladly
      passed on to the banqueting-room just as the Condor-like wings of
      the entrance hall door flew open and admitted Imperial Jane, now
      the buxom Mrs. Poppyfield. She came smiling past the screen,
      magnificently attired in purple velvet and ermine, pretending she
      had only come to warm herself at the “‘All fire while Pop looked
      for the groom, who had brought his ‘orse, and who was to drive
      her ‘ome;” but hearing from the Earl that the Yammertons were all
      in the banqueting-room, she saw no reason why she shouldn’t go
      too; so when the next shoal of company broke against the screen,
      she took Imperial John’s arm, and preceded by a cloud of lackeys,
      cerulean-blue and others, passed from the hall to the grand
      apartment, up which she sailed majestically, tossing her plumed
      head at that usurper Mrs. Moffatt; and then increased the kettle
      of fish poor Mrs. Yammerton was in by seating herself beside her.

      “Impudent woman,” thought Mrs. Yammerton, “if I’d had any idea of
      this I wouldn’t have come;” and she thought how lucky it was she
      had put the Major up to asking to see the “pictors.” It was
      almost a pity he was so anxious to be a magistrate. Thought he
      might be satisfied with being Major of such a fine regiment as
      the Featherbedfordshire Militia. Nor were her anxieties
      diminished by the way the girls took the words out of each
      other’s mouths, as it were, in their intercourse with Billy
      Pringle, thus preventing either from making any permanent
      impression.

      The great flood of company now poured into the hall, red coats,
      green coats, black coats, brown coats, mingled with
      variously-coloured petticoats. The ladies of the court, Mrs.
      Cypher, Mrs. Pillerton, Mrs. and the Misses Easylease, Mrs.
      Section, and others, hurried through with a shivering sort of
      step as if they were going to bathe. Mr. D’Orsay Davis, the “we”
      of the Featherbedfordshire Gazette, made his bow and passed on
      with stately air, as a ruler of the roast ought to do. The Earl
      of Stare, as Mr. Buckwheat was called, from the fixed
      protuberance of his eyes—a sort of second edition of Imperial
      John, but wanting his looks, and Gameboy Green, the hard rider of
      the hunt, came in together; and the Earl of Stare, sporting
      scarlet, advanced to his brother peer, the Earl, who, not
      thinking him an available card, turned him over to Imperial John
      who had now returned from his voyage with Imperial Jane, while
      his lordship commenced a building conversation with Mr. Brick.

      A lull then ensuing as if the door had done its duty, his
      lordship gave a wave of his hand, whereupon the trained courtiers
      shot out into horns on either side, with his lordship in the
      centre, and passed majestically along to the banqueting-room.

      The noble apartment a hundred feet long, and correspondingly
      proportioned, was in the full swing of hospitality when the Earl
      entered. The great influx of guests for which the Castle was
      always prepared, had at length really arrived, and from Mrs.
      Moffatt’s end of the table to the door, were continuous lines of
      party-coloured eaters, all engaged in the noble act of
      deglutition. Up the centre was a magnificent avenue of choice
      exotics in gold, silver, and china vases, alternating with
      sugar-spun Towers, Temples, Pagodas, and Rialtos, with here and
      there the more substantial form of massive plate, _èpergnes_,
      testimonials, and prizes of different kinds. It was a regular
      field day for plate, linen, and china.

      The whole force of domestics was now brought to bear upon the
      charge, and the cerulean-blue gentlemen vied with the gentlemen
      out of livery in the assiduity of their attentions. Soup, game,
      tea, coffee, chocolate, ham, eggs, honey, marmalade, grapes,
      pines, melons, ices, buns, cakes, skimmed and soared, and floated
      about the room, in obedience to the behests of the callers. The
      only apparently disengaged person in the room, was Monsieur Jean
      Rougier, who, in a blue coat with a velvet collar and bright
      buttons, a rolling-collared white vest, and an amplified
      lace-tipped black Joinville, stood like a pouter pigeon behind
      Mr. Pringle’s chair, the _beau ideal_ of an indifferent
      spectator. And yet he was anything but an indifferent spectator;
      for beneath his stubbly hair were a pair of little roving,
      watchful eyes, and his ringed ears were cocked for whatever they
      could catch. The clatter, patter, clatter, patter of eating,
      which was slightly interrupted by the entrance of his lordship
      was soon in full vigour again, and all eyes resumed the
      contemplation of the plates.

      Presently, the “fiz, pop, bang” of a champagne cork was heard on
      the extreme right, which was immediately taken up on the left,
      and ran down either side of the table like gigantic crackers.
      Eighty guests were now imbibing the sparkling fluid, as fast as
      the footmen could supply it. And it was wonderful what a
      volubility that single glass a-piece (to be sure they were good
      large ones) infused into the meeting; how tongue-tied ones became
      talkative, and awed ones began to feel themselves sufficiently at
      home to tackle with the pines and sugar ornaments of the centre.
      Grottoes and Pyramids and Pagodas and Rialtos began to topple to
      their fall, and even a sugar Crystal Palace, which occupied the
      post of honour between two flower-decked Sèvres vases, was
      threatened with destruction. The band and the gardeners were
      swept away immediately, and an assault on the fountains was only
      prevented by the interference of Mr. Beverage, the butler. And
      now a renewed pop-ponading commenced, more formidable, if
      possible, than the first, and all glasses were eagerly drained,
      and prepared to receive the salute.

      All being ready, Lord Ladythorne rose amid the applause so justly
      due to a man entertaining his friends, and after a few prefatory
      remarks, expressive of the pleasure it gave him to see them all
      again at the opening of another season, and hoping that they
      might have many more such meetings, he concluded by giving as a
      toast, “Success to fox-hunting!”—which, of course, was drunk
      upstanding with all the honours.

      All parties having gradually subsided into their seats after this
      uncomfortable performance, a partial lull ensued, which was at
      length interrupted by his lordship giving Imperial John, who sat
      on his left, a nod, who after a loud throat-clearing _hem!_ rose
      bolt upright with his imperial chin well up, and began,
      “Gentlemen and Ladies!” just as little weazeley Major Yammerton
      commenced “Ladies and gentlemen!” from Mrs. Moffatt’s end of the
      table. This brought things to a stand still—some called for
      Hybrid, some for Yammerton, and each disliking the other, neither
      was disposed to give way. The calls, however, becoming more
      frequent for Yammerton, who had never addressed them before,
      while Hybrid had, saying the same thing both times, the Earl gave
      his Highness a hint to sit down, and the Major was then left in
      that awful predicament, from which so many men would be glad to
      escape, after they have achieved it, namely,—the possession of
      the meeting.

      However, Yammerton had got his speech well off, and had the heads
      of it under his plate; so on silence being restored, he thus went
      away with it:—

      “Ladies and gentlemen,—(cough)—ladies and gentlemen,—(hem) I
      rise, I assure you—(cough)—with feelings of considerable
      trepidation—(hem)—to perform an act—(hem)—of greater difficulty
      than may at first sight appear—(hem, hem, haw)—for let me ask
      what it is I am about to do? (“You know best,” growled Imperial
      John, thinking how ill he was doing it.) I am going to propose
      the health of a nobleman—(applause)—of whom, in whose presence,
      if I say too much, I may offend, and if I say too little, I shall
      most justly receive your displeasure (renewed applause). But,
      ladies and gentlemen, there are times when the ‘umblest abilities
      become equal to the occasion, and assuredly this is
      one—(applause). To estimate the character of the illustrious
      nobleman aright, whose health I shall conclude by proposing, we
      must regard him in his several capacities—(applause)—as
      Lord-Lieutenant of the great county of Featherbedford, as a great
      and liberal landlord, as a kind and generous neighbour, and
      though last, not least, as a brilliant sportsman—(great applause,
      during which Yammerton looked under his plate at his notes.)—As
      Lord-Lieutenant,” continued he, “perhaps the greatest praise I
      can offer him, the ‘ighest compliment I can pay him, is to say
      that his appointments are so truly impartial as not to disclose
      his own politics—(applause)—as a landlord, he is so truly a
      pattern that it would be a mere waste of words for me to try to
      recommend him to your notice,—(applause)—as a neighbour, he is
      truly exemplary in all the relations of life,—(applause)—and as a
      sportsman, having myself kept haryers five-and-thirty years
      without a subscription, I may be permitted to say that he is
      quite first-rate,—(laughter from the Earl’s end of the table, and
      applause from Mrs. Moffatt’s.)—In all the relations of life,
      therefore, ladies and gentlemen,”—continued the Major, looking
      irately down at the laughers—“I beg to propose the bumper toast
      of health, and long life to our ‘ost, the noble Earl of
      Ladythorne!”

      Whereupon the little Major popped down on his chair, wondering
      whether he had omitted any thing he ought to have said, and
      seeing him well down, Imperial John, who was not to be done out
      of his show-off, rose, glass in hand, and exclaimed in a
      stentorian voice,

      “Gentlemen and Ladies! Oi beg to propose that we drink this toast
      up standin’ with all the honours!—Featherbedfordshire fire!” upon
      which there was a great outburst of applause, mingled with
      demands for wine, and requests from the ladies, that the
      gentlemen would be good enough to take their chairs off their
      dresses, or move a little to one side, so that they might have
      room to stand up; Crinoline, we should observe, being very
      abundant with many of them.

      A tremendous discharge of popularity then ensued, the cheers
      being led by Imperial John, much to the little Major’s chagrin,
      who wondered how he could ever have sat down without calling for
      them.

      Now, the Earl, we should observe, had not risen in the best of
      moods that morning, having had a disagreeable dream, in which he
      saw old Binks riding his favourite horse Valiant, Mazeppa
      fashion, making a drag of his statue of the Greek slave,
      enveloped in an anise-seeded bathing-gown; a vexation that had
      been further increased when he arose, by the receipt of a letter
      from his “good-natured friend” in London, telling him how old
      Binks had been boasting at Boodle’s that he was within an ace of
      an Earldom, and now to be clumsily palavered by Yammerton was
      more than he could bear.

      He didn’t want to be praised for anything but his sporting
      propensities, and Imperial John knew how to do it. Having,
      however, a good dash of satire in his composition, when the
      applause and the Crinoline had subsided, he arose as if highly
      delighted, and assured them that if anything could enhance the
      pleasure of that meeting, it was to have his health proposed by
      such a sportsman as Major Yammerton, a gentleman who he believed
      had kept harriers five-and-thirty years, a feat he believed
      altogether unequalled in the annals of sporting—(laughter and
      applause)—during which the little Major felt sure he was going to
      conclude by proposing his health with all the honours, instead of
      which, however, his lordship branched off to his own department
      of sport, urging them to preserve foxes most scrupulously, never
      to mind a little poultry damage, for Mr. Boggledike would put all
      that right, never to let the odious word Strychnine be heard in
      the country, and concluded by proposing a bumper to their next
      merry meeting, which was the usual termination of the
      proceedings. The party then rose, chairs fell out of line, and
      flying crumpled napkins completed the confusion of the scene.



      CHAPTER XII. THE MORNING FOX.—THE AFTERNOON FOX.

      097m


      _Original Size_


      THE day was quite at its best, when the party-coloured bees
      emerged from the sweets of Tantivy Castle, to taint the pure
      atmosphere with their nasty cigars, and air themselves on the
      terrace, letting the unadmitted world below see on what excellent
      terms they were with an Earl. Then Imperial John upbraided Major.
      Yammerton for taking the words out of his mouth, as it were, and
      the cockey Major turned up his nose at the “farmer fellow” for
      presuming to lector him. Then the emboldened ladies strolled
      through the picture-galleries and reception-rooms, regardless of
      Mrs. Moffatt or any one else, wondering where this door led to
      and where that. The hounds had been basking and loitering on the
      lawn for some time, undergoing the inspection and criticisms of
      the non-hunting portion of the establishment, the gardeners, the
      gamekeepers, the coachmen, the helpers, the housemaids, and so
      on. They all pronounced them as perfect as could be, and Mr.
      Hoggledike received their compliments with becoming satisfaction,
      saying, with a chuck of his chin, “Yas, Yas, I think they’re
      about as good as can be! Parfaction. I may say!”

      Having abused the cigars, we hope our fair friends will now
      excuse us for saying that we know of few less agreeable scenes
      than a show meet with fox-hounds. The whole thing is opposed to
      the wild nature of hunting. Some people can eat at any time, but
      to a well-regulated appetite, having to undergo even the
      semblance of an additional meal is inconvenient; while to have to
      take a _bonâ fide_ dinner in the morning, soup, toast, speeches
      and all, is perfectly suicidal of pleasure. On this occasion, the
      wine-flushed guests seemed fitted for Cremorne or Foxhall, as
      they used to pronounce Vauxhall, than for fox-hunting. Indeed,
      the cigar gentry swaggered about with a very rakish, Regent
      Street air. His lordship alone seemed impressed with the
      importance of the occasion; but his anxiety arose from
      indecision, caused by the Binks’ dream and letter, and fear lest
      the Yammerton girls might spoil Billy for Miss de Glancey, should
      his lordship adhere to his intention of introducing them to each
      other. Then he began to fidget lest he might be late at the
      appointed place, and Miss de Glancey go home, and so frustrate
      either design.

      “_To horse! to horse!_” therefore exclaimed he, now hurrying
      through the crowd, lowering his Imperial Jane-made hat-string,
      and drawing on his Moffatt-knit mits. “_To horse! to horse!_”
      repeated he, flourishing his cane hunting-whip, causing a
      commotion among the outer circle of grooms. His magnificent black
      horse, Valiant (the one he had seen old Binks bucketing),
      faultless in shape, faultless in condition, faultless every way,
      stepped proudly aside, and Cupid-without-Wings dropping himself
      off by the neck, Mr. Beanley, the stud groom, swept the
      coronetted rug over the horse’s bang tail, as the superb and
      sensible animal stepped forward to receive his rider, as the Earl
      came up. With a jaunty air, the gay old gentleman vaulted lightly
      into the saddle, saying as he drew the thin rein, and felt the
      horse gently with his left leg, “Now get Mr. Pringle his horse.”
      His lordship then passed on a few paces to receive the
      sky-scraping salutes of the servants, and at a jerk of his head
      the cavalcade was in motion.

      Our friend Billy then became the object of attention. The
      dismounted Cupid dived into the thick of the led horses to seek
      his, while Mr. Beanley went respectfully up to him, and with a
      touch of his flat-brimmed hat, intimated that “his oss was at
      ‘and.”

      “What sort of an animal is it?” asked the somewhat misgiving
      Billy, now bowing his adieus to the pretty Misses Yammerton.

      “A very nice oss, sir,” replied Mr. Beanley, with another touch
      of hat; “yes, sir, a very nice oss—a perfect ‘unter—nothin’ to do
      but sit still, and give ‘im ‘is ‘ead, he’ll take far better care
      o’ you than you can of ‘im.” So saying, Mr. Beanley led the way
      to a very sedate-looking, thorough-bred bay, with a flat flapped
      saddle, and a splint boot on his near foreleg, but in other
      respects quite unobjectionable. He was one of Swan’s stud, but
      Mr. Beanley, understanding from the under butler, who had it from
      Jack Rogers—we beg his pardon,—Monsieur Rougier himself, that Mr.
      Pringle was likely to be a good tip, he had drawn it for him. The
      stirrups, for a wonder, being the right length, Billy was
      presently astride, and in pursuit of his now progressing
      lordship, the gaping crowd making way for the young lord as they
      supposed him to be—for people are all lords when they visit at
      lords.

      Pop, pop, bob, bob, went the black caps of the men in advance,
      indicating the whereabouts of the hounds, while his lordship
      ambled over the green turf on the right, surrounded by the usual
      high-pressure toadies. Thus the cavalcade passed through the
      large wood-studded, deer-scattered park, rousing the nearer herds
      from their lairs, frightening the silver-tails into their holes,
      and causing the conceited hares to scuttle away for the
      fern-browned, undulating hills, as if they had the vanity to
      suppose that this goodly array would condescend to have anything
      to do with them. Silly things! Peppercorn, the keeper, had a much
      readier way of settling their business. The field then crossed
      the long stretch of smooth, ornamental water, by the old
      gothic-arched bridge, and passed through the beautiful iron gates
      of the south lodge, now wheeled back by grey-headed porters, in
      cerulean-blue plush coats, and broad, gold-laced hats. Meanwhile,
      the whereabouts of the accustomed hunt was indicated by a
      lengthening line of pedestrians and small cavalry, toiling across
      the park by Duntler the watcher’s cottage and the deer sheds, to
      the door in the wall at the bottom of Crow-tree hill, from whence
      a bird’s-eye view of the surrounding country is obtained. The
      piece had been enacted so often, the same company, the same day,
      the same hour, the same find, the same finish, that one might
      almost imagine it was the same fox On this particular occasion,
      however, as if out of pure contradiction, Master Reynard, by a
      series of successful manoeuvres, lying down, running a wall,
      popping backwards and forwards between Ashley quarries and
      Warmley Gorse, varied by an occasional trip to Crow-tree hill,
      completely baffled Mr. Boggledike, so that it was afternoon
      before he brought his morning fox to hand, to the great
      discomfort of the Earl, who had twice or thrice signaled Swan to
      “who hoop” him to ground, when the tiresome animal popped up in
      the midst of the pack. At length Boggledike mastered him; and
      after proclaiming him a “cowardly, short-running dastardly
      traitor, no better nor a ‘are,” he chucked him scornfully to the
      hounds, decorating Master Pillerton’s pony with the brush, while
      Swan distributed the pads among others of the rising generation.

      The last act of the “show meet” being thus concluded, Mr.
      Boggledike and his men quickly collected their hounds, and set
      off in search of fresh fields and pastures new.

      The Earl, having disposed of his show-meet fox—a bagman, of
      course—now set up his business-back, and getting alongside of Mr.
      Boggledike, led the pack at as good a trot as the hounds and the
      state of the line would allow. The newly laid whinstone of the
      Brittleworth road rather impeded their progress at first; but
      this inconvenience was soon overcome by the road becoming less
      parsimonious in width, extending at length to a grass siding,
      along which his lordship ambled at a toe in the stirrup trot, his
      eagle-eye raking every bend and curve, his mind distracted with
      visions of Binks, and anxiety for the future.

      He couldn’t get over the dream, and the letter had anything but
      cheered him.

      “Very odd,” said he to himself, “very odd,” as nothing but
      drab-coated farmers and dark-coated grooms lounging leisurely
      “on,” with here and there a loitering pedestrian, broke the
      monotony of the scene. “Hope she’s not tired, and gone home,”
      thought he, looking now at his watch, and now back into the
      crowd, to see where he had Billy Pringle. There was Billy riding
      alongside of Major Yammerton’s old flea-bitten grey, whose rider
      was impressing Billy with a sense of his consequence, and the
      excellence of his “haryers,” paving the way for an invitation to
      Yammerton Grange. “_D-a-ash_ that Yammerton,” growled his
      lordship, thinking how he was spoiling sport at both ends; at the
      Castle by his uninvited eloquence, and now by his fastening on to
      the only man in the field he didn’t want him to get acquainted
      with. And his lordship inwardly resolved that he would make
      Easylease a magistrate before he would make the Major one. So
      settling matters in his own mind, he gave the gallant Valiant a
      gentle tap on the shoulder with his whip, and shot a few paces
      ahead of Dicky, telling the whips to keep the crowd off the
      hounds—meaning off himself. Thus he ambled on through the quiet
      little village of Strotherdale, whose inhabitants all rushed out
      to see the hounds pass, and after tantalising poor Jonathan Gape,
      the turnpike-gate man, at the far end, who thought he was going
      to get a grand haul, he turned short to the left down the
      tortuous green lane leading to Quarrington Gorse.

      “There’s a footmark,” said his lordship to himself, looking down
      at the now closely eaten sward. “Ah! and there’s a hat and
      feather,” added he as a sudden turn of the lane afforded a
      passing glimpse. Thus inspirited, he mended his pace a little,
      and was presently in sight of the wearer. There was the bay, and
      there was the wide-awake, and there was the green trimming, and
      there was the feather; but somehow, as he got nearer, they all
      seemed to have lost _caste_. The slender waist and graceful
      upright seat had degenerated into a fuller form and lazy slouch;
      the habit didn’t look like her habit, nor the bay horse like her
      bay horse, and as he got within speaking distance, the healthy,
      full-blown face of Miss Winkworth smiled upon him instead of the
      mild, placid features of the elegant de Glancey.

      “Ah, my dear Miss Winkworth!” exclaimed his half-disgusted,
      half-delighted lordship, raising his hat, and then extending the
      right-hand of fellowship; “Ah, my dear Miss Winkworth, I’m
      charmed to see you” (inwardly wondering what business women had
      out hunting). “I hope you are all well at home,” continued he
      (most devoutly wishing she was there); and without waiting for an
      answer, he commenced a furious assault upon Benedict, who had
      taken a fancy to follow him, a performance that enabled General
      Boggledike to come up with that army of relief, the pack, and
      engulf the lady in the sea of horsemen in the rear.

      “If that had been _her_,” said his lordship to himself, “old
      Binks would have had a better chance;” and he thought what an
      odious thing a bad copy was.


      Another bend of the land and another glimpse, presently put all
      matters right. The real feather now fluttered before him. There
      was the graceful, upright seat, the elegant air, the well-groomed
      horse, the _tout ensemble_ being heightened, if possible, by the
      recent contrast with the coarse, country attired Miss Winkworth.

      The Earl again trotted gently on, raising his hat most
      deferentially as he came along side of her, as usual, unaverted
      head.

      “Good morning, my Lord!” exclaimed she gaily, as if agreeably
      surprised, tendering for the first time her pretty, little,
      primrose-coloured kid-gloved hand, looking as though she would
      condescend to notice a “mere fox-hunter.”

      The gay old gentleman pressed it with becoming fervour, thinking
      he never saw her looking so well before.

      They then struck up a light rapid conversation.

      Miss perhaps never did look brighter or more radiant, and as his
      lordship rode by her side, he really thought if he could make up
      his mind to surrender his freedom to any woman, it would be to
      her. There was a something about her that he could not describe,
      but still a something that was essentially different to all his
      other flames.

      He never could bear a riding-woman before, but now he felt quite
      proud to have such an elegant, piquant attendant on his
      pack.—Should like, at all events, to keep her in the country, and
      enjoy her society.—Would like to add her to the collection of
      Featherbedfordshire witches of which his friends joked him in
      town.—“Might have done worse than marry Imperial John,” thought
      his lordship. John mightn’t be quite her match in point of
      manner, but she would soon have polished him up, and John must be
      doing uncommonly well as times go—cattle and corn both selling
      prodigiously high, and John with his farm at a very low rent. And
      the thought of John and his beef brought our friend Billy to the
      Earl’s mind, and after a sort of random compliment between Miss
      de Glancey and her horse, he exclaimed, “By the way! I’ve got a
      young friend out I wish to introduce to you,” so rising in his
      saddle and looking back into the crowd he hallooed out,
      “Pringle!” a name that was instantly caught up by the quick-eared
      Dicky, a “Mister” tacked to it and passed backward to Speed, who
      gave it to a groom; and Billy was presently seen boring his way
      through the opening crowd, just as a shepherd’s dog bores its way
      through a flock of sheep.

      “Pringle,” said his lordship, as the approach of Billy’s horse
      caused Valiant to lay back his ears, “Pringle! I want to
      introduce you to Miss de Glancey, Miss de Glancey give me leave
      to introduce my friend Mr. Pringle,” continued he, adding _soto
      voce_, as if for Miss de Glancey’s ear alone, “young man of very
      good family and fortune—_richest Commoner, in England, they
      say_.” But before his lordship got to the richest Commoner part
      of his speech, a dark frown of displeasure had overcast the sweet
      smile of those usually tranquil features, which luckily, however,
      was not seen by Billy; and before he got his cap restored to his
      head after a sky scraping salute, Miss de Glancey had resumed her
      wonted complacency,—inwardly resolving to extinguish the “richest
      Commoner,” just as she had done his lordship’s other “friend Mr.
      Hybrid.” Discarding the Earl, therefore, she now opened a most
      voluble battering on our good-looking Billy who, to do him
      justice, maintained his part so well, that a lady with less
      ambitious views might have been very well satisfied to be Mrs.
      Pringle. Indeed, when his lordship looked at the two chattering
      and ogling and simpering together, and thought of that abominable
      old Binks and the drag, and the letter from the Boodleite, his
      heart rather smote him for what he had done; for young and fresh
      as he then felt himself, he knew that age would infallibly creep
      upon him at last, just as he saw it creeping upon each particular
      friend when he went to town, and he questioned that he should
      ever find any lady so eminently qualified to do the double duty
      of gracing his coronet and disappointing the General. Not but
      that the same thought had obtruded itself with regard to other
      ladies; but he now saw that he had been mistaken with respect to
      all of them, and that this was the real, genuine, no mistake,
      “right one.” Moreover, Miss de Glancey was the only lady who
      according to his idea had not made up to him—rather snubbed him
      in fact. Mistaken nobleman! There are, many ways of making up to
      a man. But as with many, so with his lordship, the last run was
      always the finest, and the last lady always the fairest—the most
      engaging. With distracting considerations such as these, and the
      advantage of seeing Miss de Glancey play the artillery of her
      arts upon our young friend, they reached the large old pasture on
      the high side of Quarrington Gorse, a cover of some four acres in
      extent, lying along a gently sloping bank, with cross rides cut
      down to the brook. Mr. Boggledike pulled up near the rubbing-post
      in the centre of the field, to give his hounds a roll, while the
      second-horse gentlemen got their nags, and the new comers
      exchanged their hacks for their hunters. Judging by the shaking
      of hands, the exclamations of “halloo! old boy is that you?”

      “I say! where are you from?” and similar inquiries, there were a
      good many of the latter—some who never went to the Castle, some
      who thought it too far, some who thought it poor fun. Altogether,
      when the field got scattered over the pasture, as a shop-keeper
      scatters his change on the counter, or as an old stage coachman
      used to scatter his passengers on the road with an upset, there
      might be fifty or sixty horsemen, assmen, and gigmen.

      Most conspicuous was his lordship’s old eye-sore, Hicks, the
      flying hatter of Hinton (Sir Moses Mainchance’s “best man”), who
      seemed to think it incumbent upon him to kill his lordship a
      hound every year by his reckless riding, and who now came out in
      mufti, a hunting-cap, a Napoleon-grey tweed jacket, loose white
      cords, with tight drab leggings, and spurs on his shoes, as if
      his lordship’s hounds were not worth the green cut-a-way and
      brown boots he sported with Sir Moses. He now gave his cap-peak a
      sort of rude rap with his fore-finger, as his lordship came up,
      as much as to say, “I don’t know whether I’ll speak to you or
      not,” and then ran his great raking chestnut into the crowd to
      get at his old opponent Gameboy Green, who generally rode for the
      credit of the Tantivy hunt. As these sort of cattle always hunt
      in couples, Hicks is followed by his shadow, Tom Snowdon, the
      draper—or the Damper, as he is generally called, from his unhappy
      propensity of taking a gloomy view of everything.

      To the right are a knot of half-horse, half-pony mounted
      Squireen-looking gentlemen, with clay pipes in their mouths,
      whose myrtle-green coats, baggy cords, and ill-cleaned tops,
      denote as belonging to the Major’s “haryers.” And mark how the
      little, pompons man wheels before them, in order that Pringle may
      see the reverence they pay to his red coat. He raises his punt
      hat with all the dignity of the immortal Simpson of Vauxhall
      memory, and passes on in search of further compliments.

      His lordship has now settled himself into the “Wilkinson and
      Kidd” of Rob Roy, a bay horse of equal beauty with Valiant, but
      better adapted to the country into which they are now going,
      Imperial John has drawn his girths with his teeth, D’Orsay Davis
      has let down his hat-string, Mr. John Easylease has tightened his
      curb, Mr. Section drawn on his gloves, the Damper finished his
      cigar, and all things are approximating a start.

      “_Elope, lads! Elope!_” cries Dicky Boggledike to his hounds,
      whistling and waving them together, and in an instant the rollers
      and wide-spreaders are frolicking and chiding under his horse’s
      nose. “_G-e-e-ntly_, lads! _g-e-ently!_” adds he, looking the
      more boisterous ones reprovingly in the face—“gently lads,
      gently,” repeats he, “or you’ll be rousin’ the gem’lman i’ the
      gos.” This movement of Dicky and the hounds has the effect of
      concentrating the field, all except our fair friend and Billy,
      who are still in the full cry of conversation, Miss putting forth
      her best allurements the sooner to bring Billy to book.

      At a chuck of his lordship’s chin, Dicky turns his horse towards
      the gorse, just as Billy, in reply to Miss de Glancey’s question,
      if he is fond of hunting, declares, as many a youth has done who
      hates it, that he “doats upon it!”

      A whistle, a waive, and a cheer, and the hounds are away. They
      charge the hedge with a crash, and drive into the gorse as if
      each hound had a bet that he would find the fox himself.

      Mr. Boggledike being now free of his pack, avails himself of this
      moment of ease, to exhibit his neat, newly clad person of which
      he is not a little proud, by riding along the pedestrian-lined
      hedge, and requesting that “you fut people,” as he calls them,
      “will have the goodness not to ‘alloa, but to ‘old up your ‘ats
      if you view the fox;” and having delivered his charge in three
      several places, he turns into the cover by the little white
      bridle-gate in the middle, which Cupid-without-Wings is now
      holding open, and who touches his hat as Dicky passes.

      The scene is most exciting. The natural inclination of the land
      affords every one a full view of almost every part of the
      sloping, southerly-lying gorse, while a bright sun, with a clear,
      rarified atmosphere, lights up the landscape, making the distant
      fences look like nothing. Weak must be the nerves that would
      hesitate to ride over them as they now appear.

      Delusive view! Between the gorse and yonder fir-clad hills are
      two bottomless brooks, and ere the dashing rider reaches Fairbank
      Farm, whose tall chimney stands in bold relief against the clear,
      blue sky, lies a tract of country whose flat surface requires
      gulph-like drains to carry off the surplus water that rushes down
      from the higher grounds. To the right, though the country looks
      rougher, it is in reality easier, but foxes seem to know it, and
      seldom take that line; while to the left is a strongly-fenced
      country, fairish for hounds, but very difficult for horses,
      inasmuch as the vales are both narrow and deep. But let us find
      our fox and see what we can do among them. And as we are in for a
      burst, let us do the grand and have a fresh horse.



      CHAPTER XIII. GONE AWAY!


      SEE! a sudden thrill shoots through the field, though not a hound
      has spoken; no, not even a whimper been heard. It is Speed’s new
      cap rising from the dip of the ground at the low end of the
      cover, and now having seen the fox “right well away,” as he says,
      he gives such a ringing view halloa as startles friend Echo, and
      brings the eager pack pouring and screeching to the cry—

      “_Tweet! tweet! tweet!_” now goes cantering Dicky’s superfluous
      horn, only he doesn’t like to be done out of his blow, and thinks
      the “fut people” may attribut’ the crash to his coming.

      All eyes are now eagerly strained to get a view of old Reynard,
      some for the pleasure of seeing him, others to speculate upon
      whether they will have to take the stiff stake and rise in front,
      or the briar-tangled boundary fence below, in order to fulfil the
      honourable obligation of going into every field with the hounds.
      Others, again, who do not acknowledge the necessity, and mean to
      take neither, hold their horses steadily in hand, to be ready to
      slip down Cherry-tree Lane, or through West Hill fold-yard, into
      the Billinghurst turnpike, according as the line of chase seems
      to lie.

      “_Talli-ho!_” cries the Flying Hatter, as he views the fox
      whisking his brush as he rises the stubble-field over Fawley May
      Farm, and in an instant he is soaring over the boundary-fence to
      the clamorous pack just as his lordship takes it a little higher
      up, and lands handsomely in the next field. Miss de Glancey then
      goes at it in a canter, and clears it neatly, while Billy
      Pringle’s horse, unused to linger, after waiting in vain for an
      intimation from his rider, just gathers himself together, and
      takes it on his own account, shooting Billy on to his shoulder.

      “He’s off! no, he’s on; he hangs by the mane!” was the cry of the
      foot people, as Billy scrambled back into his saddle, which he
      regained with anything but a conviction that he could sit at the
      jumps. Worst of all, he thought he saw Miss de Glancey’s
      shoulders laughing at his failure.

      The privileged ones having now taken their unenviable precedence,
      the scramble became general, some going one way, some another,
      and the recent frowning fences are soon laid level with the
      fields.

      A lucky lane running parallel with the line, along which the
      almost mute pack were now racing with a breast-high scent,
      relieved our friend Billy from any immediate repetition of the
      leaping inconvenience, though he could not hear the clattering of
      horses’ hoofs behind him without shuddering at the idea of
      falling and being ridden over. It seemed very different he
      thought to the first run, or to Hyde Park; people were all so
      excitcd, instead of riding quietly, or for admiration, as they do
      in the park. Just as Billy was flattering himself that the
      leaping danger was at an end, a sudden jerk of his horse nearly
      chucked him into Imperial John’s pocket, who happened to be next
      in advance. The fox had been headed by the foot postman between
      Hinton and Sambrook; and Dicky Boggledike, after objurgating the
      astonished man, demanding, “What the daval business he had
      there?” had drawn his horse short across the lane, thus causing a
      sudden halt to those in the rear.

      The Flying Hatter and the Damper pressing close upon the pack as
      usual, despite the remonstrance of Gameboy Green and others, made
      them shoot up to the far-end of the enclosure, where they would
      most likely have topped the fence but for Swan and Speed getting
      round them, and adding the persuasion of their whips to the
      entreaties of Dicky’s horn. The hounds sweep round to the twang,
      lashing and bristling with excitement.

      “_Yo doit!_” cries Dicky, as Sparkler and Pilgrim feather up the
      lane, trying first this side, then that. Sparkler speaks! “He’s
      across the lane.”

      “_Hoop! hoop! tallio! tallio!_” cries Dicky cheerily, taking off
      his cap, and sweeping it in the direction the fox has gone, while
      his lordship, who has been bottling up the vial of his wrath, now
      uncorks it as he gets the delinquents within hearing.

      “Thank you, Mr. Hicks, for pressing on my hounds! Much obleged to
      you, Mr. Hicks, for pressing on my hounds! Hang you, Mr. Hicks,
      for pressing on my hounds!” So saying, his lordship gathered Rob
      Roy together, and followed Mr. Boggledike through a very stiff
      bullfinch that Dicky would rather have shirked, had not the eyes
      of England been upon him.

      _S-w-ic-h!_ Dicky goes through, and the vigorous thorns close
      again like a rat-trap.

      “Allow me, my lord!” exclaims Imperial John from behind, anxious
      to be conspicuous.

      “Thank ‘e, no,” replied his lordship, carelessly thinking it
      would not do to let Miss de Glancey too much into the secrets of
      the hunting field. “Thank ‘e, no,” repeated he, and ramming his
      horse well at it, he gets through with little more disturbance of
      the thorns than Dicky had made. Miss de Glancey comes next, and
      riding quietly up the bank, she gives her horse a chuck with the
      curb and a touch with the whip that causes him to rise well on
      his haunches and buck over without injury to herself, her hat, or
      her habit. Imperial John was nearly offering his services to
      break the fence for her, but the “_S-i-r-r!_ do you mean to
      insult me?” still tingling in his ears, caused him to desist.
      However he gives Billy a lift by squashing through before him,
      whose horse then just rushed through it as before, leaving Billy
      to take care of himself. A switched face was the result, the
      pain, however, being far greater than the disfigurement.

      While this was going on above, D’Orsay Davis, who can ride a
      spurt, has led a charge through a weaker place lower down; and
      when our friend had ascertained that his eyes were still in his
      head, he found two distinct lines of sportsmen spinning away in
      the distance as if they were riding a race. Added to this, the
      pent-up party behind him having got vent, made a great show of
      horsemanship as they passed.

      “Come along!” screamed one.

      “Look alive!” shouted another.

      “Never say die!” cried a third, though they were all as ready to
      shut up as our friend.

      Billy’s horse, however, not being used to stopping, gets the bit
      between his teeth, and scuttles away at a very overtaking pace,
      bringing him sufficiently near to let him see Gameboy Green and
      the Flying Hatter leading the honourable obligation van, out of
      whose extending line now a red coat, now a green coat, now a dark
      coat drops in the usual “had enough” style.

      In the ride-cunning, or know-the-country detachment, Miss de
      Glancey’s flaunting habit, giving dignity to the figure and
      flowing elegance to the scene, might be seen going at perfect
      ease beside the noble Earl, who from the higher ground surveys
      Gameboy Green and the Hatter racing to get first at each fence,
      while the close-packing hounds are sufficiently far in advance to
      be well out of harm’s way.

      “C—a—a—tch ’em, if you can!” shrieks his lordship, eyeing their
      zealous endeavours.

      “C—a—a—tch ’em, if you can!” repeats he, laughing, as the pace
      gets better and better, scarce a hound having time to give
      tongue.

      “Yooi, over he goes!” now cries his lordship, as a spasmodic jerk
      of the leading hounds, on Alsike water meadow, turns Trumpeter’s
      and Wrangler’s heads toward the newly widened and deepened
      drain-cut, and the whole pack wheel to the left. What a scramble
      there is to get over! Some clear it, some fall back, while some
      souse in and out.

      Now Gameboy, seeing by the newly thrown out gravel the magnitude
      of the venture, thrusts down his hat firmly on his brow, while
      Hicks gets his chesnut well by the head, and hardening their
      hearts they clear it in stride, and the Damper takes soundings
      for the benefit of those who come after. What a splash he makes!

      And now the five-and-thirty years master of “haryers” without a
      subscription coming up, seeks to save the credit of his
      quivering-tailed grey by stopping to help the discontented Damper
      out of his difficulty, whose horse coming out on the wrong side
      affords them both a very fair excuse for shutting up shop.

      The rest of the detachment, unwilling to bathe, after craning at
      the cut, scuttle away by its side down to the wooden
      cattle-bridge below, which being crossed, the honourable
      obligationers and the take-care-of-their-neckers are again joined
      in common union. It is, however, no time to boast of individual
      feats, or to inquire for absent friends, for the hounds still
      press on, though the pace is not quite so severe as it was. They
      are on worse soil, and the scent does not serve them so well. It
      soon begins to fail, and at length is carried on upon the silent
      system, and looks very like failing altogether.

      Mr. Boggledike, who has been riding as cunning as any one, now
      shows to the front, watching the stooping pack with anxious eye,
      lest he should have to make a cast over fences that do not quite
      suit his convenience.

      “G—e—ntly, urryin’! gently!” cries he, seeing that a little
      precipitancy may carry them off the line. “Yon cur dog has chased
      the fox, and the hounds are puzzled at the point where he has
      left him.”

      “Ah, sarr, what the daval business have you out with a dog on
      such an occasion as this?” demands Dicky of an astonished drover
      who thought the road was as open to him as to Dicky.

      “O, sar! sar! you desarve to be put i’ the lock-up,” continues
      Dicky, as the pack now divide on the scent.

      “O, sar! sar! you should be chaasetised!” added he, shaking his
      whip at the drover, as he trotted on to the assistance of the
      pack.

      The melody of the majority however recalls the cur-ites, and
      saves Dicky from the meditated assault.

      While the brief check was going on, his lordship was eyeing Miss
      de Glancey, thinking of all the quiet captivating women he had
      ever seen, she was the most so. Her riding was perfection, and he
      couldn’t conceive how it was that he had ever entertained any
      objection to sports-women. It must have been from seeing some
      clumsy ones rolling about who couldn’t ride; and old Binks’s
      chance at that moment was not worth one farthing.

      “Where’s Pringle?” now asked his lordship, as the thought of
      Binks brought our hero to his recollection.

      “Down,” replied Miss de Glancey carelessly, pointing to the
      ground with her pretty amethyst-topped whip.

      “Down, is he!” smiled the Earl, adding half to himself and half
      to her, “thought he was a mull’.”

      Our friend indeed has come to grief. After pulling and hauling at
      his horse until he got him quite savage, the irritated animal,
      shaking his head as a terrier shakes a rat, ran blindfold into a
      bullfinch, shooting Billy into a newly-made manure-heap beyond.
      The last of the “harryer” men caught his horse, and not knowing
      who he belonged to, just threw the bridle-rein over the next
      gatepost, while D’Orsay Davis, who had had enough, and was glad
      of an excuse for stopping, pulls up to assist Billy out of his
      dirty dilemma.

      Augh, what a figure he was!

      But see! Mr. Boggledike is hitting off the scent, and the
      astonished drover is spurring on his pony to escape the
      chasetisement Dicky has promised him.

      At this critical moment, Miss de Glancey’s better genius
      whispered her to go home. She had availed herself of the short
      respite to take a sly peep at herself in a little pocket-mirror
      she carried in her saddle, and found she was quite as much heated
      as was becoming or as could be ventured upon without detriment to
      her dress. Moreover, she was not quite sure but that one of her
      frizettes was coming out.

      So now when the hounds break out in fresh melody, and the Flying
      Hatter and Gameboy Green are again elbowing to the front, she
      sits reining in her steed, evidently showing she is done.

      “Oh, come along!” exclaimed the Earl, looking back for her. “Oh,
      come along,” repeated he, waving her onward, as he held in his
      horse.

      There was no resisting the appeal, for it was clear he would come
      back for her if she did, so touching her horse with the whip, she
      is again cantering by his side.

      “I’d give the world to see you beat that impudent ugly hatter,”
      said he, now pointing Hicks out in the act of riding at a stiff
      newly-plashed fence before his hounds were half over.

      And his lordship spurred his horse as he spoke with a vigour that
      spoke the intensity of his feelings.

      The line of chase then lay along the swiftly flowing Arrow banks
      and across Oxley large pastures, parallel with the Downton
      bridle-road, along which Dicky and his followers now pounded;
      Dicky hugging himself with the idea that the fox was making for
      the main earths on Bringwood moor, to which he knew every yard of
      the country.

      And so the fox was going as straight and as hard as ever he
      could, but as ill luck would have it, young Mr. Nailor, the son
      of the owner of Oxley pastures, shot at a snipe at the west
      corner of the large pasture just as pug entered at the east,
      causing him to shift his line and thread Larchfield plantations
      instead of crossing the pasture, and popping down Tillington Dean
      as he intended.

      Dicky had heard the gun, and the short turn of the hounds now
      showing him what had happened, he availed himself of the
      superiority of a well-mounted nobleman’s huntsman in scarlet over
      a tweed-clad muffin-capped shooter, for exclaiming at the top of
      his voice as he cantered past, horn in hand,

      “O ye poachin’ davil, what business ‘ave ye there!”

      “O ye nasty sneakin’ snarin’ ticket-o’-leaver, go back to the
      place from whance you came!” leaving the poor shooter staring
      with astonishment.

      A twang of the horn now brings the hounds—who have been running
      with a flinging catching side-wind scent on to the line, and a
      full burst of melody greets the diminished field, as they strike
      it on the bright grass of the plantation.

      “For—rard! for—rard!” is the cry, though there isn’t a hound but
      what is getting on as best as he can.

      The merry music reanimates the party, and causes them to press on
      their horses with rather more freedom than past exertions
      warrant.

      Imperial John’s is the first to begin wheezing, but his Highness
      feeling him going covers a retreat of his
      hundred-and-fifty-guineas-worth, as he hopes he will be, under
      shelter of the plantation.

      ****


      “I think the ‘atter’s oss has about ‘ad enough,” now observes
      Dicky to his lordship, as he holds open the bridle-gate at the
      end of the plantation into the Benington Lane for his lordship
      and Miss de Glancey to pass.

      “Glad of it,” replied the Earl, thinking the Hatter would not be
      able to go home and boast how he had cut down the Tantivy men and
      hung them up to dry.

      “Old ‘ard, one moment!” now cries Dicky, raising his right hand
      as the Hatter comes blundering through the quickset fence into
      the hard lane, his horse nearly alighting on his nose.

      “Old ‘ard, please!” adds he, as the Hatter spurs among the
      road-stooping pack.

      “Hooick to Challenger! Hooick to Challenger!” now holloas Dicky,
      as Challenger, after sniffing up the grassy mound of the opposite
      hedge, proclaims that the fox is over; and Dicky getting his
      horse short by the head, slips behind the Hatter’s horse’s tail
      for his old familiar friend the gap in the corner, while the
      Hatter gathers his horse together to fulfil the honourable
      obligation of going with the hounds.

      “C—u—r—m up!” cries he, with an _obligato_ accompaniment of the
      spur rowels, which the honest beast acknowledges by a clambering
      flounder up the bank, making the descent on his head on the field
      side that he nearly executed before. The Hatter’s legs perform a
      sort of wands of a mill evolution.

      “Not hurt, I hope!” holloas the Earl, who with Miss de Glancey
      now lands a little above, and seeing the Hatter rise and shake
      himself he canters on, giving Miss de Glancey a touch on the
      elbow, and saying with a knowing look, “_That’s capital!_ get rid
      of him, leggings and all!”

      His lordship having now seen the last of his tormentors, has time
      to look about him a little.

      “Been a monstrous fine run,” observes he to the lady, as they
      canter together behind the pace-slackening pack.

      “Monstrous,” replies the lady, who sees no fun in it at all.

      “How long has it been?” asks his lordship of Swan, who now shows
      to the front as a whip-aspiring huntsman is wont to do.

      “An hour all but five minutes, my lord,” replies the magnifier,
      looking at his watch. “No—no—an hour ‘zactly, my lord,” adds he,
      trotting on—restoring his watch to his fob as he goes.

      “An hour best pace with but one slight check—can’t have come less
      than twelve miles,” observes his lordship, thinking it over.

      “Indeed,” replied Miss de Glancey, wishing it was done.

      “Grand sport fox-hunting, isn’t it?” asked his lordship, edging
      close up to her.

      “Charming!” replied Miss de Glancey, feeling her failing
      frizette.

      The effervescence of the thing is now about over, and the hounds
      are reduced to a very plodding pains-taking pace. The day has
      changed for the worse, and heavy clouds are gathering overhead.
      Still there is a good holding scent, and as the old saying is, a
      fox so pressed must stop at last, the few remaining sportsmen
      begin speculating on his probable destination, one backing him
      for Cauldwell rocks, another for Fulford woods, a third for the
      Hawkhurst Hills.

      “‘Awk’urst ‘ills for a sovereign!” now cries Dicky, hustling his
      horse, as, having steered the nearly mute pack along Sandy-well
      banks, Challenger and Sparkler strike a scent on the track
      leading up to Sorryfold Moor, and go away at an improving pace.

      “‘Awk’urst ‘ills for a fi’-pun note!” adds he, as the rest of the
      pack score to cry.

      “Going to have rine!” now observes he, as a heavy drop beats upon
      his up-turned nose. At the same instant a duplicate drop falls
      upon Miss de Glancey’s fair cheek, causing her to wish herself
      anywhere but where she was.

      Another, and another, and another, follow in quick succession,
      while the dark, dreary moor offers nothing but the inhospitable
      freedom of space. The cold wind cuts through her, making her
      shudder for the result. “He’s for the hills!” exclaims Gameboy
      Green, still struggling on with a somewhat worse-for-wear looking
      steed.

      “He’s for the hills!” repeats he, pointing to a frowning line in
      the misty distance.

      At the same instant his horse puts his foot in a stone-hole, and
      Gameboy and he measure their lengths on the moor.

      “That comes of star-gazing,” observed his lordship, turning his
      coat-collar up about his ears. “That comes of star-gazing,”
      repeats he, eyeing the loose horse scampering the wrong way.

      “We’ll see no more of him,” observed Miss de Glancey, wishing she
      was as well out of it as Green.

      “Not likely, I think,” replied his lordship, seeing the evasive
      rush the horse gave, as Speed, who was coming up with some tail
      hounds, tried to catch him.

      The heath-brushing fox leaves a scent that fills the painfully
      still atmosphere with the melody of the hounds, mingled with the
      co-beck—co-beck—co-beck of the startled grouse. There is a solemn
      calm that portends a coming storm. To Miss de Clancey, for whom
      the music of the hounds has no charms, and the fast-gathering
      clouds have great danger, the situation is peculiarly
      distressing. She would stop if she durst, but on the middle of a
      dreary moor how dare she.

      An ominous gusty wind, followed by a vivid flash of lightning and
      a piercing scream from Miss de Glancey, now startled the Earl’s
      meditations.

      “Lightning!” exclaimed his lordship, turning short round to her
      assistance. “Lightning in the month of November—never heard of
      such a thing!”

      But ere his lordship gets to Miss de Glancey’s horse, a most
      terrific clap of thunder burst right over head, shaking the earth
      to the very centre, silencing the startled hounds, and satisfying
      his lordship that it _was_ lightning.

      Another flash, more vivid if possible than the first, followed by
      another pealing crash of thunder, more terrific than before,
      calls all hands to a hurried council of war on the subject of
      shelter.

      “We must make for the Punch-bowl at Rockbeer,” exclaims General
      Boggledike, flourishing his horn in an ambiguous sort of way, for
      he wasn’t quite sure he could find it.

      “_You_ know the Punch-bowl at Rockbeer!” shouts he to Harry Swan,
      anxious to have some one on whom to lay the blame if he went
      wrong.

      “I know it when I’m there,” replied Swan, who didn’t consider it
      part of his duty to make imaginary runs to ground for his
      lordship.

      “Know it when you’re there, man,” retorted Dicky in disgust; “why
      any————” the remainder of his sentence being lost in a
      tremendously illuminating flash of lightning, followed by a long
      cannonading, reverberating roll of thunder.

      Poor Miss de Glancey was ready to sink into the earth.



      113m


      _Original Size_


      “_Elope, hounds! elope!_” cried Dicky, getting his horse short by
      the head, and spurring him into a brisk trot. “_Elope, hounds!
      elope!_” repeated he, setting off on a speculative cast, for he
      saw it was no time for dallying.

      And now,


“From cloud to cloud the rending lightnings rage; Till in the furious
elemental war Dissolved, the whole precipitated mass, Unbroken floods
and solid torrents pour.”

      Luckily for Dicky, an unusually vivid flash of lightning so lit
      up the landscape as to show the clump of large elms at the
      entrance to Rockbeer; and taking his bearings, he went swish
      swash, squirt spurt, swish swash, squirt spurt, through the
      spongy, half land, half water moor, at as good a trot as he could
      raise. The lately ardent, pressing hounds follow on in long-drawn
      file, looking anything but large or formidable. The frightened
      horses tucked in their tails, and looked fifty per cent. worse
      for the suppression. The hard, driving rain beats downways, and
      sideways, and frontways, and backways—all ways at once. The
      horses know not which way to duck, to evade the storm. In less
      than a minute Miss de Glancey is as drenched as if she had taken
      a shower-bath. The smart hat and feathers are annihilated; the
      dubious frizette falls out, down comes the hair; the
      bella-donna-inspired radiance of her eyes is quenched; the
      Crinoline and wadding dissolve like ice before the fire; and ere
      the love-cured Earl lifts her off her horse at the Punch-bowl at
      Rockbeer, she has no more shape or figure than an icicle. Indeed
      she very much resembles one, for the cold sleet, freezing as it
      fell, has encrusted her in a rich coat of ice lace, causing her
      saturated garments to cling to her with the utmost pertinacity. A
      more complete wreck of a belle was, perhaps, never seen.

      “_What an object!_” inwardly ejaculated she, as Mrs.
      Hetherington, the landlady, brought a snivelling mould candle
      into the cheerless, fireless little inn-parlour, and she caught a
      glimpse of herself in the—at best—most unbecoming mirror. What
      would she have given to have turned back!

      And as his lordship hurried up stairs in his water-logged boots,
      he said to himself, with a nervous swing of his arm, “I was
      right!—women _have_ no business out hunting.” And the Binks
      chance improved amazingly.

      The further _denouement_ of this perishing day will be gleaned
      from the following letters.



      CHAPTER XIV. THE PRINGLE CORRESPONDENCE.


      MR WILLIAM TO HIS MAMMA.


      “Tantivy Castle, November.

      “My dearest Mamma,

      _“Though I wrote to you only the other day, I take up my pen,
      stiff and sore as I am and scarcely able to sit, to tell you of
      my first day’s hunt, which, I assure you, was anything but
      enjoyable. In fact, at this moment I feel just as if I had been
      thumped by half the pugilists in London and severely kicked at
      the end. To my fancy, hunting is about the most curious,
      unreasonable amusement that ever was invented. The first fox was
      well enough, running backwards and forwards in an agreeable
      manner, though they all abused him and called him a cowardly
      beggar, though to my mind it was far pluckier to do what he did,
      with fifty great dogs after him, than to fly like a thief as the
      next one did. Indeed I saw all the first run without the
      slightest inconvenience or exertion, for a very agreeable
      gentleman, called Major Hammerton, himself an old keeper of
      hounds, led me about and showed me the country._

      _“I don’t mean to say that he led my horse, but he showed me the
      way to go, so as to avoid the jumps, and pointed out the places
      where I could get a peep of the fox. I saw him frequently. The
      Major, who was extremely polite, asked me to go and stay with him
      after I leave here, and I wouldn’t mind going if it wasn’t for
      the hounds, which, however, he says are quite as fine as his
      lordship’s, without being so furiously and inconveniently fast.
      For my part, however, I don’t see the use of hunting an animal
      that you can shoot, as they do in France. It seems a monstrous
      waste of exertion. If they were all as sore as I am this morning,
      I’m sure they wouldn’t try it again in a hurry. I really think
      racing, where you pay people for doing the dangerous for you, is
      much better fun, and prettier too, for you can choose any lively
      colour you like for your jacket, instead of having to stick to
      scarlet or dark clothes._

      _“But I will tell you about fox No. 2. I was riding with a very
      pretty young lady, Miss de Glancey, whom the Earl had just
      introduced me to, when all of a sudden everybody seemed to be
      seized with an uncontrollable galloping mania, and set off as
      hard as ever their horses could lay legs to the ground. My horse,
      who they said was a perfect hunter, but who, I should say, was a
      perfect brute, partook of the prevailing epidemic, and, though he
      had gone quite quietly enough before, now seized the bit between
      his teeth, and plunged and reared as though he would either knock
      my teeth down my throat, or come back over upon me. ‘Drop your
      hand!’ cried one. ‘Ease his head!’ cried another, and what was
      the consequence? He ran away with me and, dashing through a flock
      of turkeys, nearly capsized an old sow._

      _“Then the people, who had been so civil before, all seemed to be
      seized with the rudes. It was nothing but ‘g-u-u-r along, sir!
      g-u-u-r along! Hang it! don’t you see the hounds are running!’
      just as if I had made them run, or as if I could stop them. My
      good friend, the Major, seemed to be as excited as any body:
      indeed, the only cool person was Miss de Glancey, who cantered
      away in a most unconcerned manner. I am sorry to say she came in
      for a desperate ducking. It seems that after I had had as much as
      I wanted, and pulled up to come home, they encountered a most
      terrific thunder-storm in crossing some outlandish moor, and as
      his lordship, who didn’t get home till long after dark, said she
      all at once became a dissolving view, and went away to nothing.
      Mrs. Moffatt, who is stout and would not easily dissolve, seemed
      amazingly tickled with the joke, and said she supposed she would
      look like a Mermaid—which his lordship said was exactly the case.
      When the first roll of thunder was heard here, the Earl’s
      carriage and four was ordered out, with dry things, to go in
      quest of him; but they tried two of his houses of call before
      they fell in with him. It then had to return to take the Mermaid
      to her home, who had to borrow the publican’s wife’s Sunday
      clothes to travel in._

      _“After dinner, the stud-groom came in to announce the horses for
      to-day; and hearing one named for me, I begged to decline the
      honour, on the plea of having a great many letters to write, so
      Mrs. Moffatt accompanied his lordship to the meet, some ten miles
      north of this, in his carriage and four, from whence she has just
      returned, and says they went away with a brilliant scent from
      Foxlydiate Gorse, meaning, I presume, with another such clatter
      as we had yesterday. I am glad I didn’t go, for I don’t think I
      could have got on to a horse, let alone sit one, especially at
      the jumps, which all the Clods in the country seem to have
      clubbed their ideas to concoct. Rougier says people are always
      stiff after the first day’s hunting; but if I had thought I
      should be as sore and stiff as I am, I don’t think I would ever
      have taken a day, because Major Hammerlon says it is not
      necessary to go out hunting in the morning to entitle one to wear
      the dress uniform in the evening—which is really all I care for._

      _“The servants here seem to live like fighting-cocks, from
      Rougier’s account; breakfasts, luncheons, dinners, teas, and
      suppers. They sit down, ten or a dozen at the second table, and
      about thirty or so in the hall, besides which there are no end of
      people out of doors. Rougier says they have wine at the second
      table, and eau de vie punch at night at discretion, of which, I
      think, he takes more than is discreet, for he came swaggering
      into my room at day-break this morning, in his evening dress,
      with his hat on, and a great pewter inkstand in his hand, which
      he set down on the dressing-table, and said, ‘dere, sir, dere is
      your shavin’ water!’ Strange to say, the fellow speaks better
      English when he’s drunk than he does when he’s sober. However, I
      suppose I must have a valet, otherwise I should think it would be
      a real kindness to give the great lazy fellows here something to
      do, other than hanging about the passages waylaying the girls,
      I’ll write you again when I know what I’m going to do, but I
      don’t think I shall stay here much longer, if I’m obliged to risk
      my neck after these ridiculous dogs. Ever, my dearest Mamma your
      most affectionate, but excruciatingly sore, son._

      “Wm. PRINGLE.”

      The following is Mrs. Pringle’s answer; who, it will be seen,
      received Billy’s last letter while she was answering his first
      one:—

      “25, Curtain Crescent, “Belgrave Square, London.

      “My own dearest William,

      _“I was overjoyed, my own darling, to receive your kind letter,
      and hear that you had arrived safe, and found his lordship so
      kind and agreeable. I thought you had known him by sight, or I
      would have prevented your making the mistake by describing him to
      you. However, there is no harm done. In a general way, the great
      man of the place is oftentimes the least.—The most accessible,
      that is to say. The Earl is an excellent, kind-hearted man, and
      it will do you great good among your companions to be known to be
      intimate with him, for I can assure you it is not every one he
      takes up with. Of course, there are people who abuse him, and say
      he is this and that, and so on; but you must take
      people—especially great ones—as you find them in this world; and
      he is quite as good as his whites of their eyes turning-up
      neighbours. Don’t, however presume on his kindness by attempting
      to stay beyond what he presses you to do, for two short visits
      tell better than one long one, looking as though you had been
      approved of. You can easily find out from the butler or the groom
      of the chambers, or some of the upper servants, how long you are
      expected to stay, or perhaps some of the guests can tell you how
      long they are invited for._

      _“I had written thus far when your second welcome letter arrived,
      and I can’t tell you how delighted I am to hear you are safe and
      well, though I’m sorry to hear you don’t like hunting, for I
      assure you it is the best of all possible sports, and there is
      none that admits of such elegant variety of costume._

      _“Look at a shooter,—what a ragamuffin dress his is, hardly
      distinguishable from a keeper; and yachters and cricketers might
      be taken for ticket-of-leave men. I should be very sorry indeed
      if you were not to persevere in your hunting; for a red coat and
      leathers are quite your become, and there is none, in my opinion,
      in which a gentleman looks so well, or a snob so ill. Learning to
      hunt can’t be more disagreeable than learning to sail or to
      smoke, and see how many hundreds—thousands I may say—overcome the
      difficulty every year, and blow their clouds, as they call them,
      on the quarterdeck, as though they had been born sailors with
      pipes in their mouths. Remember, if you can’t manage to sit your
      horse, you’ll be fit for nothing but a seat in Parliament along
      with Captain Catlap and the other incurables. I can’t think there
      can be much difficulty in the matter, judging from the lumpy
      wash-balley sort of men one hears talking about it. I should
      think if you had a horse of your own, you would be able to make
      better out. Whatever you do, however, have nothing to do with
      racing. It’s only for rogues and people who have more money than
      they know what to do with, and to whom it doesn’t matter whether
      they win or they lose. We musn’t have you setting up a
      confidential crossing-sweeper with a gold eyeglass. No gentleman
      need expect to make money on the turf, for if you were to win
      they wouldn’t pay you, whereas, if you lose it’s quite a
      different thing. One of the beauties of hunting is that people
      have no inducement to poison each other; whereas in racing, from
      poisoning horses they have got to poisoning men, besides which
      one party must lose if the other is to win. Mutual advantage is
      impossible. Another thing, if you were to win ever so, the
      trainer would always keep his little bill in advance of your
      gains, or he would be a very bad trainer._

      _“I hope Major Hammerton is a gentleman of station, whose
      acquaintance will do you good, though the name is not very
      aristocratic—Hamilton would have been better. Are there any Miss
      H’s? Remember there are always forward people in the world, who
      think to advance themselves by taking strangers by the hand, and
      that a bad introduction is far worse than none. Above all, never
      ask to be introduced to a great man. Great people have their eyes
      and ears about them just as well as little ones, and if they
      choose to know you, they will make the advance. Asking to be
      introduced only prejudices them against you, and generally
      insures a cut at the first opportunity._

      _“Beware of Miss de Glancey. She is a most determined coquette,
      and if she had fifty suitors, wouldn’t be happy if she saw
      another woman with one, without trying to get him from her. She
      hasn’t a halfpenny. If you see her again, ask her if she knows
      Mr. Hotspur Smith, or Mr. Enoch Benson, or Mr. Woodhorn, and tell
      me how she looks. What is she doing down there? Surely she hasn’t
      the vanity to think she can captivate the Earl. You needn’t
      mention me to Mrs. Moffatt, but I should like to know what she
      has on, and also if there are any new dishes for dinner. Indeed,
      the less you talk about your belongings the better; for the world
      has but two ways, that of running people down much below their
      real level, or of extolling them much beyond their deserts.
      Remember, well-bred people always take breeding for granted, ‘one
      of us,’ as they say in others when they find them at good houses,
      and as you have a good name, you have nothing to do but hold your
      tongue, and the chances are they will estimate you at far more
      than your real worth._

      _“A valet is absolutely indispensable for a young gentleman.
      Bless you! you would be thought nothing of among the servants if
      you hadn’t one. They are their masters’ trumpeters. A valet,
      especially a French one, putting on two clean shirts a day, and
      calling for Burgundy after your cheese, are about the most
      imposing things in the lower regions. In small places, giving as
      much trouble as possible, and asking for things you think they
      haven’t got, is very well; but this will not do where you now
      are. In a general way, it is a bad plan taking servants to great
      houses, for, as they all measure their own places by the best
      they have ever seen, and never think how many much worse ones
      there are, they come back discontented, and are seldom good for
      much until they have undergone a quarter’s starving or so, out of
      place. It is a good thing when the great man of a country sets an
      example of prudence and economy, for then all others can quote
      him, instead of having the bad practices of other places raked up
      as authority for introducing them into theirs. The Earl, however,
      would never be able to get through half his income if he was not
      to wink at a little prodigality, and the consumption of wine in
      great houses would be a mere nothing if it was not for the
      assistance of the servants. Indeed, the higher you get into
      society, the less wine you get, until you might expect to see it
      run out to nothing at a Duke’s. I dare say Rougier will be fond
      of drink, and the English servants will perhaps be fond of plying
      him with it; but, so long as he does not get incompetent, a
      little jollity on his part will make them more communicative
      before him, and it is wonderful what servants can tell. They know
      everything in the kitchen—nothing in the parlour. His lordship, I
      believe, doesn’t allow strange servants to wait except upon very
      full occasions, otherwise it might be well to put Rougier under
      the surveillance of Beverage, the butler, lest he should come
      into the room drunk and incompetent, which would be very
      disagreeable._

      _“I enclose you a gold fox-head pin to give Mr. Boggledike, who
      doesn’t take money, at least nothing under £5, and this only
      costs 18s. He is a favourite with his lordship, and it will be
      well to be in with him. You had better give the men who whip the
      hounds a trifle, say 10s. or half-a-sovereign each—gold looks
      better than silver. If you go to Major Hammertons you must let me
      know; but perhaps you will inquire further before you fix. And
      now, hoping that you will stick to your hunting, and be more
      successful on another horse after a quieter fox, believe me ever,
      my own dearest William, your most truly and sincerely
      affectionate mother,_

      _ “Emma Pringle. _

      _“P.S.—Don’t forget the two clean shirts._

      _“P.S.—When you give Dicky Boggledike the pin, you can compliment
      him on his talents as a huntsman (as Mr. Redpath did the actor);
      and as they say he is a very bad one, he will be all the more
      grateful for it._

      _“P.S.—I have just had another most pressing letter from your
      uncle Jerry, urging me to go and look through all the accounts
      and papers, as he says it is not fair throwing such a heavy
      responsibility upon him. Poor man! He need not be so pressing. He
      little knows how anxious I am to do it. I hope now we shall get
      something satisfactory, for as yet I know no more than I did
      before your poor father died._

      _“P.S.—Don’t forget to tell me if there are any Miss H.‘s, and
      whatever you do, take care of Dowb, that is, yourself.”_

      But somehow Billy forgot to tell his Mamma whether there were any
      Miss H.‘s or not, though he might have said “No,” seeing they
      were Miss “Y.‘s.”

      And now, while our hero is recovering from his bruises, let us
      introduce the reader further to his next host, Major Y.



      CHAPTER XV. MAJOR YAMMERTON’S COACH STOPS THE WAY.


      MAJOR Yammerton was rather a peculiar man, inasmuch as he was an
      Ass, without being a Fool. He was an Ass for always puffing and
      inflating himself, while as regarded worldly knowledge,
      particularly that comprised in the magic letters £. s. d., few,
      if any, were his equals. In the former department, he was always
      either on the strut or the fret, always either proclaiming the
      marked attention he had met with, or worrying himself with the
      idea that he had not had enough. At home, instead of offering
      people freely and hospitably what he had, he was continually
      boring them with apologies for what he had not. Just as if all
      men were expected to have things alike, or as if the Major was an
      injured innocent who had been defrauded of his rights. If he was
      not boring and apologising, then he was puffing or praising
      everything indiscriminately—depending, of course, upon who he had
      there—a great gun or a little one.

      He returned from his Tantivy Castle hunt, very much pleased with
      our Billy, who seemed to be just the man for his money, and by
      the aid of his Baronetage he made him out to be very highly
      connected. Mrs. Yammerton and the young ladies were equally
      delighted with him, and it was unanimously resolved that he
      should be invited to the Grange, for which purpose the standing
      order of the house “never to invite any one direct from a great
      house to theirs,” was suspended. A very salutary rule it is for
      all who study appearances, seeing that what looks very well one
      way may look very shady the other; but this being perhaps a case
      of “now or never,” the exception would seem to have been
      judiciously made. The heads of the house had different objects in
      view; Mamma’s, of course, being matrimonial, the Major’s, the
      laudable desire to sell Mr. Pringle a horse. And the mention of
      Mamma’s object leads us to the young ladies.

      These, Clara, Flora, and Harriet, were very pretty, and very
      highly educated—that is to say, they could do everything that is
      useless—play, draw, sing, dance, make wax-flowers, bead-stands,
      do decorative gilding, and crochet-work; but as to knowing how
      many ounces there are in a pound of tea, or how many pounds of
      meat a person should eat in a day, they were utterly, entirely,
      and most elegantly ignorant. Towards the close of the last
      century, and at the beginning of the present one, ladies ran
      entirely to domesticity, pickling, preserving, and pressing
      people to eat. Corded petticoats and patent mangles long formed
      the staple of a mid life woman’s conversation. Presently a new
      era sprang up, which banished everything in the shape of
      utilitarianism, and taught the then rising generation that the
      less they knew of domestic matters the finer ladies they would
      be, until we really believe the daughters of the nobility are
      better calculated for wives, simply because they are generally
      economically brought up, and are not afraid of losing _caste_, by
      knowing what every woman ought to do. No man thinks the worse of
      a woman for being able to manage her house, while few men can
      afford to marry mere music-stools and embroidery frames. Mrs.
      Yammerton, however, took a different view of the matter. She had
      been brought up in the patent mangle and corded petticoat school,
      and inwardly resolved that her daughters should know nothing of
      the sort—should be “real ladies,” in the true kitchen acceptation
      of the term. Hence they were mistresses of all the little
      accomplishments before enumerated, which, with making calls and
      drinking tea, formed the principal occupation of their lives. Not
      one of them could write a letter without a copy, and were all
      very uncertain in their spelling—though they knew to a day when
      every King and Queen began to reign, and could spout all the
      chief towns in the kingdom. Now this might have been all very
      well, at least bearable, if the cockey Major had had plenty of
      money to give them, but at the time they were acquiring them, the
      “contrary was the case,” as the lawyers say. The Major’s
      grandfather (his father died when he was young) had gone upon the
      old annexation principle of buying land and buying land simply
      because “it joined,” and not always having the cash to pay for it
      with, our Major came into an estate (large or small, according as
      the reader has more or less of his own) saddled with a good,
      stout, firmly setting mortgage. Land, however, being the only
      beast of burthen that does not show what it carries, our
      orphan—orphan in top-boots to be sure—passed for his best, and
      was speedily snapped up by the then beautiful, Italian—like Miss
      Winnington, who consoled herself for the collapse of his fortune,
      by the reflection that she had nothing of her own. Perhaps, too,
      she had made allowance for the exaggeration of estimates, which
      generally rate a man at three or four times his worth. The
      Winningtons, however, having made a great “crow” at the “catch,”
      the newly-married couple started at score as if the estate had
      nothing to carry but themselves.



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      In due time the three graces appeared,—Clara, very fair, with
      large languishing blue eyes and light hair; Flora, with auburn
      hair and hazel eyes; and Harriet, tall, clear, and dark, like
      Mamma. As they grew up, and had had their heads made into
      Almanacs at home, they were sent to the celebrated Miss
      Featherey’s finishing and polishing seminary at Westbourne Grove,
      who for £200 a-year, or as near £200 as she could get, taught
      them all the airs and graces, particularly how to get in and out
      of a carriage properly, how to speak to a doctor, how to a
      counter-skipper, how to a servant, and so on. The Major, we may
      state, had his three daughters taken as two. Well, just as Miss
      Harriet was supplying the place of Miss Clara (polished), that
      great agricultural revolution, the repeal of the corn laws, took
      place, and our Major, who had regarded his estate more with an
      eye to its hunting and shooting capabilities than to high
      farming, very soon found it slipping away from him, just as Miss
      de Glancey slipped away from her dress in the thunder-storm. Up
      to that time, his easy-minded agent, Mr. Bullrush, a twenty stone
      man of sixty years of age, had thought the perfection of
      management was not to let an estate go back, but now the Major’s
      seemed likely to slip through its girths altogether. To be sure,
      it had not had any great assistance in the advancing line, and
      was just the same sour, rush-grown, poachy, snipe-shooting
      looking place that it was when the Major got it; but this was not
      his grandfather’s fault, who had buried as many stones in great
      gulf-like drains, as would have carried off a river and walled
      the estate all round into the bargain; but there was no making
      head against wet land with stone drains, the bit you cured only
      showing the wetness of the rest. The blotchy March fallows looked
      as if they had got the small pox, the pastures were hardly green
      before Midsummer, and the greyhound-like cattle that wandered
      over them were evidently of Pharaoh’s lean sort, and looked as if
      they would _never_ be ready for the butcher. Foreign cattle, too,
      were coming in free, and the old cry of “down corn, down horn,”
      frightened the fabulously famed “stout British farmer” out of his
      wits.

      Then those valuable documents called leases—so binding on the
      landlord, were found to be wholly inoperative on the tenants, who
      threw up their farms as if there were no such things in
      existence.

      If the Major wouldn’t take their givings up, why then he might
      just do his “warst;” meanwhile, of course, they would “do their
      warst,” by the land. With those who had nothing (farming and
      beer-shop keeping being about the only trades a man can start
      with upon nothing), of course, it was of no use persisting, but
      the awkward part of the thing was, that this probing of pockets
      showed that in too many cases the reputed honesty of the British
      farmer was also mere fiction; for some who were thought to be
      well off, now declared that their capital was their aunt’s, or
      their uncle’s, or their grandmother’s, or some one else’s, so
      that the two classes, the have-somethings, and the have-nothings,
      were reduced to a level. This sort of thing went on throughout
      the country, and landlords who could not face the difficulty by
      taking their estates in hand, had to submit to very serious
      reductions of rent, and rent once got down, is very difficult to
      get up again, especially in countries where they value by the
      rate-book, or where a traditionary legend attaches to land of the
      lowest rent it has ever been let for.

      Our Major was sorely dispirited, and each market-day, as he
      returned from Mr. Bullrush’s with worse and worse news than
      before, he pondered o’er his misfortunes, fearing that he would
      have to give up his hounds and his horses, withdraw his daughters
      from Miss Featherey’s, and go to Boulogne, and as he contemplated
      the airy outline of their newly-erected rural palace of a
      workhouse, he said it was lucky they had built it, for he thought
      they would all very soon be in it. Certainly, things got to their
      worst in the farming way, before they began to mend, and such
      land as the Major’s—good, but “salivated with wet,” as the cabman
      said of his coat—was scarcely to be let at any price.

      In these go-a-head days of farming, when the enterprising sons of
      trade are fast obliterating the traces of the heavy-heel’d order
      of easy-minded Hodges who,


——“held their farms and lived content While one year paid another’s
rent,”

      without ever making any attempt at improvement, it may be amusing
      to record the business-like offer of some of those indolent
      worthies who would bid for a pig in a poke. Thus it runs:—It
      should have been dated April 1, instead of 21:—

      TO MAJOR YAMMERTON.


      “Onard Sir,

      _“Hobnail Hill, April 21. _

      “Wheas We have considered we shall give you for Bonnyrig’s farme
      the som £100 25 puns upon condishinds per year if you should
      think it to little we may perhaps advance a little as we have not
      looked her carefully over her and for character Mr. Sowerby will
      give you every information as we are the third giniration that’s
      been under the Sowerbys.

      _“Yours sincerely,_

      “Henerey Brown,

      “Homfray Brown—Co.

      “_If you want anye otes I could sell you fifteen bowels of verye
      fine ones._”

      Now the “som £100 25 puns” being less than half what the Major’s
      grandfather used to get for the farm:—viz. “£200 63 puns,”—our
      Major was considerably perplexed; and as “Henerey and Homfray”’s
      offer was but a sample of the whole, it became a question between
      Boulogne and Bastile, as those once unpopular edifices, the
      workhouses, were then called. And here we may observe, that there
      is nothing perhaps, either so manageable or so unmanageable as
      land—nothing easier to keep right than land in good order, and
      nothing more difficult to get by the head, and stop, than land
      that has run wild; and it may be laid down as an infallible rule,
      that the man who has no taste for land or horses should have
      nothing to do with either. He should put his money in the funds,
      and rail or steam when he has occasion to travel. He will be far
      richer, far fatter, and fill the bay window of his club far
      better, than by undergoing the grinding of farmers and the
      tyranny of grooms. Land, like horses, when once in condition is
      easily kept so, but once let either go down, and the owner
      becomes a prey to the scratchers and the copers.

      If, however, a man likes a little occupation better than the
      eternal gossip, and “_who’s that?_” of the clubs, and prefers a
      smiling improving landscape to a barren retrograding scene, he
      will find no pleasanter, healthier, or more interesting
      occupation than improving his property. And a happy thing it was
      for this kingdom, that Prince Albert who has done so much to
      refine and elevate mankind, should have included farming in the
      list of his amusements,—bringing the before despised pursuit into
      favour and fashion, so that now instead of land remaining a prey
      to the “Henerey Browns & Co.” of life, we find gentlemen
      advertising for farms in all directions, generally stipulating
      that they are to be on the line of one or other of the once
      derided railways.

      But we are getting in advance of the times with our Major, whom
      we left in the slough of despond, consequent on the coming down
      of his rents. Just when things were at their worst, the first
      sensible sunbeam of simplicity that ever shone upon land,
      appeared in the shape of the practical, easy-working Drainage
      Act, an act that has advanced agriculture more than all previous
      inventions and legislation put together. But our gallant friend
      had his difficulties to contend with even here.

      Mr. Bullrush was opposed to it. He was fat and didn’t like
      trouble, so he doubted the capacity of such a pocket companion as
      a pipe to carry off the superfluous water, then he doubted the
      ability of the water to get into the pipe at such a depth, above
      all he doubted the ability of the tenants to pay drainage
      interests. “How could they if they couldn’t pay their rents?” Of
      course, the tenants adopted this view of the matter, and were all
      opposed to making what they called “experiences,” at their own
      expense; so upon the whole, Mr. Bullrush advised the Major to
      have nothing to do with it. It being, however, a case of
      necessity with the Major, he disregarded Mr. Bullrush’s advice
      which led to a separation, and being now a free agent, he went
      boldly at the government loan, and soon scared all the snipes and
      half the tenants off his estate. The water poured off in
      torrents; the plump juicy rushes got the jaundice, and Mossington
      bog, over which the Major used to have to scuttle on foot after
      his “haryers,” became sound enough to carry a horse. Then as Mr.
      Bullrush rode by and saw each dreary swamp become sound ground,
      he hugged himself with the sloven’s consolation that it “wouldn’t
      p-a-a-y.” Pay, however, it did, for our Major next went and got
      some stout horses, and the right sort of implements of
      agriculture, and soon proved the truth of the old adage, that it
      is better to follow a sloven than a scientific farmer. He worked
      his land well, cleaned it well, and manured it well; in which
      three simple operations consists the whole science of husbandry,
      and instead of growing turnips for pickling, as his predecessors
      seemed to do, he got great healthy Swedes that loomed as large as
      his now fashionable daughter’s dresses. He grew as many “bowels”
      of oats upon one acre of land as any previous tenant had done
      upon three. So altogether, our Major throve, and instead of going
      to Boulogne, he presently set up the Cockaded Coach in which we
      saw him arrive at Tantivy Castle. Not that he went to a
      coachmaker’s and said, “Build me a roomy family coach regardless
      of expense,” but, finding that he couldn’t get an inside seat
      along with the thirty-six yard dresses in the old chariot, he
      dropped in at the sale of the late Squire Trefoil’s effects, who
      had given some such order, and, under pretence of buying a
      shower-bath, succeeded in getting a capital large coach on its
      first wheels for ten pounds,—scarcely the value of the pole.

      As a contrast to Henerey Brown and Co.‘s business-like offer for
      the farm, and in illustration of the difference between buying
      and selling, we append the verbose estimate of this ponderous
      affair. Thus it runs—

      HENRY TREFOIL, ESQ.


      To CHALKER AND CHARGER COACHMAKERS, BY APPOINTMENT, TO THE
      EMPEROR OF CHINA, Emperor of Morocco, the King of Oude, the King
      of the Cannibal Islands, &c., &c., &c., &c.

      _Long Acre, London_.

      (Followed by all the crowns, arms, orders, flourish, and flannel,
      peculiar to aristocratic tradesmen.)



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      Three hundred and ninety pounds! And to think that the whole
      should come to be sold for ten sovereigns. Oh, what a falling off
      was there, my coachmakers! Surely the King of the Cannibal
      Islands could never afford to pay such prices as those! Verily,
      Sir Robert Peel was right when he said that there was no class of
      tradespeople whose bills wanted reforming so much as coachmakers.
      What ridiculous price they make wood and iron assume, and what
      absurd offers they make when you go to them to sell!



      CHAPTER XVI. THE MAJOR’S MENAGE.

      129m


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      AND first about the “haryers!”

      “Five-and-thirty years master of haryers without a subscription!”

      This, we think, is rather an exaggeration, both as regards time
      and money, unless the Major reckons an undivided moiety he had in
      an old lady-hound called “Lavender” along with the village
      blacksmith of Billinghurst when he was at school. If he so
      calculates, then he would be right as to time, but wrong as to
      money, for the blacksmith paid his share of the tax, and found
      the greater part of the food. For thirty years, we need hardly
      tell the reader of sporting literature, that the Major had been a
      master of harriers—for well has he blown the horn of their
      celebrity during the whole of that long period—never were such
      harriers for finding jack hares, and pushing them through
      parishes innumerable, making them take rivers, and run as
      straight as railways, putting the costly performances of the
      foxhounds altogether to the blush. Ten miles from point to point,
      and generally without a turn, is the usual style of thing, the
      last run with this distinguished pack being always unsurpassed by
      any previous performance. Season after season has the sporting
      world been startled with these surprising announcements, until
      red-coated men, tired of blanks and ringing foxes, have almost
      said, “Dash my buttons, if I won’t shut up shop here and go and
      hunt with these tremendous harriers,” while other currant-jelly
      gentlemen, whose hares dance the fandango before their plodding
      pack, have sighed for some of these wonderful “Jacks” that never
      make a curve, or some of the astonishing hounds that have such a
      knack at making them fly.

      Well, but the reader will, perhaps, say it’s the blood that does
      it—the Major has an unrivalled, unequalled strain of harrier
      blood that nobody else can procure. Nothing of the sort! Nothing
      of the sort! The Major’s blood is just anything he can get. He
      never misses a chance of selling either a single hound or a pack,
      and has emptied his kennel over and over again. But then he
      always knows where to lay hands on more; and as soon as ever the
      new hounds cross his threshold they become the very “best in the
      world”—better than any he ever had before. They then figure upon
      paper, just as if it was a continuous pack; and the field being
      under pretty good command, and, moreover, implicated in the
      honour of their performances, the thing goes on smoothly and
      well, and few are any the wiser. There is nothing so popular as a
      little fuss and excitement, in which every man may take his
      share, and this it is that makes scratch packs so celebrated.
      Their followers see nothing but their perfections. They are


“To their faults a little blind, And to their virtues ever kind.”

      At the period of which we are writing, the Major’s pack was
      rather better than usual, being composed of the pick of three
      packs,—“cries of dogs” rather—viz., the Corkycove harriers, kept
      by the shoemakers of Waxley; the Bog-trotter harriers (four
      couple), kept by some moor-edge miners; the Dribbleford dogs,
      upon whom nobody would pay the tax; and of some two or three
      couple of incurables, that had been consigned from different
      kennels on condition of the Major returning the hampers in which
      they came.

      The Major was open to general consignments in the canine
      line—Hounds, Pointers, Setters, Terriers, &c.—not being of George
      the Third’s way of thinking, who used to denounce all “presents
      that eat.” He would take anything; anything, at least, except a
      Greyhound, an animal that he held in mortal abhorrence. What he
      liked best was to get a Lurcher, for which he soon found a place
      under a pear-tree.

      The Major’s huntsman, old Solomon, was coachman, shepherd, groom,
      and gamekeeper, as well as huntsman, and was the cockaded
      gentleman who drove the ark on the occasion of our introduction.
      In addition to all this, he waited at table on grand occasions,
      and did a little fishing, hay-making, and gardening in the
      summer. He was one of the old-fashioned breed of servants, now
      nearly extinct, who passed their lives in one family and turned
      their hands to whatever was wanted. The Major, whose maxim was
      not to keep any cats that didn’t catch mice, knowing full well
      that all gentlemen’s servants can do double the work of their
      places, provided they only get paid for it, resolved, that it was
      cheaper to pay one man the wages of one-and-a-half to do the work
      of two men, than to keep two men to do the same quantity;
      consequently, there was very little hissing at bits and
      curb-chains in the Major’s establishment, the hard work of other
      places being the light work, or no work at all, of his. Solomon
      was the _beau idéal_ of a harrier huntsman, being, as the French
      say, _d’un certain age_, quiet, patient, and a pusillanimous
      rider.

      Now about the subscription.

      It is true that the Major did not take a subscription in the
      common acceptation of the term, but he took assistance in various
      ways, such as a few days ploughing from one man, a few “bowels”
      of seed-wheat from another, a few “bowels” of seed-oats from a
      third, a lamb from a fourth, a pig from a fifth, added to which,
      he had all the hounds walked during the summer, so that his
      actual expenses were very little more than the tax. This he
      jockeyed by only returning about two-thirds the number of hounds
      he kept; and as twelve couple were his hunting maximum, his
      taxing minimum would be about eight—eight couple—or sixteen
      hounds, at twelve shillings a-piece, is nine pound twelve, for
      which sum he made more noise in the papers than the Quorn, the
      Belvoir, and the Cottesmore all put together. Indeed the old
      adage of “great cry and little wool,” applies to packs as well as
      flocks, for we never see hounds making a great “to-do” in the
      papers without suspecting that they are either good for nothing,
      or that the fortunate owner wants to sell them.

      With regard to horses, the Major, like many people, had but one
      sort—the best in England—though they were divided into two
      classes, viz., hunters and draught horses. Hacks or carriage
      horses he utterly eschewed. Horses must either hunt or plough
      with him; nor was he above putting his hunters into the harrows
      occasionally. Hence he always had a pair of efficient horses for
      his carriage when he wanted them, instead of animals that were
      fit to jump out of their skins at starting, and ready to slip
      through them on coming home.

      Clothing he utterly repudiated for carriage horses, alleging,
      that people never get any work out of them after they are once
      clothed.

      The hunters were mostly sedate, elderly animals, horses that had
      got through the “morning of life” with the foxhounds, and came to
      the harriers in preference to harness. The Major was always a
      buyer or an exchanger, or a mixer of both, and would generally
      “advance a little” on the neighbouring job-master’s prices. Then
      having got them, he recruited the veterans by care and crushed
      corn, which, with cutting their tails, so altered them, that
      sometimes their late groom scarcely knew them again.

      Certainly, if the animals could have spoken, they would have
      expressed their surprise at the different language the Major held
      as a buyer and as a seller; as a buyer, when like Gil Blas’ mule,
      he made them out to be all faults, as a seller when they suddenly
      seemed to become paragons of perfection. He was always ready for
      a deal, and would accommodate matters to people’s
      convenience—take part cash, part corn, part hay, part anything,
      for he was a most miscellaneous barterer, and his stable loft was
      like a Marine Store-dealer’s shop. Though always boasting that
      his little white hands were not “soiled with trade,” he would
      traffic in anything (on the sly) by which he thought he could
      turn a penny. His last effort in the buying way had nearly got
      him into the County Court, as the following correspondence will
      show, as also how differently two people can view the same thing.

      Being in town, with wheat at 80s. and barley and oats in
      proportion, and consequently more plethoric in the pocket than
      usual, he happened to stray into a certain great furniture mart
      where two chairs struck him as being cheap. They were standing
      together, and one of them was thus ticketed:


No. 8205.

2 Elizabethan chairs.

India Japanned.

43 s.



      The Major took a good stare at them, never having seen any
      before. Well, he thought they could not be dear at that; little
      more than a guinea each. Get them home for fifty shillings, say.
      There was a deal of gold, and lacker, and varnish about them.
      Coloured bunches of flowers, inlaid with mother of pearl, Chinese
      temples, with “insolent pig-tailed barbarians,” in pink silk
      jackets, with baggy blue trowsers, and gig whips in their hands,
      looking after the purple ducks on the pea-grcen lake—all very
      elegant.

      He’d have them, dashed if he wouldn’t! Would try and swap them
      for Mrs. Rocket Larkspur’s Croydon basket-carriage that the girls
      wanted. Just the things to tickle her fancy. So he went into the
      office and gave his card most consequentially, with a reference
      to Pannell, the sadler in Spur Street, Leicestor-square, desiring
      that the chairs might be most carefully packed and forwarded to
      him by the goods train with an invoice by post.

      When the invoice came, behold! the 43s. had changed into 86s.

      “Hilloa!” exclaimed the astonished Major. This won’t do! 86s. is
      twice 43s.; and he wrote off to say they had made a mistake. This
      brought the secretary of the concern, Mr. Badbill, on to the
      scene. He replied beneath a copious shower of arms, orders,
      flourish, and flannel, that the mistake was the Major’s—that
      they, “never marked their goods in pairs,” to which the Major
      rejoined, that they had in this instance, as the ticket which he
      forwarded to Pannell for Badbill’s inspection showed, and that he
      must decline the chairs at double the price they were ticketed
      for.

      Badbill, having duly inspected the ticket, retorted that he was
      surprised at the Major’s stupidity, that two meant one, in fact,
      all the world over.

      The Major rejoined, that he didn’t know what the Reform Bill
      might have done, but that two didn’t mean one when he was at
      school; and added, that as he declined the chairs at 86s. they
      were at Badhill’s service for sending for.

      Badbill wrote in reply—

      “_We really cannot understand how it is possible, for any one to
      make out that a ticket on an article includes the other that may
      stand next it. Certainly the ticket you allude to referred only
      to the chair on which it was placed_.”

      And in a subsequent letter he claimed to have the chairs repacked
      at the Major’s expense, as it was very unfair saddling them with
      the loss arising entirely from the Major’s mistake.

      To which our gallant friend rejoined, “that as he would neither
      admit that the mistake was his, nor submit to the imputation of
      unfairness, he would stick to the chairs at the price they were
      ticketed at.”

      Badbill then wrote that this declaration surprised them much—that
      they did not for a moment think he “intentionally misunderstood
      the ticket as referring to a pair of chairs, whereas it only gave
      the price of one chair,” and again begged to have them back; to
      which the Major inwardly responded, he “wished they might get
      them,” and sent them an order for the 43s.

      This was returned with expressions of surprise, that after the
      explanation given, the Major should persevere in the same “course
      of error,” and hoped that he would, without further delay, favour
      the Co. with the right amount, for which Badbill said they
      “anxiously waited,” and for which the Major inwardly said, they
      “might wait.”

      In due time came a lithographed circular, more imposingly
      flourished and flanneled than ever, stating the terms of the firm
      were “cash on delivery;” and that unless the Major remitted
      without further delay, he would be handed over to their
      solicitor, &c.; with an intimation at the bottom, that that was
      the “third application”—of which our gallant friend took no
      notice.

      Next came a written,

      “Sir,

      “_I am desired by this firm to inform you, that unless we hear
      from you by return of post respecting the payment of our account,
      we shall place the matter in the hands of our solicitors without
      further notice, and regret you should have occasioned us so much
      trouble through your own misunderstanding_.”

      Then came the climax. The Major’s solicitor went, ticket in hand,
      and tendered the 43s., when the late bullying Badbill was obliged
      to write as follows:—

      “_It appears you are quite correct rejecting the ticket, and we
      are in error. Our ticketing clerk had placed the figure in the
      wrong part of the card, the figure ‘two’ referring to the number
      of chairs in stock, and not as understood to signifying chairs
      for 43s.;_” and Badbill humorously concluded by expressing a hope
      that the Major would return the chairs and continue his
      custom—two very unlikely events, as we dare say the reader will
      think, to happen.

      Such, then, was the knowing gentleman who now sought the company
      of Fine Billy; and considering that he is to be besieged on both
      sides, we hope to be excused for having gone a little into his
      host and hostess’ pedigree and performances.

      The Major wrote Billy a well-considered note, saying, that when
      he could spare a few days from his lordship and the foxhounds, it
      would afford Mrs. Yammerton and himself great pleasure if he
      would come and pay them a visit at Yammerton Grange, and the
      Major would be happy to mount him, and keep his best country for
      him, and show him all the sport in his power, adding, that they
      had been having some most marvellous runs lately—better than any
      he ever remembered.

      Now, independently of our friend Billy having pondered a good
      deal on the beauty of the young lady’s eyes, he could well spare
      a few days from the foxhounds, for his lordship, being quite de
      Glancey-cured, and wishing to get rid of him, had had him out
      again, and put him on to a more fractious horse than before, who
      after giving him a most indefinite shaking, had finally shot him
      over his head.

      The Earl was delighted, therefore, when he heard of the Major’s
      invitation, and after expressing great regret at the idea of
      losing our Billy, begged he would “come back whenever it suited
      him:” well knowing that if he once got him out of the house, he
      would be very sly if he got in again. And so Billy, who never
      answered Mamma’s repeated inquiries if there were any “Miss H’s”
      engaged himself to Yammerton Grange, whither the reader will now
      perhaps have the kindness to accompany him.



      CHAPTER XVII. ARRIVAL AT YAMMERTON GRANGE.—A FAMILY PARTY.



      135m _Original Size_



      AILWAYS have taken the starch out of country magnificence, as
      well as out of town.

      Time was when a visitor could hardly drive up to a great man’s
      door in the country in a po’chav—now it would be considered very
      magnificent—a bliss, or a one-oss fly being more likely the
      conveyance. The Richest Commoner in England took his departure
      from Tantivy Castle in a one-horse fly, into which he was
      assisted by an immense retinue of servants. It was about time for
      him to be gone for Mons. Jean Rougier had been what he called
      “boxaing” with the Earl’s big watcher, Stephen Stout, to whom
      having given a most elaborate licking, the rest of the
      establishment were up in arms, and would most likely have found a
      match for Monsieur among them. Jack—that is to say, Mons.
      Jean—now kissed his hand, and grinned, and bowed, and
      _bon-jour’d_ them from the box of the fly, with all the
      affability of a gentleman who has had the best of it.

      Off then they ground at as good a trot as the shaky old quadruped
      could raise.

      It is undoubtedly a good sound principle that Major and Mrs.
      Yammerton went upon, never to invite people direct from great
      houses to theirs; it dwarfs little ones so. A few days
      ventilation at a country inn with its stupid dirty waiters,
      copper-showing plate, and wretched cookery, would be a good
      preparation, only no one ever goes into an inn in England that
      can help it. Still, coming down from a first-class nobleman’s
      castle to a third-class gentleman’s house, was rather a trial
      upon the latter. Not that we mean to say anything disrespectful
      of Yammerton Grange, which, though built at different times, was
      good, roomy, and rough-cast, with a man-boy in brown and yellow
      livery, who called himself the “Butler,” but whom the
      women-servants called the “Bumbler.” The above outline will give
      the reader a general idea of the “style of thing,” as the
      insolvent dandy said, when he asked his creditors for a “wax
      candle and eau-de-Cologne” sort of allowance. Everything at the
      Grange of course was now put into holiday garb, both externally
      and internally—gravel raked, garden spruced, stables strawed, &c.
      All the Major’s old sheep-caps, old hare-snares, old hang-locks,
      old hedging-gloves, pruning-knives, and implements of husbandry
      were thrust into the back of the drawer of the passage table,
      while a mixed sporting and military trophy, composed of whips,
      swords and pistols, radiated round his Sunday hat against the
      wall above it.

      The drawing-room, we need not say, underwent metamorphose, the
      chairs and sofas suddenly changing from rather dirty print to
      pea-green damask, the druggeted carpet bursting into cornucopias
      of fruit and gay bouquets, while a rich cover of many colours
      adorned the centre table, which, in turn, was covered with the
      proceeds of the young ladies’ industry. The room became a sort of
      exhibition of their united accomplishments. The silver inkstand
      surmounted a beautiful unblemished blotting-book, fresh pens and
      paper stood invitingly behind, while the little dictionary was
      consigned, with other “sundries,” to the well of the ottoman.

      As the finishing preparations were progressing, the Major and
      Mrs. Yammerton carried on a broken discussion as to the programme
      of proceedings, and as, in the Major’s opinion,


“There’s nothing can compare, To hunting of the hare,”

      he wanted to lead off with a _gallope_, to which Mrs. Yammerton
      demurred. She thought it would be a much better plan to have a
      quiet day about the place—let the girls walk Mr. Pringle up to
      Prospect Hill to see the view from Eagleton Rocks, and call on
      Mrs. Wasperton, and show him to her ugly girls, in return for
      their visit with Mr. Giles Smith. The Major, on the contrary,
      thought if there was to be a quiet day about the place, he would
      like to employ it in showing Billy a horse he had to sell; but
      while they were in the midst of the argument the click of front
      gate sneck, followed by the vehement bow-wow-wow-wow-wow bark of
      the Skye terrier, Fury, announced an arrival, and from behind a
      ground-feathering spruce, emerged the shaky old horse, dragging
      at its tail the heavily laden cab. Then there was such a
      scattering of crinoline below, and such a gathering of cotton
      above, to see the gentleman alight, and such speculations as to
      his Christian name, and which of the young ladies he would do
      for.

      “I say his name’s Harry!” whispered Sally Scuttle, the housemaid,
      into Benson’s—we beg pardon—Miss Benson’s, the ladies’-maid’s
      ear, who was standing before her, peeping past the faded curtains
      of the chintz-room.

      “I say it’s John!” replied Miss Benson, now that Mr. Pringle’s
      head appeared at the window.

      “I say it’s Joseph!” interposed Betty Bone, the cook, who stood
      behind Sally Scuttle, at which speculation they all laughed.

      “Hoot, no! he’s not a bit like Joseph,” replied Sally, eyeing
      Billy as he now alighted.

      “Lauk! he’s quite a young gent,” observed Bone.

      “_Young!_ to be sure!” replied Miss Henson; “you don’t s’pose we
      want any old’uns here.”

      “He’ll do nicely for Miss;” observed Sally.

      “And why not for Miss F.?” asked Henson, from whom she had just
      received an old gown.

      “Well, either,” rejoined Sally; “only Miss had the last chance.”

      “Oh, curates go for nothin’!” retorted Benson; “if it had been a
      captin it would have been something like.”

      “Well, but there’s Miss Harriet; you never mention Miss Harriet,
      why shouldn’t Miss Harriet have a chance?” interposed the cook.

      “Oh. Miss Harriet must wait her turn. Let her sisters be served
      first. They can’t all have him, you know, so it’s no use trying.”

      Billy having entered the house, the ladies’ attention was now
      directed to Monsieur.

      “What a thick, plummy man he is!” observed Benson, looking down
      on Rougier’s broad shoulders.

      “He looks as if he got his vittles well,” rejoined Bone,
      wondering how he would like their lean beef and bacon fare.

      “Where will he have to sleep?” asked Sally Scuttle.

      “O, with the Bumbler to be sure,” replied Bone.

      “Not _he!_” interposed Miss Benson, with disdain. “You don’t
      s’pose a reg’lar valley-de-chambre ‘ill condescend to sleep with
      a footman! You don’t know them—if you think that.”

      “He’s got mouse catchers,” observed Sally Scuttle, who had been
      eyeing Monsieur intently.

      “Ay, and a beard like a blacking brush,” whispered Bone.

      “He’s surely a foreigner,” whispered Benson, as Monsieur’s, “_I
      say!_ take _vell_ care of her!—_lee_aft her down j-e-a-ntly”
      (alluding to his own carpet bag, in which he had a bottle of rum
      enveloped in swaddling clothes of dirty linen) to the cabman,
      sounded upstairs.

      “So he is,” replied Benson, adding, after a pause, “Well, anybody
      may have him for me;”—saying which she tripped out of the room,
      quickly followed by the others.

      Our Major having, on the first alarm, rushed off to his dirty
      Sanctum, and crowned himself with a drab felt wide-a-wake, next
      snatched a little knotty dog-whip out of the trophy as he passed,
      and was at the sash door of the front entrance welcoming our hero
      with the full spring tide of hospitality as he alighted from his
      fly.

      The Major was overjoyed to see him. It was indeed kind of him,
      leaving the castle to “come and visit them in their ‘umble
      abode.” The Major, of course, now being on the humility tack.

      “Let me take your cloak!” said he; “let me take your cap!” and,
      with the aid of the Bumbler, who came shuffling himself into his
      brown and yellow livery coat, Billy was eased of his wrapper, and
      stood before the now thrown-open drawing-room door, just as Mrs.
      Yammerton having swept the last brown holland cover off the
      reclining chair, had stuffed it under the sofa cushion. She, too,
      was delighted to see Billy, and thankful she had got the room
      ready, so as to be able presently to subside upon the sofa,
      “Morning Post” in hand, just as if she had been interrupted in
      her reading. The young ladies then dropped in one by one; Miss at
      the passage door, Miss Flora at the one connecting the
      drawing-room with the Sanctum, and Miss Harriet again at the
      passage door, all divested of their aprons, and fresh from their
      respective looking-glasses. The two former, of course, met Billy
      as an old acquaintance, and as they did not mean to allow Misa
      Harriet to participate in the prize, they just let her shuffle
      herself into an introduction as best she could. Billy wasn’t
      quite sure whether he had seen her before or he hadn’t. At first
      he thought he had; then he thought he hadn’t; but whether he had
      or he hadn’t, he knew there would be no harm in bowing, so he
      just promiscuated one to her, which she acknowledged with a best
      Featherey curtsey. A great cry of conversation, or rather of
      random observation, then ensued; in the midst of which the Major
      slipped out, and from his Sanctum he overheard Monsieur getting
      up much the same sort of entertainment in the kitchen. There was
      such laughing and giggling and “_he-hawing_” among the maids,
      that the Major feared the dinner would be neglected.

      The Major’s dining-room, though small, would accommodate a dozen
      people, or incommode eighteen, which latter number is considered
      the most serviceable-sized party in the country where people feed
      off their acquaintance, more upon the debtor and creditor system,
      than with a view to making pleasant parties, or considering who
      would like to meet. Even when they are what they call “alone,”
      they can’t be “alone,” but must have in as many servants as they
      can raise, to show how far the assertion is from the truth.

      Though the Yammertons sat down but six on the present occasion,
      and there were the two accustomed dumb-waiters in the room, three
      live ones were introduced, viz., Monsieur, the Bumbler, and
      Solomon, whose duty seemed to consist in cooling the victuals, by
      carrying them about, and in preventing people from helping
      themselves to what was before them, by taking the dishes off the
      steady table, and presenting them again on very unsteady hands.

      No one is ever allowed to shoot a dish sitting if a servant can
      see it. How pleasant it would be if we were watched in all the
      affairs of life as we are in eating!

      Monsieur, we may observe, had completely superseded the Bumbler,
      just as a colonel supersedes a captain on coming up.

      “Oi am Colonel Crushington of the Royal Plungers,” proclaims the
      Colonel, stretching himself to his utmost altitude.

      “And I am Captain Succumber, of the Sugar-Candy Hussars,” bows
      the Captain with the utmost humility; whereupon the Captain is
      snuffed out, and the Colonel reigns in his stead.

      “I am Monsieur Jean Rougier, valet-de-chambre to me lor Pringle,
      and I sail take in de potage,—de soup,” observed Rougier, coming
      down stairs in his first-class clothes, and pushing the now
      yellow-legged Bumbler aside.



      141m


      _Original Size_


      And these hobble-de-hoys never being favourites with the fair,
      the maids saw him reduced without remorse.

      So the dinner got set upon the table without a fight and though
      Monsieur allowed the Bumbler to announce it in the drawing-room,
      it was only that he might take a suck of the sherry while he was
      away. But he was standing as bolt upright as a serjeant-major on
      parade when “me lor” entered the dining-room with Mrs. Yammerton
      on his arm, followed by the Graces, the Major having stayed
      behind to blow out the composites.

      They were soon settled in their places, grace said, and the
      assault commenced.

      The Major was rather behind Imperial John in magnificence, for
      John had got his plate in his drawing-room, while the Major still
      adhered to the good old-fashioned blue and red, and gold and
      green crockery ware of his youth.

      Not but that both Mamma and the young ladies had often
      represented to him the absolute necessity of having plate, but
      the Major could never fall in with it at his price—that of German
      silver, or Britannia metal perhaps.

      We dare say Fine Billy would never have noticed the deficiency,
      if the Major had not drawn attention to it by apologising for its
      absence, and fearing he would not be able to eat his dinner
      without; though we dare say, if the truth were known our
      readers—our male readers at least—will agree with us, that a
      good, hot well-washed china dish is a great deal better than a
      dull, lukewarm, hand-rubbed silver one. It’s the “wittles” people
      look to, not the ware.

      Then the Major was afraid his wine wouldn’t pass muster after the
      Earl’s, and certainly his champagne was nothing to boast of,
      being that ambiguous stuff that halts between the price of
      gooseberry and real; in addition to which, the Major had omitted
      to pay it the compliment of icing it, so that it stood forth in
      all its native imperfection. However, it hissed, and fizzed, and
      popped, and banged, which is always something exciting at all
      events; and as the Major sported needle-case-shaped glasses which
      he had got at a sale (very cheap we hope), there was no fear of
      people getting enough to do them any harm.

      Giving champagne is one of those things that has passed into
      custom almost imperceptibly. Twenty, or five-and-twenty years
      ago, a mid-rank-of-life person giving champagne was talked of in
      a very shake-the-head, solemn, “I wish-it-may-last,” style; now
      everybody gives it of some sort or other. We read in the papers
      the other day of ninety dozen, for which the holder had paid
      £400, being sold for 13s. 6d. a doz.! What a chance that would
      have been for our Major. We wonder what that had been made of.

      It was a happy discovery that giving champagne at dinner saved
      other wine after, for certainly nothing promotes the conviviality
      of a meeting so much as champagne, and there is nothing so
      melancholy and funereal as a dinner party without it. Indeed,
      giving champagne may be regarded as a downright promoter of
      temperance, for a person who drinks freely of champagne cannot
      drink freely of any other sort of wine after it: so that
      champagne may be said to have contributed to the abolition of the
      old port-wine toping wherewith our fathers were wont to beguile
      their long evenings. Indeed, light wines and London clubs have
      about banished inebriety from anything like good society.
      Enlarged newspapers, too, have contributed their quota, whereby a
      man can read what is passing in all parts of the world, instead
      of being told whose cat has kittened in his own immediate
      neighbourhood.—With which philosophical reflections, let us
      return to our party.

      Although youth is undoubtedly the age of matured judgment and
      connoisseurship in everything, and Billy was quite as knowing as
      his neighbours, he accepted the Major’s encomiums on his wine
      with all the confidence of ignorance, and, what is more to the
      purpose, he drank it. Indeed, there was nothing faulty on the
      table that the Major didn’t praise, on the old horse-dealing
      principle of lauding the bad points, and leaving the good ones to
      speak for themselves. So the dinner progressed through a
      multiplicity of dishes; for, to do the ladies justice, they
      always give good fare:—it is the men who treat their friends to
      mutton-chops and rice puddings.

      Betty Bone, too, was a noble-hearted woman, and would undertake
      to cook for a party of fifty,—roasts, boils, stews, soups,
      sweets, savouries, sauces, and all! And so what with a pretty
      girl along side of him, and two sitting opposite, Billy did
      uncommonly well, and felt far more at home than he did at Tantivy
      Castle with the Earl and Mrs. Moffatt, and the stiff dependents
      his lordship brought in to dine.

      The Major stopped Billy from calling for Burgundy after his
      cheese by volunteering a glass of home-brewed ale,
      “bo-bo-bottled,” he said, “when he came of age,” though, in fact,
      it had only arrived from Aloes, the chemist’s, at Hinton, about
      an hour before dinner. This being only sipped, and smacked, and
      applauded, grace was said, the cloth removed, the Major was
      presently assuring Billy, in a bumper of moderate juvenile port,
      how delighted he was to see him, how flattered he felt by his
      condescension in coming to visit him at his ‘umble abode, and how
      he ‘oped to make the visit agreeable to him. This piece of
      flummery being delivered, the bottles and dessert circulated, and
      in due time the ladies retired, the Misses to the drawing-room,
      Madam to the pantry, to see that the Bumbler had not pocketed any
      of the cheese-cakes or tarts, for which, boy-like, he had a
      propensity.

      * * * *


      The Major, we are ashamed to say, had no mirror in his
      drawing-room, wherein the ladies could now see how they had been
      looking; so, of course, they drew to that next attraction—the
      fire, which having duly stirred, Miss Yammerton and Flora laid
      their heads together, with each a fair arm resting on the
      old-fashioned grey-veined marble mantel-piece, and commenced a
      very laughing, whispering conversation. This, of course,
      attracted Miss Harriet, who tried first to edge in between them,
      and then to participate at the sides; but she was repulsed at all
      points, and at length was told by Miss Yammerton to “_get away!_”
      as she had “nothing to do with what they were talking about.”

      “Yes I have,” pouted Miss Harriet, who guessed what the
      conversation was about.

      “No, you haven’t,” retorted Miss Flora.

      “It’s between Flora and me,” observed Miss Yammerton dryly, with
      an air of authority.

      “Well, but that’s not fair!” exclaimed Miss Harriet.

      “Yes it is!” replied Miss Yammerton, throwing up her head.

      “Yes it _is!_” asserted Miss Flora, supporting her elder sister’s
      assertion.

      “No, it’s _not!_” retorted Miss Harriet.

      “You weren’t there at the beginning,” observed Miss Yammerton,
      alluding to the expedition to Tantivy Castle.

      “That was not my fault,” replied Miss Harriet, firmly; “Pa would
      go in the coach.”

      “Never mind, you were _not_ there,” replied Miss Yammerton
      tartly.

      “Well, but I’ll _ask mamma_ if that’s fair?” rejoined Miss
      Harriet, hurrying out of the room.



      CHAPTER XVIII. A LEETLE, CONTRETEMPS.


      THE Major having inducted his guest into one of those expensive
      articles of dining-room furniture, an easy chair—expensive,
      inasmuch as they cause a great consumption of candles, by sending
      their occupants to sleep,—now set a little round table between
      them, to which having transferred the biscuits and wine, he drew
      a duplicate chair to the fire for himself, and, sousing down in
      it, prepared for a _tête-à-tête_ chat with our friend. He wanted
      to know what Lord Ladythorne said of him, to sound Billy, in
      fact, whether there was any chance of his making him a
      magistrate. He also wanted to find out how long Billy was going
      to stay in the country, and see whether there was any chance of
      selling him a horse; so he led up to the points, by calling upon
      Billy to fill a bumper to the “Merry haryers,” observing
      casually, as he passed the bottle, that he had now kept them
      “five-and-thirty years without a subscription, and was as much
      attached to the sport as ever.” This toast was followed by the
      foxhounds and Lord Ladythorne’s health, which opened out a fine
      field for general dissertation and sounding, commencing with Mr.
      Boggledike, who, the Major not liking, of course, he condemned;
      and Mrs. Pringle having expressed an adverse opinion of him too,
      Billy adopted their ideas, and agreed that he was slow, and ought
      to be drafted.

      With his magisterial inquiry the Major was not so fortunate, his
      lordship being too old a soldier to commit himself before a boy
      like Billy; and the Major, after trying every meuse, and every
      twist, and every turn, with the proverbial patience and
      pertinacity of a hare-hunter, was at length obliged to whip off
      and get upon his horses. When a man gets upon his horses,
      especially after dinner, and that man such an optimist as the
      Major, there is no help for it but either buying them in a lump
      or going to sleep; and as we shall have to endeavour to induce
      the reader to accompany us through the Major’s stable by-and-bye,
      we will leave Billy to do which he pleases, while we proceed to
      relate what took place in another part of the house. For this
      purpose, it will be necessary to “_ease_ her—_back_ her,” as the
      Thames steamboat boys say, our story a little to the close of the
      dinner.

      Monsieur Jean Rougier having taken the general bearings of the
      family as he stood behind “me lor Pringle’s” chair, retired from
      active service on the coming in of the cheese, and proceeded to
      Billy’s apartment, there to arrange the toilette table, and see
      that everything was _comme il faut_. Billy’s dirty boots, of
      course, he took downstairs to the Bumbler to clean, who, in turn,
      put them off upon Solomon.

      Very smart everything in the room was. The contents of the
      gorgeous dressing-case were duly displayed on the fine white
      damask cloth that covered the rose-colour-lined muslin of the
      gracefully-fringed and festooned toilette cover, whose flowing
      drapery presented at once an effectual barrier to the legs, and
      formed an excellent repository for old crusts, envelopes,
      curlpapers, and general sweepings. Solid ivory hair-brushes, with
      tortoiseshell combs, cosmetics, curling fluids, oils and essences
      without end, mingled with the bijouterie and knick-nacks of the
      distinguished visitor. Having examined himself attentively in the
      glass, and spruced up his bristles with Billy’s brushes, Jack
      then stirred the fire, extinguished the toilette-table candle,
      which he had lit on coming in, and produced a great blue blouse
      from the bottom drawer of the wardrobe, in which, having
      enveloped himself in order to prevent his fine clothes catching
      dust, he next crawled backwards under the bed. He had not lain
      there very long ere the opening and shutting of downstairs doors,
      with the ringing of a bell, was followed by the rustling of
      silks, and the light tread of airy steps hurrying along the
      passage, and stopping at the partially-opened door. Presently
      increased light in the apartment was succeeded by less rustle and
      tip-toe treads passing the bed, and making up to the
      looking-glass. The self-inspection being over, candles were then
      flashed about the room in various directions; and Jack having now
      thrown all his energies into his ears, overheard the following
      hurried _sotto voce_ exclamations:—

      First Voice. “Lauk! what a little dandy it is!”

      Second Voice. “Look, I say! look at his boots—one, two, three,
      four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten: ten pair, as I live,
      besides jacks and tops.”



      145m


      _Original Size_


      First Voice. “And shoes in proportion,” the speaker running her
      candle along the line of various patterned shoes.

      Second Voice. (Advancing to the toilette-table). “Let’s look at
      his studs. Wot an assortment! Wonder if those are diamonds or
      paste he has on.”

      First Voice. “Oh, _diamonds_ to be sure” (with an emphasis on
      diamonds). “You don’t s’pose such a little swell as that would
      wear paste. See! there’s a pearl and diamond ring. Just fits me,
      I do declare,” added she, trying it on.

      Second Voice. “What beautiful carbuncle pins!”

      First Voice. “Oh. what studs!”

      Second Voice. “Oh. what chains!”

      First Voice. “Oh, what pins!”

      Second Voice. “Oh, what a love of a ring!” And so the ladies
      continued, turning the articles hastily over. “Oh, how happy he
      _must_ be,” sighed a languishing voice, as the inspection
      proceeded.

      “See! here’s his little silver shaving box,” observed the first
      speaker, opening it.

      “Wonder what _he_ wants with a shaving box,—got no more beard
      than I have,” replied the other, taking up Billy’s badger-hair
      shaving-brush, and applying it to her own pretty chin.

      “Oh! smell what delicious perfume!” now exclaimed the discoverer
      of the shaving-box. “Essence of Rondeletia, I do believe! No,
      extrait de millefleurs,” added she, scenting her ‘kerchief with
      some.

      Then there was a hurried, frightened “_hush!_” followed by a
      “Take care that ugly man of his doesn’t come.”

      “Did you ever _see_ such a monster!” ejaculated the other
      earnestly.

      “Kept his horrid eyes fixed upon me the whole dinner,” observed
      the first speaker.

      “Frights they are,” rejoined the other.

      “He must keep him for a foil,” suggested the first.

      “Let’s go, or we’ll be caught!” replied the alarmist; and
      forthwith the rustling of silks was resumed, the candles hurried
      past, and the ladies tripped softly out of the room, leaving the
      door ajar, with Jack under the bed to digest their compliments at
      his leisure.

      * * * *


      But Monsieur was too many for them. Miss had dropped her glove at
      the foot of the bed, which Jack found on emerging from his hiding
      place, and waiting until he had the whole party reassembled at
      tea, he walked majestically into the middle of the drawing-room
      with it extended on a plated tray, his “horrid eyes” combining
      all the venom of a Frenchman with the _hauteur_ of an Englishman,
      and inquired, in a loud and audible voice, “Please, has any lady
      or shentleman lost its glo-o-ve?”

      “Yes, I have!” replied Miss, hastily, who had been wondering
      where she had dropped it.

      “Indeed, marm,” replied Monsieur, bowing and presenting it to her
      on the tray, adding, in a still louder voice, “I found it in
      Monsieur Pringle’s bed-room.” And Jack’s flashing eye saw by the
      brightly colouring girls which were the offenders.

      Very much shocked was Mamma at the announcement; and the young
      ladies were so put about, that they could scarcely compose
      themselves at the piano, while Miss Harriet’s voice soared
      exultingly as she accompanied herself on her harp.



      CHAPTER XIX. THE MAJOR’S STUD.


      MRS. Yammerton carried the day, and the young ladies carried
      paper-booted Billy, or rather walked him up to Mrs. Wasperton’s
      at Prospect Hill, and showed him the ugly girls, and also the
      beautiful view from Eagleton Rocks, over the wide-spreading vale
      of Vernerley beyond, which, of course, Billy enjoyed amazingly,
      as all young gentlemen do enjoy views under such pleasant
      circumstances. Perhaps he might have enjoyed it more, if two out
      of three of the dear charmers had been absent, but then things
      had not got to that pass, and Mamma would not have thought it
      proper—at least, not unless she saw her way to a very decided
      preference—which, of course, was then out of the question. Billy
      was a great swell, and the “chaws” who met him stared with
      astonishment at such an elegant parasol’d exquisite, picking his
      way daintily along the dirty, sloppy, rutty lanes. Like all
      gentlemen in similar circumstances, he declared his boots
      “wouldn’t take in wet.”

      Of course, Mamma charged the girls not to be out late, an
      injunction that applied as well to precaution against the night
      air, as to the importance of getting Billy back by afternoon
      stable time, when the Major purposed treating him to a sight of
      his stud, and trying to lay the foundation of a sale.

      Perhaps our sporting readers would like to take a look into the
      Major’s stable before he comes with his victim, Fine Billy. If
      so, let them accompany us; meanwhile our lady friends can skip
      the chapter if they do not like to read about horses—or here; if
      they will step this way, and here comes the Dairymaid, they can
      look at the cows: real Durham short-horns, with great milking
      powers and most undeniable pedigrees. Ah, we thought they would
      tickle your fancy. The cow is to the lady, what the horse is to
      the gentleman, or, on the score of usefulness, what hare-hunting
      is to fox-hunting—or shooting to hunting. Master may have many
      horses pulled backwards out of his stable without exciting half
      the commiseration among the fair, that the loss of one nice quiet
      milk-giving cushy cow affords. Cows are friendly creatures. They
      remember people longer than almost any other animal, dogs not
      excepted. Well, here are four of them, Old Lily, Strawberry
      Cream, Red Rose, and Toy; the house is clean and sweet, and
      smells of milk, and well-made hay, instead of the nasty
      brown-coloured snuff-smelling stuff that some people think good
      enough for the poor cow.

      The Major is proud of his cows, and against the whitewashed wall
      he has pasted the description of a perfect one, in order that
      people may compare the originals with the portrait. Thus it
      runs:—


She’s long in the face, she’s fine in the horn, She’ll quickly get fat
without cake or corn; She’s clean in her jaws, and full in her chine,
She’s heavy in flank, and wide in her loin; She’s broad in her ribs,
and long in her rump, A straight and flat back without ever a hump;
She’s wide in her hips, and calm in her eyes, She’s fine in her
shoulders, and thin in her thighs; She’s light in her neck, and small
in her tail, She’s wide at the breast, and good at the pail. She’s fine
in her bone and silky of skin. She’s a grazier’s without, and a
butcher’s within.



      Now for the stable; this way, through the saddle-room, and mind
      the whitening on the walls. Stoop yonr head, for the Major being
      low himself, has made the door on the principle of all other
      people being low too. There, there you are, you see, in a stable
      as neat and clean as a London dealer’s; a Newmarket straw plait,
      a sanded floor with a roomy bench against the wall on which the
      Major kicks his legs and stutters forth the merits of his steeds.
      They are six in number, and before he comes we will just run the
      reader through the lot, with the aid of truth for an
      accompaniment.

      This grey, or rather white one next the wall, White Surrey, as he
      calls him, is the old quivering tailed horse he rode on the de
      Glancey day, and pulled up to save, from the price-depressing
      inconvenience of being beat. He is eighteen years old, the Major
      having got him when he was sixteen, in a sort of part purchase,
      part swap, part barter deal. He gave young Mr. Meggison of
      Spoonbill Park thirteen pounds ten shillings, an old mahogany
      Piano-Forte, by Broadwood, six and a half octaves, a Squirrel
      Cage, two Sun-blinds, and a very feeble old horse called
      Nonpareil, that Tom Rivett the blacksmith declared it would be
      like robbing Meggison to put new shoes on to, for him. He is a
      game good shaped old horse, but having frequently in the course
      of a chequered career, been in that hardest of all hard places,
      the hands of young single horse owners, White Surrey has done the
      work of three or four horses. He has been fired and blistered,
      and blistered and fired, till his legs are as round and as
      callous as those of a mahogany dining-table; still it is
      wonderful how they support him, and as he has never given the
      Major a fall, he rides him as if he thought he never would. His
      price is sometimes fifty, sometimes forty, sometimes thirty, and
      there are times when he might be bought for a little less—two
      sovereigns, perhaps, returned out of the thirty. The next one to
      him—the white legged brown,—is of the antediluvian order too. He
      is now called Woodpecker, but he may be traced by half-a-dozen
      aliases through other stables—Buckhunter, Captain Tart,
      Fleacatcher, Sportsman, Marc Anthony, &c. He is nearly, if not
      quite thorough bred, and the ignoble purposes to which he has
      been subjected, false start making, steeple chasing, flat and
      hurdle racing, accounts for the number of his names. The Major
      got him from Captain Caret, of the Apple-pie huzzars, when that
      gallant regiment was ordered out to India,—taking him all away
      together, saddle, bridle, clothing, &c., for twenty-three pounds,
      a strong iron-bound chest, fit for sea purposes, as the Major
      described it, and a spying glass. This horse, like all the rest
      of them, indeed, is variously priced, depending upon the party
      asking, sometimes fifty, sometimes five-and-twenty would buy him.

      The third is a mare, a black mare, called Star, late the property
      of Mr. Hazey, the horse-dealing master of the Squeezington
      hounds. Hazey sold her in his usual course of horse-dealing
      cheating to young Mr. Sprigginson, of Marygold Lodge, for a
      hundred and twenty guineas (the shillings back), Hazey’s
      discrimination enabling him to see that she was turning weaver,
      and Sprigginson not liking her, returned her on the warranty;
      when, of course, Hazey refusing to receive her, she was sent to
      the Eclipse Livery and Bait Stables at Hinton, where, after
      weaving her head off, she was sold at the hammer to the Major for
      twenty-nine pounds. Sprig then brought an action against Hazey
      for the balance, bringing half-a-dozen witnesses to prove that
      she wove when she came; Hazey, of course, bringing a dozen to
      swear that she never did nothin’ ‘o the sort with him, and must
      have learnt it on the road; and the jury being perplexed, and one
      of them having a cow to calve, another wanting to see his
      sweetheart, and the rest wanting their dinners, they just tossed
      up for it, “Heads!” for Sprig; “Tails!” for Hazey, and Sprig won.
      There she goes, you see, weaving backwards and forwards like a
      caged panther in a den. Still she is far from being the worst
      that the Major has; indeed, we are not sure that she is not about
      the best, only, as Solomon says, with reference to her weaving,
      she gets the “langer the warser.”

      Number four is a handsome whole coloured bright bay horse,
      “Napoleon the Great,” as the Major calls him, in hopes that his
      illustrious name will sell him, for of all bad tickets he ever
      had, the Major thinks Nap is the worst. At starting, he is all
      fire, frisk, and emulation, but before he has gone five miles, he
      begins to droop, and in hunting knocks up entirely before he has
      crossed half-a-dozen fields. He is a weak, watery, washy
      creature, wanting no end of coddling, boiled corn, and linseed
      tea. One hears of two days a-week horses, but Napoleon the Great
      is a day in two weeks one. The reader will wonder how the Major
      came to get such an animal, still more how he came to keep him;
      above all, how he ever came to have him twice. The mystery,
      however, is explained on the old bartering, huckstering,
      half-and-half system. The Major got him first from Tom
      Brandysneak, a low public-house-keeping leather-plater, one of
      those sporting men, not sportsmen, who talk about supporting the
      turf, as if they did it like the noblemen of old, upon principle,
      instead of for what they can put into their own pockets; and the
      Major gave Sneak an old green dog-cart, a melon frame, sixteen
      volumes of the “Racing Calendar,” bound in calf, a ton of
      seed-hay, fifty yards of Croggon’s asphalt roofing felt, and
      three “golden sovereigns” for him. Nap was then doing duty under
      the title of Johnny Raw, his calling being to appear at different
      posts whenever the cruel conditions of a race required a certain
      number of horses to start in order to secure the added money; but
      Johnny enacted that office so often for the benefit of the
      “Honourable Society of Confederated Legs,” that the stewards of
      races framed their conditions for excluding him; and Johnny’s
      occupation being gone, he came to the Major in manner aforesaid.
      Being, however, a horse of prepossessing appearance, a good bay,
      with four clean black legs, a neat well set-on head, with an
      equally neat set-on tail, a flowing mane, and other &c’s, he soon
      passed into the possession of young Mr. Tabberton, of Green
      Linnet Hill, whose grandmamma had just given him a hundred
      guineas wherewith to buy a good horse—a _real_ good one he was to
      be—a hundred-guinea-one in fact. Tabberton soon took all the gay
      insolence out of Johnny’s tail, and brought him back to the
      Major, sadly dilapidated—a sad satire upon his former self.

      Meanwhile the Major had filled up his stall with a handsome
      rich-coloured brown mare, with a decidedly doubtful fore-leg; and
      the Major, all candour and affability, readily agreed to
      exchange, on condition of getting five-and-twenty pounds to boot.
      The mare presently went down to exercise, confirming the Major’s
      opinion of the instability of her leg, and increasing his
      confidence in his own judgment. Napoleon the Great, late Johnny
      Raw, now reigns in her stead, and very well he looks in the
      straw. Indeed, that is his proper place; and as many people only
      keep their horses to look at, there is no reason why Napoleon the
      Great should remain in the Major’s stables. He certainly won’t if
      the Major can help it.

      Number five is a vulgar looking little dun-duck-et-y mud-coloured
      horse, with long white stockings, and a large white face, called
      Bull-dog, that Solomon generally rides. Nobody knows how old he
      is, or how many masters he has had, or where he came from, or who
      his father was, or whether he had a grandfather, or anything
      whatever about him. The Major got him for a mere nothing—nine
      pounds—at Joe Seton’s, the runaway Vet’s sale, about five years
      ago, and being so desperately ugly and common looking, no one has
      ever attempted to deprive the Major of him either in the way of
      barter or sale. Still Bully is a capital slave, always ready
      either to hunt, or hack, or go in harness, and will pass anything
      except a public-house, being familiarly and favourably known at
      the doors of every one in the county. Like most horses, he has
      his little peculiarity; and his consists of a sort of rheumatic
      affection of the hind leg, which causes him to catch it up, and
      sends him limping along on three legs, like a lame dog, but still
      he never comes down, and the attack soon goes off. Solomon and he
      look very like their work together.

      The next horse to Bull-dog, and the last in the stable, is
      Golden-drop, a soft, mealy chestnut—of all colours the most
      objectionable. He is a hot, pulling, hauling, rushing,
      rough-actioned animal, that gives a rider two days’ exercise in
      one.

      The worst of him is, he has the impudence to decline harness; for
      though he doesn’t “mill,” as they call it, he yet runs backwards
      as fast as forwards, and would crash through a plate-glass
      window, a gate, a conservatory, or anything else that happened to
      be behind. As a hack he is below mediocrity, for in his walk he
      digs his toes into the ground about every tenth step, and either
      comes down on his nose, or sets off at score for fear of a
      licking, added to which, he shies at every heap of stones and
      other available object on the road, whereby he makes a ten miles’
      journey into one of twelve. The Major got him of Mr. Brisket, the
      butcher, at Hinton, being taken with the way in which his hatless
      lad spun him about the ill-paved streets, with the meat-basket on
      his arm—the full trot, it may be observed, being the animal’s
      pace—but having got him home, the more the Major saw of him the
      less he liked him. He had a severe deal for him too, and made two
      or three journeys over to Hinton on market-days, and bought a
      pennyworth of whipcord of one saddler, a set of spur-leathers of
      another, a pot of harness-paste of a third, in order to pump them
      about the horse ere he ventured to touch. He also got Mr. Paul
      Straddler, the disengaged gentleman of the place, whose greatest
      pleasure is to be employed upon a deal, to ferret out all he
      could about him, who reported that the horse was perfectly sound,
      and a capital feeder, which indeed he is, for he will attack
      anything, from a hayband down to a hedge-stake. You see he’s busy
      on his bedding now.

      Brisket knowing his man, and that the Major killed his own
      mutton, and occasionally beef, in the winter, so that there was
      no good to be got of him in the meat way, determined to ask a
      stiff price, viz., £25 (Brisket having given £14, which the Major
      having beat down to £23 commenced on the mercantile line, which
      Brisket’s then approaching marriage favoured, and the Major
      ultimately gave a four-post mahogany bedstead, with blue damask
      furniture, palliasse and mattress to match; a mahogany
      toilet-mirror, 23 inches by 28: a hot-water pudding-dish, a
      silver-edged cake-basket, a bad barometer, a child’s birch-wood
      crib, a chess-board, and £2 10 s. in cash for him, the £2 10 s..
      being, as the Major now declares (to himself, of course,) far
      more than his real worth. However, there the horse stands; and
      though he has been down twice with the Major, and once with the
      Humbler, these little fore paws (_faux pas_) as the Major calls
      them, have been on the soft, and the knees bear no evidence of
      the fact. Such is our friend’s present stud, and such is its
      general character.

      But stay! We are omitting the horse in this large
      family-pew-looking box at the end, whose drawn curtains have
      caused us to overlook him. He is another of the Major’s bad
      tickets, and one of which he has just become possessed in the
      following way:—

      Having—in furtherance of his character of a “thorrer sportsman,”
      and to preserve the spirit of impartiality so becoming an old
      master of “haryers”—gone to Sir Moses Mainchance’s opening day,
      as well as to my Lord’s, Sir Moses, as if in appreciation of the
      compliment, had offered to give the horse on which his second
      whip was blundering among the blind ditches.

      The Major jumped at the offer, for the horse looked well with the
      whip on him; and, as he accepted, Sir Moses increased the stream
      of his generosity by engaging the Major to dine and take him
      away. Sir Moses had a distinguished party to meet him, and was
      hospitality itself. He plied our Major with champagne, and hock,
      and Barsac, and Sauterne, and port, and claret, and compliments,
      but never alluded to the horse until about an hour after dinner,
      when Mr. Smoothley, the jackal of the hunt, brought him on the
      _tapis_.

      “Ah!” exclaimed Sir Moses, as if in sudden recollection, “that’s
      true! Major, you’re quite welcome to ‘Little-bo-peep,’ (for so he
      had christened him, in order to account for his inquisitive
      manner of peering). Your _quite_ welcome to ‘Little-bo-peep,’ and
      I hope he’ll be useful to you.”

      “Thank’e, Sir Moses, thank’e!” bobbed the grateful Major,
      thinking what a good chap the baronet was.

      “_Not a bit!_” replied Sir Moses, chucking up his chin, just as
      if he was in the habit of giving a horse away every other day in
      the week. “_Not a bit!_ Keep him as long as you like—all the
      season if you please—and send him back when you are done.”

      Then, as if in deprecation of any more thanks, he plied the wine
      again, and gave the Major and his “harriers” in a speech of great
      gammonosity. The Major was divided between mortification at the
      reduction of the gift into a loan, and gratification at the
      compliment now paid him, but was speedily comforted by the
      flattering reception his health, and the stereotyped speech in
      which he returned thanks, met at the hands of the company. He
      thought he must be very popular. Then, when they were all well
      wined, and had gathered round the sparkling fire with their
      coffee or their Curaçoa in their hands, Sir Moses button-holed
      the Major with a loud familiar, “I’ll tell ye what, Yammerton!
      you’re a devilish good feller, and there shall be no obligation
      between us—you shall just give me forty puns for
      ‘Little-bo-peep,’ and that’s making you a present of him for it’s
      a hundred less than I gave.”

      “‘Ah! that’s the way to do it!” exclaimed Mr. Smoothley, as if
      delighted at Sir Moses having dropped upon the right course. “Ah!
      _that’s_ the way to do it!” repented he, swinging himself gaily
      round on his toe, with a loud snap of his finger and thumb in the
      air.

      And Sir Moses said it in such a kind, considerate,
      matter-of-course sort of way, before company too, and Smoothley
      clenched it so neatly, that our wine-flushed Major, acute as he
      is, hadn’t presence of mind to say “No.” So he was saddled with
      “Little-bo-peep,” who has already lost one eye from cataract,
      which is fast going with the other.

      But see! Here comes Solomon followed by the Bumbler in fustian,
      and the boy from the farm, and we shall soon have the Major and
      Billy, so let us step into Bo-peep’s box, and I hear the Major’s
      description of his stud.

      * * * *


      Scarcely have the grooms dispersed the fast-gathering gloom of a
      November afternoon, by lighting the mould candles in the
      cord-suspended lanterns slung along the ceiling, and began to
      hiss at the straw, when the Major entered, with our friend Billy
      at his heels. The Bumbler and Chaw then put on extra activity,
      and the stable being presently righted, heads were loosened,
      water supplied, and the horses excited by Solomon’s well-known
      peregrination to the crushed corn-bin. All ears were then
      pricked, eyes cast back, and hind-quarters tucked under to
      respond gaily to the “come over” of the feeder.



      155m


      _Original Size_


      The late watchful whinnying restlessness is succeeded by gulping,
      diving, energetic eating. Our friend having passed his regiment
      of horses in silent review, while the hissing was going on, now
      exchanges a few confidential words with the stud groom, as if he
      left everything to him, and then passes upwards to where he
      started from. Solomon having plenty to do elsewhere, presently
      retires, followed by his helpers, and the Major and Billy seat
      themselves on the bench. After a few puffs and blows of the
      cheeks and premonitory jerks of the legs, the Major nods an
      approving “nice ‘oss, that,” to Napoleon the Great, standing
      opposite, who is the first to look up from his food, being with
      it as with his work, always in a desperate hurry to begin, and in
      an equally great one to leave off.

      “Nice ‘oss, that,” repeats the Major, nodding again.

      “Yarse, he looks like a nice ‘orse;” replied Billy, which is
      really as much as any man can say under the circumstances.

      “That ‘oss should have won the D-d-d-derby in Nobbler’s year,”
      observed the Major; “only they d-d-drugged him the night before
      starting, and he didn’t get half round the c-c-co-course,” which
      was true enough, only it wasn’t owing to any drugging, for he
      wasn’t worth the expense.

      “That ‘oss should be in Le-le-le-leieestershire,” observed the
      Major. “He has all the commandin’ s-s-s-statur requisite to make
      large fences look s-s-s-small, and the s-s-s-smoothest, oiliest
      action i-ma-ma-maginable.”

      “Yarse;” replied Billy, wondering what pleasure there was in
      looking at a lot of blankets and hoods upon horses—which was
      about all he could see.

      “He should be at Me-me-melton,” observed the Major; still harping
      on Napoleon—“wasted upon haryers,” added he.

      “Yarse,” replied Billy, not caring where he was.

      The Major then took a nod at the Weaver, who, as if in aid of her
      master’s design, now stood bolt upright, listening, as it were,
      instead of reeling from side to side.

      “That’s a sw-sw-swe-e-t mare,” observed the Major, wishing he was
      rid of her. “I don’t know whether I would rather have her or the
      horse (Nap);” which was true enough, though he knew which he
      would like to sell Billy.

      “You’ll remember the g-g-gray, the whi-white,” continued he;
      looking on at the old stager against the wall. “That’s the ‘oss I
      rode with the Peer, on the Castle day, and an undeniable g-g-good
      one he is;” but knowing that he was not a young man’s
      horse—moreover, not wanting to sell him, he returned to Napoleon,
      whose praises he again sounded considerably. Billy, however,
      having heard enough about him, and wanting to get into the house
      to the ladies, drew his attention to Bull-dog, now almost
      enveloped in blankets and straw; but the Major, not feeling
      inclined to waste any words on him either, replied, “That he was
      only a servant’s ‘oss.” He, however, spoke handsomely of
      Golden-drop, declaring he was the fastest trotter in England,
      perhaps in Europe, perhaps in the world, and would be invaluable
      to a D-d-doctor, or any man who wanted to get over the ground.
      And then, thinking he had said about enough for a beginning, it
      all at once occurred to him that Billy’s feet must be wet, and
      though our friend asserted most confidently that they were not,
      as all townsmen do assert who walk about the country in thin
      soles, the Major persisted in urging him to go in and change,
      which Billy at length reluctantly assented to do.



      CHAPTER XX. CARDS FOR A SPREAD.

      158m


      _Original Size_


      THE Major’s ménage not admitting of two such great events as a
      hunt and a dinner party taking place on the same day, and market
      interfering as well, the hunt again had to be postponed to the
      interests of the table. Such an event as a distinguished
      stranger—the friend of an Earl, too—coming into the country could
      not but excite convivial expectations, and it would ill become a
      master of hounds and a mother of daughters not to parade the
      acquisition. Still, raising a party under such circumstances,
      required a good deal of tact and consideration, care, of course,
      being taken not to introduce any matrimonial competitor, at the
      same time to make the gathering sufficiently grand, and to
      include a good bellman or two to proclaim its splendour over the
      country. The Major, like a county member with his constituents,
      was somewhat hampered with his hounds, not being able to ask
      exactly who he liked, for fear of being hauled over the coals,
      viz. warned off the land of those who might think they ought to
      have been included, and altogether, the party required a good
      deal of management. Inclination in these matters is not of so
      much moment, it being no uncommon thing in the country for people
      to abuse each other right well one day, and dine together the
      next. The “gap” which the Major prized so much with his hounds,
      he strongly objected to with his parties.

      Stopping gaps, indeed, sending out invitations at all in the
      country, so as not to look like stopping gaps, requires
      circumspection, where people seem to have nothing whatever to do
      but to note their neighbours’ movements. Let any one watch the
      progress of an important trial, one for murder say, and mark the
      wonderful way in which country people come forward, long after
      the event, to depose to facts, that one would imagine would never
      have been noticed—the passing of a man with a cow, for instance,
      just as they dropped their noses upon their bacon plates, the
      suspension of payment by their clock, on that morning, or the
      post messenger being a few minutes late with the letters on that
      day, and so on. What then is there to prevent people from laying
      that and that together, where John met James, or Michael saw
      Mary, so as to be able to calculate, whether they were included
      in the first, second, or third batch of invitations? Towns-people
      escape this difficulty, as also the equally disagreeable one of
      having it known whether their “previous engagements” are real or
      imaginary; but then, on the other hand, they have the
      inconvenience of feeling certain, that as sure as ever they issue
      cards for a certain day, every one else will be seized with a
      mania for giving dinners on the same one. No one can have an idea
      of the extent of London hospitality—who has not attempted to give
      a dinner there. Still, it is a difficult world to please, even in
      the matter of mastication, for some people who abuse you if you
      don’t ask them to dine, abuse you quite as much if you do. Take
      the Reverend Mr. Tightlace, the rector, and his excellent lady,
      for instance. Tightlace was always complaining, at least
      observing, that the Yammertons never asked them to dine—wondered
      “_why_ the Yammertons never asked them to dine, was very odd they
      never asked them to dine,” and yet, when Miss Yammerton’s best
      copper-plate handwriting appeared on the highly-musked best
      cream-laid satin note-paper, “requesting, &c.” Tightlace
      pretended to be quite put out at the idea of having to go to meet
      that wild sporting youth, who, “he’d be bound to say, could talk
      of nothing but hunting.” Indeed, having most reluctantly accepted
      the invitation, he found it necessary to cram for the occasion,
      and having borrowed a copy of that veteran volume, the “British
      Sportsman,” he read up all the long chapter on racing and
      hunting, how to prepare a horse for a hunting match or plate;
      directions for riding a hunting match or plate; of hunting the
      hare, and hunting the fox, with directions for the choice of a
      hunter, and the management of a hunter; part of which latter
      consisted in putting him to grass between May and
      Bartholomew-tide, and comforting his stomach before going out to
      hunt with toasted bread and wine, or toasted bread and ale, and
      other valuable information of that sort—all of which Tightlace
      stored in his mind for future use—thinking to reduce his great
      intellect to the level of Billy’s capacity.

      Mr. and Mrs. Rocket Larkspur, of Ninian Green, were also
      successfully angled for and caught; indeed, Mrs. Larkspur would
      have been much disappointed if they had not been invited, for she
      had heard of Billy’s elegant appearance from her maid, and being
      an aspiring lady, had a great desire to cultivate an acquaintance
      with high life, in which Billy evidently moved. Rocket was a good
      slow sort of gentleman-farmer, quite a contrast to his fast wife,
      who was all fire, bustle, and animation, wanting to manage
      everybody’s house and affairs for them. He had married her, it
      was supposed, out of sheer submission, because she had made a
      dead set at him, and would not apparently be said “nay” to. It is
      a difficult thing to manouvre a determined woman in the country,
      where your habits are known, and they can assail you at all
      points—church, streets, fields, roads, lanes, all are open to
      them; or they can even get into your house under plea of a
      charity subscription, if needs be. Mrs. and Miss Dotherington, of
      Goney Garth, were invited to do the Morning Post department, and
      because there was no fear of Miss Dotherington, who was “very
      amiable,” interfering with our Billy. Mrs. Dotherington’s other
      _forte_, besides propagating parties, consisted in angling for
      legacies, and she was continually on the trot looking after or
      killing people from whom she had, or fancied she had,
      expectations. “I’ve just been to see poor Mrs. Snuff,” she would
      say, drawing a long face; “she’s looking _wretchedly_ ill, poor
      thing; fear she’s not long for this world;” or, with a grin, “I
      suppose you’ve heard old Mr. Wheezington has had another attack
      in the night, which nearly carried him off.” Nothing pleased her
      so much as being told that any one from whom she had expectations
      was on the wane. She could ill conceal her satisfaction.

      So far so good; the party now numbered twelve, six of themselves
      and six strangers, and nobody to interfere with Fine Billy. The
      question then arose, whether to ask the Blurkinses, or the
      Faireys, or the Crickletons, and this caused an anxious
      deliberation. Blurkins was a landowner, over whose property the
      Major frequently hunted; but then on the other hand, he was a
      most disagreeable person, who would be sure to tread upon every
      body’s corns before the evening was over. Indeed, the Blurkins’
      family, like noxious vermin, would seem to have been sent into
      the world for some inscrutable purpose, their mission apparently
      being to take the conceit out of people by telling them home
      truths. “Lor’ bless us! how old you have got! why you’ve lost a
      front tooth! declare I shouldn’t have known you!” or “Your nose
      and your chin have got into fearful proximity,” was the sort of
      salute Blurkins would give an acquaintance after an absence. Or
      if the “Featherbedfordshire Gazette,” or the “Hit-im and Hold-im
      shire Herald” had an unflattering paragraph respecting a party’s
      interference at the recent elections, or on any other subject,
      Blurkins was the man who would bring it under his notice. “There,
      sir, there; see what they say about you!” he would say, coming up
      in the news-room, with the paper neatly folded to the paragraph,
      and presenting it to him.

      The Faireys of Yarrow Court were the most producible people, but
      then Miss was a beauty, who had even presumed to vie with the
      Yammertons, and they could not ask the old people without her.
      Besides which, it had transpired that a large deal box, carefully
      covered with glazed canvas, had recently arrived at the Rosedale
      station, which it was strongly suspected contained a new dinner
      dress from Madame Glace’s in Hanover Street; and it would never
      do to let her sport it at Yammerton Grange against their girl’s
      rather soiled—but still by candle-light extremely
      passable—watered silk ones. So, after due deliberation, the
      Faireys were rejected.

      The Crickletons’ claims were then taken into consideration.

      Crick was the son of Crickleton, the late eminent chiropodist of
      Bolton Row, whom many of our readers will remember parading about
      London on his piebald pony, with a groom in a yellow coat, red
      plush breeches, and boots; and the present Crickleton was now
      what he called “seeking repose” in the country, which, in his
      opinion, consisted in setting all his neighbours by the ears. He
      rented Lavender Lodge and farm, and being a thorough Cockney,
      with a great inclination for exposing his ignorance both in the
      sporting and farming way, our knowing Major was making rather a
      good thing of him. At first there was a little rivalry between
      them, as to which was the greater man: Crickleton affirming that
      his father might have been knighted; the Major replying, that as
      long as he wasn’t knighted it made no matter. The Major, however,
      finding it his interest to humour his consequence, compromised
      matters, by always taking in Mrs. Crickleton, a compliment that
      Crick returned by taking in Mrs. Yammerton. Though the Major
      used, when in the running-down tack, to laugh at the idea of a
      knight’s son claiming precedence, yet, when on the running-up
      one, he used to intimate that his friend’s father might have been
      knighted, and even sometimes assigned the honour to his friend
      himself. So he talked of him to our Billy.

      The usual preponderating influence setting in in favour of
      acceptances, our host and hostess were obliged to play their
      remaining card with caution. There were two sets of people with
      equal claims—the Impelows of Buckup Hill, and the Baskyfields of
      Lingworth Lawn; the Impelows, if anything, having the prior
      claim, inasmuch as the Yammertons had dined with them last; but
      then, on the other hand, there was a very forward young Impelow
      whom they couldn’t accommodate, that is to say, didn’t want to
      have; while, as regarded the Baskyfields, old Basky and
      Crickleton were at daggers drawn about a sow Basky had sold him,
      and they would very likely get to loggerheads about it during the
      evening. A plan of the table was drawn up, to see if it was
      possible to separate them sufficiently, supposing people would
      only have the sense to go to their right places, but it was found
      to be impracticable to do justice to their consequence, and
      preserve the peace as well; so the idea of having the Baskyfields
      was obliged to be relinquished. This delay was fatal to the
      Impelows, for John Giles, their man-of-all-work, having seen
      Solomon scouring the country on horseback with a basket, in
      search of superfluous poultry, had reported the forthcoming grand
      spread at the Grange to his “Missis”; and after waiting patiently
      for an invitation, it at length came so late as to be an evident
      convenience, which they wouldn’t submit to; so after taking a
      liberal allowance of time to answer, in order to prevent the
      Yammertons from playing the same base trick upon any one else,
      they declined in a stiff, non-reason-assigning note. This was the
      first check to the hitherto prosperous current of events, and
      showed our sagacious friends that the time was past for stopping
      gaps with family people, and threw them on the other resources of
      the district.

      The usual bachelor stop-gaps of the neighbourhood were Tom
      Hetherington, of Bearbinder Park, and Jimmy Jarperson, of
      Fothergill Burn, both of whom had their disqualifications;
      Jarperson’s being an acute nerve-shaking sort of laugh, that set
      every one’s teeth on edge who heard it, and earned for him the
      title of the Laughing Hyæna; the other’s misfortune being, that
      he was only what may be called an intermediate gentleman, that is
      to say, he could act the gentleman up to a pint of wine or so,
      after which quantity nature gradually asserted her supremacy, and
      he became himself again.

      Our friend Paul Straddler, of Hinton, at one time had had the
      call of them both, but the Major, considering that Straddler had
      not used due diligence in the matter of Golden-drop, was not
      inclined to have him. Besides which, Straddler required a bed,
      which the Major was not disposed to yield, a bed involving a
      breakfast, and perhaps a stall for his horse, to say nothing of
      an out-of-place groom Straddler occasionally adopted, and who
      could eat as much as any two men. So the Laughing Hyæna and
      Hetherington were selected.

      And now, gentle reader, if you will have the kindness to tell
      them off on your fingers as we call them over, we will see if we
      have got country, and as many as ever the Major can cram into his
      diningroom. Please count:—


Major, Mrs., three Misses Yammerton and Fine Billy...6

The Rev. Mr. and Mrs. Tightlace......................2

Mr. and Mrs. Rocket Larkspur.........................2

Mrs. and Miss Dotherington...........................2

Mr. and Mrs. Blurkins................................2

Mr. and Mrs. Crickleton..............................2

The Hyæna, and Hetherington..........................2

18



      All right! eighteen; fourteen for dining-room chairs, and four
      for bedroom ones. There are but twelve Champagne needle-cases,
      but the deficiency is supplied by half-a-dozen ale glasses at the
      low end of the table, which the Major says will “never be seen.”

      So now, if you please, we will go and dress—dinner being sharp
      six, recollect.



      CHAPTER XXI. THE GATHERING.—THE GRAND SPREAD ITSELF.


      IF a dinner-party in town, with all the aids and appliances of
      sham-butlers, job-cooks, area-sneak-entrés, and extraneous
      confectionary, causes confusion in an establishment, how much
      more so must a party in the country, where, in addition to the
      guests, their servants, their horses, and their carriages, are to
      be accommodated. What a turning-out, and putting-up, and
      make-shifting, is there! What a grumbling and growling at not
      getting into the best stable, or at not having the state-vehicle
      put into the coach-house. If Solomon had not combined the wisdom
      of his namesake, with the patience of Job, he would have
      succumbed to the pressure from without. As it was, he kept
      persevering on until having got the last shandry-dan deposited
      under the hay house, he had just time to slip up-stairs to “clean
      himself,” and be ready to wait at dinner.

      But what a commotion the party makes in the kitchen! Everybody is
      in a state of stew, from the gallant Betty Bone down to the
      hind’s little girl from Bonnyriggs Farm, whom they have “got in”
      for the occasion.

      Nor do their anxieties end with the dishing-up of the dinner; for
      no sooner is it despatched, than that scarcely less onerous
      entertainment, the supper for the servants, has to be provided.

      Then comes the coffee, then the tea, then the tray, and then the
      carriages wanted, then good night, good night, good night; most
      agreeable evening; no idea it was so late; and getting away. But
      the heat, and steam, and vapour of the kitchen overpowers us, and
      we gladly seek refuge in the newly “done-up” drawing-room.

      In it behold the Major!—the Major in all the glory of the
      Yammerton harrier uniform, a myrtle-green coat, with a gold
      embroidered hare on the myrtle-green velvet collar, and puss with
      her ears well back, striding away over a dead gold surface, with
      a raised burnished rim of a button, a nicely-washed,
      stiffly-starched, white vest, with a yellow silk one underneath,
      black shorts, black silk stockings, and patent leather pumps. He
      has told off his very rare and singularly fine port wine, his
      prime old Madeira, matured in the West Indies; his nutty sherry,
      and excellently flavoured claret, all recently bought at the
      auction mart, not forgetting the ginger-pop-like
      champagne,—allowing the liberal measure of a pint for each person
      of the latter, and he is now trying to cool himself down into the
      easy-minded, unconcerned, every-day-dinner-giving host.

      Mrs. Yammerton too, on whom devolves the care of the wax and the
      modérateurs, is here superintending her department—seeing that
      the hearth is properly swept, and distributing the Punches, and
      Posts, and “Ask Mamma’s” judiciously over the fine variegated
      table-cover. She is dressed in a rich silvery grey—with a sort of
      thing like a silver cow tie, with full tassels, twisted and
      twined serpent-like into her full, slightly streaked, dark hair.

      The illumination being complete, she seats herself fan in hand on
      the sofa, and a solemn pause then ensues, broken only by Billy’s
      and Monsieur’s meanderings over-head, and the keen whistle of the
      November wind careering among the hollies and evergreens which
      the Major keeps interpreting into wheels.

      Then his wife and he seek to relieve the suspense of the moment
      by speculating on who will come first.

      “Those nasty Tightlaces for a guinea,” observed the Major,
      polishing his nails, while Mrs. Yammerton predicted the
      Larkspurs.

      “No, the Tights,” reiterated the Major, jingling his silver;
      “Tights always comes first—thinks to catch one unprepared—”

      At length the furious bark of the inhospitable terrier, who
      really seemed as if he would eat horses, vehicle, visitors, and
      all, was followed by a quick grind up to the door, and such a
      pull at the bell as made the Major fear would cause it to suspend
      payment for good—_ring-ring-ring-ring-ring_ it went, as if it was
      never going to stop.

      “Pulled the bell out of the socket, for a guinea,” exclaimed the
      Major, listening for the letting down of steps, iron or
      recessed—recessed had it.

      “Mrs. D.” said the Major—figuring her old Landaulet in his mind.

      “_Ladies_ evidently,” assented Mrs. Yammerton, as the rustle of
      silks on their way to the put-to-rights Sanctum, sounded past the
      drawing-room door. The Major then began speculating as to whether
      they would get announced before another arrival took place, or
      not.

      ****


      Presently a renewed rustle was succeeded by the now
      yellow-legged, brown-backed Bumbler, throwing open the door and
      exclaiming in a stentorian voice, as if he thought his master and
      mistress had turned suddenly deaf, “Mrs. and Miss Dotherington!”
      and in an instant the four were hugging, and grinning, and
      pump-handling each other’s arms as if they were going into
      ecstacies, Mrs. Dotherington interlarding her gymnastics with
      Mrs. Yammerton, with sly squeezes of the hand, suited to _soto
      voce_ observations not intended for the Major’s ears, of “so
      _‘appy_ to ear it! so glad to congratulate you! _So nice!_” with
      an inquisitive whisper of—“_which is it? which is it?_ Do tell
      me!”

      ****


      _Bow-wow-wow-wow-wow-wow_ went the clamorous Fury again;
      _Ring-ring-ring-ring-ring-ring-ring_ went the aggravated bell,
      half drowning Mrs. Yammerton’s impressive “O dear! nothin’ of the
      sort—nothin’ of the sort, only a fox-hunting acquaintance of the
      Major’s—only a fox-hunting acquaintance of the Major’s.” And then
      the Major came to renew his affectionate embraces, with inquiries
      about the night, and the looks of the moon—was it hazy, or was it
      clear, or how was it?

      “Mr. and Mrs. Rocket Larkspur!” exclaimed the Bumbler, following
      up the key-note in which he had pitched his first announcement
      and forthwith the hugging and grinning was resumed with the new
      comers, Mrs. Larkspur presently leading Mrs. Yammerton off
      sofawards, in order to poke her inquiries unheard by the Major,
      who was now opening a turnip dialogue with Mr. Rocket—yellow
      bullocks, purple tops, and so on. “Well, tell me—_which is it?_”
      ejaculated Mrs. Rocket Larkspur, looking earnestly, in Mrs.
      Yammerton’s expressive eyes—“_which is it,_” repeated she, in a
      determined sort of take-no-denial tone.

      “Oh dear! nothin’ of the sort—nothin’ of the sort, I assure you!”
      whispered Mrs. Yammerton anxiously, well knowing the danger of
      holloaing before you are out of the wood.

      “Oh, _tell me—tell me_,” whispered Mrs. Rocket, coaxingly; “I’m
      not like Mrs.————um there, looking at Mrs. Dotherington, who
      would blab it all over the country.”

      “_Really_ I have nothing to tell,” replied Mrs. Yammerton
      serenely.

      “Why, do you mean to say he’s not after one of the————um’s?”
      demanded Mrs. Rocket eagerly.

      “I don’t know what you mean,” laughed Mrs. Yammerton.



      167m


      _Original Size_


      _Bow-wow-wow-wow-wow-wow_ went the terrier again, giving Mrs.
      Yammerton an excuse for sidling off to Mrs. “um,” who with her
      daughter were lost in admiration at a floss silk cockatoo,
      perched on an orange tree, the production of Miss Flora. “Oh, it
      was so beautiful! Oh, what a love of a screen it would make; what
      would she give if her Margaret could do such work,” inwardly
      thinking how much better Margaret was employed making her own—we
      will not say what.

      _Bow-wow-wow-wow-wow-wow_ went Fury again, the proceeds of this
      bark being Mr. and Mrs. Tightlace, who now entered, the former
      “‘oping they weren’t late,” as he smirked, and smiled, and looked
      round for the youth on whom he had to vent his “British
      Sportsman” knowledge—the latter speedily drawing Mrs. Yammerton
      aside—to the ladies know what. But it was “no go” again. Mrs.
      Yammerton really didn’t know what Mrs. Tightlace meant. No; she
      _really_ didn’t. Nor did Mrs. Tightlace’s assurance that it was
      “the talk of the country,” afford any clue to her meaning—but
      Mrs. Tightlace’s large miniature brooch being luckily loose, Mrs.
      Yammerton essayed to fasten it, which afforded her an opportunity
      of bursting into transports of delight at its beauty, mingled
      with exclamations as to its “_wonderful_ likeness to Mr. T.,”
      though in reality she was looking at Mrs. Tightlace’s berthe, to
      see whether it was machinery lace, or real.

      Then the grand rush took place; and Fury’s throat seemed wholly
      inadequate to the occasion, as first Blurkins’s Brougham, then
      Jarperson’s Gig, next the corn-cutter’s _calèche_, and lastly,
      Hetherington’s Dog-cart whisked up to the door, causing a meeting
      of the highly decorated watered silks of the house, and the
      hooded enveloped visitors hurrying through the passage to the
      cloak-room.

      By the time the young ladies had made their obeisances and got
      congratulated on their looks, the now metamorphosed visitors came
      trooping in, flourishing their laced kerchiefs, and flattening
      their _chapeaux mèchaniques_ as they entered. Then the full
      chorus of conversation was established; moon, hounds, turnips,
      horses.

      Parliament, with the usual—“Oi see by the papers that Her Majesty
      is gone to Osborne,” or, “Oi see by the papers that the Comet is
      coming;” while Mrs. Rocket Larkspur draws Miss Yammerton aside to
      try what she can fish out of her. But here comes Fine Billy, and
      if ever hero realised an author’s description of him, assuredly
      it is our friend, for he sidles as unconcernedly into the room as
      he would into a Club or Casino, with all the dreamy listlessness
      of a thorough exquisite, apparently unconscious of any change
      having taken place in the party. But if Billy is unconscious of
      the presence of strangers, his host is not, and forthwith he
      inducts him into their acquaintance—Hetherington’s, Hyæna’s, and
      all.

      It is, doubtless, very flattering of great people to vote all the
      little ones “one of us,” and not introduce them to anybody, but
      we take leave to say, that society is considerably improved by a
      judicious presentation. We talk of our advanced civilisation, but
      manners are not nearly so good, or so “at-ease-setting,” as they
      were with the last generation of apparently stiffer, but in
      reality easier, more affable gentlemen of the old school. But
      what a note of admiration our Billy is! How gloriously he is
      attired. His naturally curling hair, how gracefully it flows; his
      elliptic collar, how faultlessly it stands; his cravat, how
      correct; his shirt, how wonderfully fine; and, oh! how happy he
      must be with such splendid sparkling diamond studs—such beautiful
      amethyst buttons at his wrists—and such a love of a chain
      disporting itself over his richly embroidered
      blood-stone-buttoned vest. Altogether, such a first-class swell
      is rarely seen beyond the bills of mortality. He looks as if he
      ought to be kept under a glass shade. But here comes the Bumbler,
      and now for the agony of the entertainment.

      The Major, who for the last few minutes has been fidgetting about
      pairing parties off according to a written programme he has in
      his waistcoat pocket, has just time to assign Billy to Mrs.
      Rocket Larkspur, to assuage her anguish at not being taken in
      before Mrs. Crickleton, when the Bumbler’s half-fledged voice is
      heard proclaiming at its utmost altitude—“dinner is sarved!” Then
      there is such a bobbing and bowing, and backing of chairs, and
      such inward congratulations, that the “‘orrid ‘alf’our” is over,
      and hopes from some that they may not get next the fire—while
      others wish to be there. Though the Major could not, perhaps,
      manage to get twenty thousand men out of Hyde Park, he can,
      nevertheless, manouvre a party out of his drawing-room into his
      dining-room, and forthwith he led the way, with Mrs. Crickleton
      under his arm, trusting to the reel winding off right at the end.
      And right it would most likely have wound off had not the
      leg-protruding Bumbler’s tongue-buckle caught the balloon-like
      amplitude of Mrs. Rocket Larkspur’s dress and caused a slight
      stoppage—in the passage,—during which time two couples slipped
      past and so deranged the entire order of the table. However,
      there was no great harm done, as far as Mrs. Larkspur’s
      consequence was concerned, for she got next Mr. Tightlace, with
      Mr. Pringle between her and Miss Yammerton, whom Mrs. Larkspur
      had just got to admit, that she wouldn’t mind being Mrs. P————,
      and Miss having been thus confidential, Mrs. was inclined, partly
      out of gratitude,—partly, perhaps, because she couldn’t help
      it—to befriend her. She was a great mouser, and would promote the
      most forlorn hope, sooner than not be doing.

      We are now in the dining-room, and very smart everything is. In
      the centre of the table, of course, stands the Yammerton
      testimonial,—a “Savory” chased silver plated candelabrum, with
      six branches, all lighted up, and an ornamental centre
      flower-basket, decorated with evergreens and winter roses,
      presented to our friend on his completing his “five and twentieth
      year as master of harriers,” and in gratitude for the
      unparalleled sport he had uniformly shown the subscribers.

      Testimonialising has become quite a mania since the Major got
      his, and no one can say whose turn it may be next. It is not
      everybody who, like Mr. Daniel Whittle Harvey with the police
      force one, can nip them in the bud; but Inspector Field, we
      think, might usefully combine testimonial-detecting with his
      other secret services. He would have plenty to do—especially in
      the provinces. Indeed London does not seem to be exempt from the
      mania, if we may judge by Davis the Queen’s huntsman’s recent
      attempt to avert the intended honour; neatly informing the
      projectors that “their continuing to meet him in the hunting
      field would be the best proof of their approbation of his
      conduct.” However, the Major got his testimonial; and there it
      stands, flanked by two pretty imitation Dresden vases decorated
      with flowers and evergreens also. And now the company being at
      length seated and grace said, the reeking covers are removed from
      the hare and mock turtle tureens, and the confusion of tongues
      gradually subsides into sip-sip-sipping of soup. And now
      Jarperson, having told his newly caught footman groom to get him
      hare soup instead of mock turtle, the lad takes the plate of the
      latter up to the tureen of the former, and his master gets a
      mixture of both—which he thinks very good.

      And now the nutty sherry comes round, which the Major introduces
      with a stuttering exordium that would induce anyone who didn’t
      know him to suppose it cost at least 80s. a-dozen, instead of
      36s. (bottles included); and this being sipped and smacked and
      pronounced excellent, “two fishes” replace the two soups, and the
      banquet proceeds, Mr. Tightlace trying to poke his sporting
      knowledge at Billy between heats, but without success, the
      commoner not rising at the bait, indeed rather shirking it.

      A long-necked green bottle of what the Bumbler called
      “bluecellas,” then goes its rounds; and the first qualms of
      hunger being appeased, the gentlemen are more inclined to talk
      and listen to the luncheon-dining ladies. Mrs. Rocket Larkspur
      has been waiting most anxiously for Billy’s last mouthful, in
      order to interrogate him, as well as to London fashion, as to his
      opinions of the Miss “ums.” Of course with Miss “um” sitting just
      below Billy, the latter must be done through the medium of the
      former,—so she leads off upon London.

      “She supposed he’d been very gay in London?”

      “Yarse,” drawled Billy in the true dandified style, drawing his
      napkin across his lips as he spoke.

      Mrs. Rocket wasn’t so young as she had been, and Billy was too
      young to take up with what he profanely called “old ladies.”

      “He’d live at the west-end, she s’posed?”

      “Yarse,” replied Billy, feeling his amplified tie.

      “Did he know Billiter Square?”

      “Yarse,” replied he, running his ringed fingers down his studs.
      “Was it fashionable?” asked Mrs. Rocket. (She had a cousin lived
      there who had asked her to go and see her.)

      “Y-a-a-rse, I should say it is,” drawled Billy, now playing with
      a bunch of trinkets, a gold miniature pistol, a pearl and diamond
      studded locket, a gold pencil-case, and a white cornelian heart,
      suspended to his watch-chain. “Y-a-a-rse, I should say it is,”
      repeated he; adding “not so fashionable as Belgrave.”

      “Sceuse me, sare,” interrupted Monsieur Jean Rougier from behind
      his master’s chair, “Sceuse me, it is not fashionable, sare,—it
      is not near de Palace or de Park of Hyde, sare, bot down away
      among those dem base mechanics in de east—beyond de Mansion
      ‘Ouse, in fact.”

      “Oh, ah, y-a-a-rse, true,” replied Billy, not knowing where it
      was, but presuming from Mrs. Larkspur’s inquiry that it was some
      newly sprung-up square on one of the western horns of the
      metropolis.

      Taking advantage of the interruption, Mr. Tightlace again essayed
      to edge in his “British Sportsman” knowledge beginning with an
      inquiry if “the Earl of Ladythorne had a good set of dogs this
      season?” but the Bumbler soon cut short the thread of his
      discourse by presenting a bottle of brisk gooseberry at his ear.
      The fizzing stuff then went quickly round, taxing the ingenuity
      of the drinkers to manoeuvre the frothy fluid out of their
      needlecase-shaped glasses. Then as conversation was beginning to
      be restored, the door suddenly flew open to a general rush of
      returning servants. There was Soloman carrying a sirloin of beef,
      followed by Mr. Crickleton’s gaudy red-and-yellow young man with
      a boiled turkey, who in turn was succeeded by Mr. Rocket
      Larkspur’s hobbledehoy with a ham, and Mr. Tightlace’s with a
      stew. Pâtés and côtelettes, and minces, and messes follow in
      quick succession; and these having taken their seats, immediately
      vacate them for the Chiltern-hundreds of the hand. A shoal of
      vegetables and sundries alight on the side table, and the feast
      seems fairly under weigh.

      But see! somehow it prospers not!

      People stop short at the second or third mouthful, and lay down
      their knives and forks as if they had had quite enough. Patties,
      and cutlets, and sausages, and side-dishes, all share the same
      fate!

      “Take round the champagne,” says the Major, with an air, thinking
      to retrieve the character of his kitchen with the solids. The
      juicy roast beef, and delicate white turkey with inviting green
      stulling, and rich red ham, and turnip-and-carrot-adorned stewed
      beef then made their progresses, but the same fate attends them
      also. People stop at the second or third mouthful;—some send
      their plates away slily, and ask for a little of a different dish
      to what they have been eating, or rather tasting. That, however,
      shares the same fate.

      “Take round the champagne,” again says the Major, trying what
      another cheerer would do. Then he invites the turkey-eaters—or
      leavers, rather—to eat beef; and the beef eaters—or leavers—to
      eat turkey: but they all decline with a thoroughly satisfied
      ‘no-more-for-me’ sort of shake of the head.

      “Take away!” at length says the Major, with an air of disgust,
      following the order with an invitation to Mrs. Rocket Larkspur to
      take wine. The guests follow the host’s example, and a momentary
      rally of liveliness ensues. Mrs. Rocket Larkspur and Mr.
      Tightlace contend for Fine Billy’s ear; but Miss Yammerton
      interposing with a sly whisper supersedes them both. Mrs. Rocket
      construes that accordingly. A general chirp of conversation is
      presently established, interspersed with heavy demands upon the
      breadbasket by the gentlemen. Presently the door is thrown open,
      and a grand procession of sweets enters—jellies, blancmanges,
      open tarts, shut tarts, meringues, plum pudding, maccaroni, black
      puddings,—we know not what besides: and the funds of conviviality
      again look up. The rally is, however, but of momentary duration.
      The same evil genius that awaited on the second course seems to
      attend on the third. People stop at the second or third mouthful
      and send away the undiminished plates slily, as before. Some
      venture on other dishes—but the result is the same—the plate
      vanishes with its contents. There is, however, a great run upon
      the cheese—Cheshire and Gloucester; and the dessert suffers
      severely. All the make-weight dishes, even, disappear; and when
      the gentlemen rejoin the ladies in the drawing-room they attack
      the tea as if they had not had any dinner.

      At length a “most agreeable evening” is got through; and as each
      group whisks away, there is a general exclamation of “What a most
      extraordinary taste everything had of—————” What do you think,
      gentle reader?

      “Can’t guess! can’t you?”

      “What do you think, Mrs. Brown?”

      “What do you think, Mrs. Jones?

      “What do you, Mrs. Robinson?”

      “What! none of you able to guess! And yet everybody at table hit
      off directly!”

      “All give it up?” Brown, Jones, and Robinson?

      “Yes—yes—yes.”

      “Well then, we’ll tell you”:—

      “Everything tasted of Castor oil!”

      “_Castor oil!_” exclaims Mrs. Brown.

      “Castor oil!” shrieks Mrs. Jones.

      “Castor oil!” shudders Mrs. Robinson.

      “O-o-o-o! how nasty!”

      “But how came it there?” asks Mrs. Brown.

      “We’ll tell you that, too—”

      The Major’s famous cow Strawberry-cream’s calf was ill, and they
      had tapped a pint of fine “cold-drawn” for it, which Monsieur
      Jean Rougier happening to upset, just mopped it up with his
      napkin, and chucking it away, it was speedily adopted by the
      hind’s little girl in charge of the plates and dishes, who
      imparted a most liberal castor oil flavour to everything she
      touched.

      And that entertainment is now known by the name of the “Castor
      Oil Dinner.”



      CHAPTER XXII. A HUNTING MORNING.—UNKENNELING.


      WHAT a commotion there was in the house the next morning! As
      great a disturbance as if the Major had been going to hunt an
      African Lion, a royal Bengal Tiger, or a Bison itself.
      _Ring-ring-ring-ring_ went one bell, _tinkle-tinkle-tinkle_ went
      another, _ring-ring-ring_ went the first again, followed by
      exclamations of “There’s master’s bell again!” with such a
      running down stairs, and such a getting up again. Master wanted
      this, master wanted that, master had carried away the buttons at
      his knees, master wanted his other pair of White
      what-do-they-call-ems—not cords, but moleskins—that treacherous
      material being much in vogue among masters of harriers. Then
      master’s boots wouldn’t do, he wanted his last pair, not the
      newly-footed ones, and they were on the trees, and the Bumbler
      was busy in the stable, and Betty Bone could not skin the trees,
      and altogether there was a terrible hubbub in the house. His
      overnight exertions, though coupled with the castor oil
      catastrophe, seemed to have abated none of his ardour in pursuit
      of the hare.

      Meanwhile our little dandy, Billy, lay tumbling and tossing in
      bed, listening to the dread preparations, wishing he could devise
      an excuse for declining to join him. The recollection of his
      bumps, and his jumps, and his falls, arose vividly before him,
      and he would fain have said “no” to any more. He felt certain
      that the Major was going to give him a startler, more dreadful
      perhaps than those he had had with his lordship. Would that he
      was well out of it! What pleasure could there be in galloping
      after an animal they could shoot? In the midst of these
      reflections Mons. Rougier entered the apartment and threw further
      light on the matter by opening the shutters.

      “You sall get up, sare, and pursue the vild beast of de voods—de
      Major is a-goin’ to hont.”

      “Y-a-r-se,” replied Billy, turning over.

      “I sal get out your habit verd, your green coat, dat is to say.”

      “_No! no!_” roared Billy; “_the red! the red!_”

      “_De red!_” exclaimed Monsieur in astonishment, “de red Not for
      de soup dogs! you only hont bold reynard in de red.”

      “Oh, yes, you do,” retorted Billy, “didn’t the Major come to the
      carstle in red?”

      “Because he came to hont de fox,” replied Monsieur; “if he had
      com’ for to hont poor puss he would ‘ave ‘ad on his green or his
      grey, or his some other colour.”

      Billy now saw the difference, and his mortification increased.
      “Well, I’ll breakfast in red at all events,” said he, determined
      to have that pleasure.

      “Vell, sare, you can pleasure yourself in dat matter; but it sall
      be moch ridicule if you pursue de puss in it.”

      “But why not?” asked Billy, “hunting’s hunting, all the world
      over.”

      “I cannot tell you vy, sir; but it is not _etiquette_, and I as a
      professor of garniture, toggery vot you call, sid lose _caste_
      with my comrades if I lived with a me lor vot honted poor puss in
      de pink.”

      “_Humph!_” grunted Billy, bouncing out of bed, thinking what a
      bore it was paying a man for being his master. He then commenced
      the operations of the occasion, and with the aid of Monsieur was
      presently attired in the dread costume. He then clonk, clonk,
      clonked down stairs with his Jersey-patterned spurs, toes well
      out to clear the steps, most heartily wishing he was clonking up
      again on his return from the hunt.



      175m


      _Original Size_


      Monsieur was right. The Major is in his myrtle-green coat—a coat,
      not built after the fashion of the scanty swallow-tailed red in
      which he appears at page 65 of this agreeable work, but with the
      more liberal allowance of cloth peculiar to the period in which
      we live. A loosely hanging garment, and not a strait-waistcoat,
      in fact, a fashion very much in favour of bunglers, seeing that
      anybody can make a sack, while it takes a tailor to make a coat.
      The Major’s cost him about two pounds five, the cloth having been
      purchased at a clothier’s and made up at home, by a three
      shilling a day man and his meat. We laugh at the ladies for
      liking to be cheated by their milliners; but young gentlemen are
      quite as accommodating to their tailors. Let any man of forty
      look at his tailor’s bill when he was twenty, and see what a
      liberality of innocence it displays. And that not only in matters
      of taste and fashion, which are the legitimate loopholes of
      extortion, but in the sober articles of ordinary requirement. We
      saw a once-celebrated west-end tailor’s bill the other day, in
      which a plain black coat was made to figure in the following
      magniloquent item:—

      “A superfine black cloth coat, lappels sewed on” (we wonder if
      they are usually pinned or glued) “lappels sewed on, cloth
      collar, cotton sleeve linings, velvet handfacings,” (most likely
      cotton too,) “embossed edges and fine wove buttons”—how much does
      the reader think? four guineas? four pound ten? five guineas? No,
      five pound eighteen and sixpence! An article that our own
      excellent tailor supplies for three pounds fifteen! In a tailor’s
      case that was recently tried, a party swore that fourteen guineas
      was a fair price for a Taglioni, when every body knows that they
      are to be had for less than four. But boys will be boys to the
      end of the chapter, so let us return to our sporting Major. He is
      not so happy in his nether garments as he is in his upper ones;
      indeed he has on the same boots and moleskins that Leech drew him
      in at Tantivy Castle, for these lower habiliments are not so easy
      of accomplishment in the country as coats, and though most people
      have tried them there, few wear them out, they are always so ugly
      and unbecoming. As, however, our Major doesn’t often compare his
      with town-made ones, he struts about in the comfortable belief
      that they are all right—very smart.

      He is now in a terrible stew, and has been backwards and forwards
      between the house and the stable, and in and out of the kennel,
      and has called Solomon repeatedly from his work to give him
      further instructions and further instructions still, until the
      Major has about confused himself and every body about him. As
      soon as ever he heard by his tramp overhead that Billy had got
      into his boots, he went to the bottom of the stairs and holloaed
      along the passage towards the kitchen. “Betty! Betty! Betty! send
      in breakfast as soon as ever Mr. Pringle comes down!”’ “Ah, dere
      is de Majur.” observed Monsieur, pausing from Billy’s
      hair-arranging to listen—“him kick up dc deval’s own dost on a
      huntin’ mornin’.”

      “What’s happened him?” asked Billy.

      “Don’t know—but von vould think he was going to storm a city—take
      Sebastopol himself,” replied Monsieur, shrugging his broad
      shoulders. He then resumed his valeting operations, and crowned
      the whole by putting Billy into his green cut-away, without
      giving him even a peep of the pink.

      Meanwhile, Mrs. Yammerton has been holding a court of inquiry in
      the kitchen and larder, as to the extent of the overnight
      mischief, smelling at this dish and that, criticising the spoons,
      and subjecting each castor-oily offender to severe ablution in
      boiling water. Of course no one could tell in whose hands the
      bottle of “cold drawn” had come “in two,” and Monsieur was too
      good a judge to know anything about it; so as the mischief
      couldn’t be repaired, it was no use bewailing it farther than to
      make a knot in her mind to be more careful of such dangerous
      commodities in future.

      Betty Bone had everything—tea, coffee, bread, cakes, eggs, ham
      (fried so as to hide the spurious flavour), honey, jam, &c.,
      ready for Miss Benson, who had been impressed into the carrying
      service, _vice_ the Bumbler turned whip, to take in as soon as
      Mr. Pringle descended, a fact that was announced to the household
      by the Major’s uproarious greeting of him in the passage. He was
      overjoyed to see him! He hoped he was none the worse for his
      over-night festivities; and without waiting for an answer to
      that, he was delighted to say that it was a fine hunting morning,
      and as far as human judgment could form an opinion, a good
      scenting one; but after five-and-thirty years’ experience as a
      master of “haryers,” he could conscientiously say that there was
      nothing so doubtful or ticklish as scent, and he made no doubt
      Mr. Pringle’s experience would confirm his own, that many days
      when they might expect it to be first-rate, it was bad, and many
      days when they might expect it to be bad, it was first-rate; to
      all which accumulated infliction Billy replied with his usual
      imperturbable “Yarse,” and passed on to the more agreeable
      occupation of greeting the young ladies in the dining-room. Very
      glad they all were to see him as he shook hands with all three.

      The Major, however, was not to be put off that way; and as he
      could not get Billy to talk about hunting, he drew his attention
      to breakfast, observing that they had a goodish trot before them,
      and that punctuality was the politeness of princes. Saying which,
      he sat down, laying his great gold watch open on a plate beside
      him, so that its noisy ticking might remind Billy of what they
      had to do. The Major couldn’t make it out how it was that the
      souls of the young men of the present day are so difficult to
      inflame about hunting. Here was he, turned of————, and as eager
      in the pursuit as ever. “Must be that they smoke all their
      energies out,” thought he; and then applied himself vigorously to
      his tea and toast, looking up every now and then with irate looks
      at his wife and daughters, whose volubility greatly retarded
      Billy’s breakfast proceedings. He, nevertheless, made sundry
      efforts to edge in a hunting conversation himself, observing that
      Mr. Pringle mustn’t expect such an establishment as the Peer’s,
      or perhaps many that he was accustomed to—that they would have
      rather a shortish pack out, which would enable them to take the
      field again at an early day, and so on; all of which Billy
      received with the most provoking indifference, making the Major
      wish he mightn’t be a regular crasher, who cared for nothing but
      riding. At length, tea, toast, eggs, ham, jam, all had been
      successively taxed, the Major closed and pocketed his noisy
      watch, and the doomed youth rose to perform the dread penance
      with the pack. “Good byes,” “good mornings,” “hope you’ll have
      good sport,” followed his bowing spur-clanking exit from the
      room.

      A loud crack of the Major’s hammer-headed whip now announced
      their arrival in the stable-yard, which was at once a signal for
      the hounds to raise a merry cry, and for the stable-men to loosen
      their horses’ heads from the pillar-reins. It also brought a bevy
      of caps and curl-papers to the back windows of the house to see
      the young Earl, for so Rougier had assured them his master
      was—(heir to the Earldom of Ladythorne)—mount. At a second crack
      of the whip the stable-door flew open, and as a shirt-sleeved lad
      receded, the grey-headed, green-coated sage Solomon advanced,
      leading forth the sleek, well-tended, well-coddled, Napoleon the
      Great.

      Amid the various offices filled by this Mathews-at-home of a
      servant, there was none perhaps in which he looked better or more
      natural than in that of a huntsman. Short, spare, neat, with a
      bright black eye, contrasting with the sobered hue of his thin
      grey hair, no one would suppose that the calfless little yellow
      and brown-liveried coachman of the previous night was the trim,
      neatly-booted, neatly-tied huntsman now raising his cap to the
      Richest Commoner in England, and his great master Major
      Yammerton—Major of the Featherbedfordshire Militia, master of
      “haryers,” and expectant magistrate.

      “Well, Solomon,” said the Major, acknowledging his salute, as
      though it was their first meeting of the morning, “well, Solomon,
      what do you think of the day?”

      “Well, sir, I think the day’s well enough,” replied Solomon, who
      was no waster of words.

      “I think so too,” said the Major, drawing on his clean doeskin
      gloves. The pent-up hounds then raised another cry.

      “That’s pretty!” exclaimed the Major listening

      “That’s _beautiful!_” added he, like an enthusiastic admirer of
      music at the opera.

      Imperturbable Billy spoke not.

      “Pr’aps you’d like to see them unkenneled?” said the Major,
      thinking to begin with the first act of the drama.

      “Yarse,” replied Billy, feeling safe as long as he was on foot.

      The Major then led the way through a hen-house-looking door into
      a little green court-yard, separated by peeled larch palings from
      a flagged one beyond, in which the expectant pack were now
      jumping and frisking and capering in every species of wild
      delight.

      “Ah, you beauties!” exclaimed the Major, again cracking his whip.
      He then paused, thinking there would surely be a little praise.
      But no; Billy just looked at them as he would at a pen full of
      stock at a cattle show.

      “Be-be-beauties, ar’n’t they?” stuttered the Major.

      “Yarse,” replied Billy; thinking they were prettier than the
      great lounging, slouching foxhounds.

      “Ca-ca-capital hounds,” observed the Major.

      No response from Billy.

      “Undeniable b-b-blood,” continued our friend.

      No response again.

      “F-f-foxhounds in mi-mi-miniature,” observed the Major.

      “Yarse,” replied Billy, who understood that.

      “Lovely! Lovely! Lovely! there’s a beautiful bitch,” continued
      the Major, pointing to a richly pied one that began frolicking to
      his call.

      “Bracelet! Bracelet! Bracelet!” holloaed he to another; “pretty
      bitch that—pure Sir Dashwood King’s blood, just the right size
      for a haryer—shouldn’t be too large. I hold with
      So-so-somerville,” continued the Major, waxing warm, either with
      his subject, or at Billy’s indifference, “that one should


‘A di-di-different hound for every chase Select with judgment; nor the
timorous hare, O’ermatch’d, destroy; but leave that vile offence To the
mean, murderous, coursing crew, intent On blood and spoil.’”

      “Yarse,” replied Billy, turning on his heel as though he had had
      enough of the show.

      At this juncture, the Major drew the bolt, open flew the door,
      and out poured the pack; Ruffler and Bustler dashing at Billy,
      and streaking his nice cream-coloured leathers down with their
      dirty paws, while Thunder and Victim nearly carried him off his
      legs with the couples. Billy was in a great fright, never having
      been in such a predicament before.

      The Major came to the rescue, and with the aid of his whip and
      his voice, and his “for shame, Ruffler! for shame, Bustler!” with
      cuts at the coupled ones, succeeded in restoring order.

      “Let’s mount,” said he, thinking to get Billy out of further
      danger; so saying he wheeled about and led the way through the
      outer yard with the glad pack gamboling and frisking around him
      to the stables.

      The hounds raise a fresh cry of joy as they see Solomon with his
      horse ready to receive them.



      CHAPTER XXIII. SHOWING A HORSE.—THE MEET.


      THE Bumbler, like our Mathews-at-home of a huntsman, is now
      metamorphosed, and in lieu of a little footman, we have a capped
      and booted whip. Not that he _is_ a whip, for Solomon carries the
      couples as well as the horn, and also a spare stirrup-leather
      slung across his shoulder; but our Major has an eye as well to
      show as to business, and thinks he may as well do the
      magnificent, and have a horse ready to change with Billy as soon
      as Napoleon the Great seems to have had enough. To that end the
      Bumbler now advances with the Weaver which he tenders to Billy,
      with a deferential touch of his cap.

      “Ah, that’s _your_ horse!” exclaimed the Major, making for White
      Surrey, to avoid the frolics and favours of his followers;
      adding, as he climbed on, “you’ll find her a ca-ca-capital hack
      and a first-rate hunter. Here, _elope, hounds, elope!_” added he,
      turning his horse’s head away to get the course clear for our
      friend to mount unmolested.

      Billy then effects the ascent of the black mare, most devoutly
      wishing himself safe off again. The stirrups being adjusted to
      his length, he gives a home thrust with his feet in the irons,
      and gathering the thin reins, feels his horse gently with his
      left leg, just as Solomon mounts Napoleon the Great and advances
      to relieve the Major of his charge. The cavalcade then proceed;
      Solomon, with the now clustering hounds, leading; the Major and
      Billy riding side by side, and the Bumbler on Bulldog bringing up
      the rear. Caps and curl-papers then disappear to attend to the
      avocations of the house, the wearers all agreeing that Mr.
      Pringle is a very pretty young gentleman, and quite worthy of the
      pick of the young ladies.

      Crossing Cowslip garth at an angle they get upon Greenbat
      pasture, where the first fruits of idleness are shown by Twister
      and Towler breaking away at the cows.

      “_Yow, yow!_” they go in the full enjoyment of the chase. It’s a
      grand chance for the Bumbler, who, adjusting his whip-thong,
      sticks spurs into Bulldog and sets off as hard as ever the old
      horse can lay legs to the ground.

      “Get round them, man! get round them,” shouts the Major, watching
      Bully’s leg-tied endeavours, the old horse being a better hand at
      walking than galloping.

      At length they are stopped and chided and for shamed, and two
      more fields land our party in Hollington lane, which soon brings
      them into the Lingytine and Ewehurst-road, whose liberal width
      and ample siding bespeaks the neighbourhood of a roomier region.
      Solomon at a look from the Major now takes the grass siding with
      his hounds, while the gallant master just draws his young friend
      alongside of them on the road, casting an unconcerned eye upon
      the scene, in the hope that his guest will say something handsome
      at last. But no, Billy doesn’t. He is fully occupied with his
      boots and breeches, whose polish and virgin purity he still
      deplores. There’s a desperate daub down one side. The Major tries
      to engage his attention by coaxing and talking to the hounds.
      “Cleaver, good dog! Cleaver! Chaunter, good dog! Chaunter!”
      throwing them bits of biscuit, but all his efforts are vain.
      Billy plods on at the old post-boy pace, apparently thinking of
      nothing but himself.

      Meanwhile Solomon ambles cockily along on Napoleon, with a
      backward and forward move of his leg to the horse’s action, who
      ducks and shakes his head and plays good-naturedly with the
      hounds, as if quite delighted at the idea of what they are going
      to do. He shows to great advantage. He has not been out for a
      week, and the coddling and linseeding have given a healthy bloom
      to his bay coat, and he has taken a cordial ball with a little
      catechu, and ten grains of opium, to aid his exertions. Solomon,
      too, shows him off well. Though he hasn’t our friend Dicky
      Boggledike’s airified manner, like him he is little and light,
      sits neatly in his saddle, while his long coat-lap partly
      conceals the want of ribbing home of the handsome but washy
      horse. His boots and breeehes, drab cords and brown tops, are
      good, so are his spurs, also his saddle and bridle.

      There is a difference of twenty per cent, between the looks of a
      horse in a good, well-made London saddle, and in one of those
      great, spongy, pulby, puddingy things we see in the country.
      Again, what a contrast there is between a horse looking through a
      nice plain-fronted, plain-buckled, thin-reined, town-made bridle,
      and in one of those gaudy-fronted things, all over buckles, with
      reins thick enough for traces to the Lord Mayor’s coach.

      All this adornment, however, is wasted upon fine Billy, who
      hasn’t got beyond the mane and tail beauties of a horse. Action,
      strength, stamina, symmetry, are as yet sealed subjects to him.
      The Major was the man who could enlighten him, if Billy would
      only let him do it, on the two words for himself and one for
      Billy principle. Do it he would, too, for he saw it was of no use
      waiting for Billy to begin.



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      “Nice ‘oss that,” now observed the Major casually, nodding
      towards Nap.

      “Yarse,” replied Billy, looking him over.

      “That’s the o-o-oss I showed you in the stable.”

      “Is it?” observed Billy, who didn’t recognize him.

      “Ought to be at M-m-melton, that oss,” observed the Major.

      “Why isn’t he?” asked Billy, in the innocence of his heart.

      “Don’t know,” replied the Major carelessly, with a toss of his
      head; “don’t know. The fact is, I’m idle—no one to send with
      him—too old to go myself—haryers keep me at home—year too short
      to do all one has to do—see what a length he is—ord bless us he’d
      go over Ashby p-p-pastures like a comet.”

      Billy had now got his eyes well fixed upon the horse, which the
      Major seeing held his peace, for he was a capital seller, and had
      the great gift of knowing when he had said enough. He was not the
      man to try and bore a person into buying, or spoil his market by
      telling a youngster that the horse would go in harness, or by not
      asking enough. So with Solomon still to and froing with his
      little legs, the horse still lively and gay, the hounds still
      frisking and playing, the party proceeded through the
      fertility-diminishing country, until the small fields with live
      fences gradually gave way to larger, drabber enclosures with
      stone walls, and Broadstruther hill with its heath-burnt summit
      and quarry broken side at length announces their approach to the
      moors. The moors! Who does not feel his heart expand and his
      spirit glow as he comes upon the vast ocean-like space of
      moorland country? Leaving the strife, the cares, the contentions
      of a narrow, elbow-jostling world for the grand enjoyment of pure
      unrestricted freedom! The green streak of fertile soil, how sweet
      it looks, lit up by the fitful gleam of a cloud-obscured sun, the
      distant sky-touching cairn, how tempting to reach through the
      many intricacies of mountain ground—so easy to look at, so
      difficult to travel. The ink rises gaily in our pen at the
      thought, and pressing on, we cross the rough, picturesque, stone
      bridge over the translucent stream, so unlike the polished,
      chiseled structures of town art, where nothing is thought good
      that is not expensive; and now, shaking off the last enclosure,
      we reach the sandy road below the watcher’s hill-ensconced hut,
      and so wind round into the panorama of the hills within.

      “Ah! there we are!” exclaimed the Major, now pointing out the
      myrtle-green gentlemen with their white cords, moving their
      steeds to and fro upon the bright sward below the grey rocks of
      Cushetlaw hill.

      “There we are,” repeated he, eyeing them, trying to make out who
      they were, so as to season his greetings accordingly.

      There was farmer Rintoul on the white, and Godfrey Faulder, the
      cattle jobber, on the grey; and Caleb Bennison, the
      horse-breaker, in his twilled-fustian frock, ready to ride over a
      hound as usual; and old Duffield, the horse-leech, in his
      low-crowned hat, black tops, and one spur; and Dick Trail, the
      auctioneer, on his long-tailed nag; and Bonnet, the
      billiard-table keeper of Hinton, in his odious white hat, grey
      tweed, and collar-marked screw; but who the cluster of men are on
      the left the Major can’t for the life of him make out. He had
      hoped that Crickleton might have graced the meet with his
      presence, but there is no symptom of the yellow-coated groom, and
      Paul Straddler would most likely be too offended at not being
      invited to dine and have gone to Sir Moses’s hounds at the Cow
      and Calf on the Fixton and Primrose-bank road. Still there were a
      dozen or fourteen sportsmen, with two or three more coming over
      the hill, and distance hiding the deficiencies as well of steeds
      as of costume, the whole has a very lively and inspiriting
      effect.

      At the joyous, well-known “here they come!” of the lookers out, a
      move is perceptible among the field, who forthwith set off to
      meet the hounds, and as the advancing parties near, the Major has
      time to identify and appropriate their faces and their persons.
      First comes Captain Nabley, the chief constable of Featherbeds,
      who greets our master with the friendliness of a brother soldier,
      “one of us” in arms, and is forthwith introduced to our Billy.
      Next is fat farmer Nettlefold, who considers himself entitled to
      a shake of the hand in return for the Major’s frequent comings
      over his farm at Carol-hill green, which compliment being duly
      paid the great master then raises his hat in return for the
      salutes of Faulder, Rennison, and Trail, and again stops to shake
      hands with an aged well-whiskered dandy in mufty, one Mr.
      Wotherspoon, now farming or starving a little property he
      purchased with his butlerage savings under the great Duke of
      Thunderdownshire. Wotherspoon apes the manners of high life with
      the brandified face of low, talks parliament, and takes snuff
      from a gold box with a George-the-Fourthian air. He now offers
      the Major a pinch, who accepts it with graceful concession.

      The seedy-looking gentleman in black, on the too palpable three
      and sixpence a sider, is Mr. Catoheside, the County Court
      bailiff, with his pocket full of summonses, who thinks to throw a
      round with the Major into the day’s hire of his broken-knee’d
      chestnut, and the greasy-haired, shining-faced youth with him, on
      the longtailed white pony, is Ramshaw, the butcher’s boy, on the
      same sort of speculation. Then we have Mr. Meggison’s coachman
      availing himself of his master’s absence to give the family horse
      a turn with the hounds instead of going to coals, as he ought;
      and Mr. Dotherington’s young man halting on his way to the
      doctor’s with a note. He will tell his mistress the doctor was
      out and he had to wait ever so long till he came home. The four
      truants seem to herd together on the birds-of-a-feather
      principle. And now the reinforced party reach the meet below the
      grey ivy-tangled rocks, and Solomon pulls up at the accustomed
      spot to give his hounds a roll, and let the Major receive the
      encomiums of the encircling field. Then there is a repetition of
      the kennel scene: “Lovely! Lovely! Lovely!—beautiful bitch
      that—Chaunter. Chaunter! Chaunter!—there’s a handsome
      hound—Bustler, good dog!” Only each man has his particular
      favourite or hound that he has either bred or walked, or knows
      the name of, and so most of the pack come in for more or less
      praise. It is agreed on all hands that they never looked better,
      or the establishment more complete. “Couldn’t be better if it had
      cost five thousand a-year!”

      Most grateful were their commendations to the Major after the
      dry, monotonous “yarses” of Billy, who sits looking unconcernedly
      on, a regular sleeping partner in the old established firm of
      “Laudation and Co.” The Major inwardly attributes his
      indifference to conceited fox-hunting pride. “Looks down upon
      haryers.”

      The field, however, gradually got the steam of praise up to a
      very high pitch. Indeed, had not Mr. Wotherspoon, who was only an
      air-and-exercise gentleman, observed, after a pompous pinch of
      snuff, that he saw by the papers that the House of Lords, of
      which he considered himself a sort of supernumerary member, were
      going to do something or not to do something, caused a check in
      the cry, there is no saying but they might altogether have
      forgotten what they had come out about. As it was, the mention of
      Mr. Wotherspoon’s favourite branch of the legislature, from which
      they had all suffered more or less severely, operated like the
      hose of a fire-engine upon a crowd, sending one man one way,
      another another, until Wotherspoon had only Solomon and the
      hounds to finish off before. “Indeed, sir,” was all the
      encouragement he got from Solomon. But let us get away from the
      insufferable Brummagem brandy-faced old bore by supposing Solomon
      transferred from Napoleon the Great to Bulldog, Billy mounted on
      the washy horse instead of the weaving mare, the Major’s girths
      drawn, clay pipes deposited in the breast pockets of the owners,
      and thongs unloosened to commence the all-important operation of
      thistle-whipping.

      At a nod from the Major, Solomon gives a wave of his hand to the
      hounds, and putting his horse on, the tide of sportsmen sweep
      after, and Cushetlaw rocks are again left in their pristine
      composure.

      Despite Billy’s indifference, the Major is still anxious to show
      to advantage, not knowing who Billy may relate his day’s sport
      to, and has therefore arranged with Solomon not to cast off until
      they get upon the more favourable ground of Sunnylaws moor. This
      gives Billy time to settle in his new saddle, and scrape
      acquaintance with Napoleon, whom he finds a very complacent,
      easy-going horse. He has a light, playful mouth, and Billy
      doesn’t feel afraid of him. Indeed, if it wasn’t for the idea of
      the jumps, he would rather enjoy it. His mind, however, might
      have been easy on that score, for they are going into the hills
      instead of away from them, and the Major has scuttled over the
      ground so often that he knows every bog, and every crossing, and
      every vantage-taking line; where to view the hare, and where to
      catch up his hounds, to a nicety.

      At length they reached a pretty, amphitheatreish piece of
      country, encircled by grassy hills, folding gracefully into each
      other, with the bolder outline of the Arkenhill moors for the
      background. A silvery stream meanders carelessly about the
      lowland, occasionally lost to view by sand wreaths and gravel
      beds thrown up by impetuous torrents rushing down from the higher
      grounds.

      The field is here reinforced by Tom Springer, the generally
      out-of-place watcher, and his friend Joe Pitfall, the beer-shop
      keeper of Wetten hill, with their tenpenny wide-awakes,
      well-worn, baggy-pocketed shooting-coats, and strong oak staffs,
      suitable either for leaping or poking poles.

      The Major returns their salute with a lowering brow, for he
      strongly suspects they are there on their own account, and not
      for the sake of enjoying a day with his unrivalled hounds.
      However, as neither of them have leave over the ground, they can
      neither of them find fault, and must just put up with each other.

      So the Major, addressing Springer, says “I’ll give you a shillin’
      if you’ll find me a hare,” as he turns to the Bumbler and bids
      him uncouple Billy’s old friends Ruffler and Bustler. This done,
      the hounds quickly spread to try and hit off the morning scent,
      while the myrtle-greeners and others distribute themselves,
      cracking, Hopping, and hissing, here, there, and everywhere.
      Springer and Pitfall go poke, poke, tap, tap, peep, peep, at
      every likely bush and tuft, but both the Major and they are too
      often over the ground to allow of hares being very plentiful.
      When they do find them they are generally well in wind from work.
      Meanwhile, Mr. Wotherspoon, finding that Billy Pringle is a
      friend of Lord Ladythorne’s, makes up to him, and speaks of his
      lordship in the kind, encouraging way, so becoming a great man
      speaking of a lesser one. “Oh, he knew his lordship well,
      excellent man he was, knew Mrs. Moffatt, too—‘andsome woman she
      was. Not so ‘andsome, p’raps, as Mrs. Spangles, the actress, but
      still a v-a-a-ry ‘andsome woman. Ah, he knew Mrs. Spangles, poor
      thing, long before she came to Tantivy—when she was on the stage,
      in fact.” And here the old buck, putting his massive,
      gold-mounted riding-whip under his arm, heaved a deep sigh, as
      though the mention of her name recalled painful recollections,
      and producing his gold snuff-box, after offering it to Billy, he
      consoled himself with a long-drawn respiration from its contents.
      He then flourished his scarlet, attar-of-rose-scented bandana,
      and seemed lost in contemplation of the stripes down his trowsers
      and his little lacquered-toe’d boots. Billy rode silently on with
      him, making no doubt he was a very great man—just the sort of man
      his Mamma would wish him to get acquainted with.



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      CHAPTER XXIV. THE WILD BEAST ITSELF.


      JUST as the old buck was resuming the thread of his fashionable
      high-life narrative, preparatory to sounding Billy about the
      Major and his family, the same sort of electric thrill shot
      through the field that characterised the terrible “g-n-r
      along—don’t you see the hounds are running?” de Glancey day with
      the Earl. Billy felt all over he-didn’t-know-how-ish—very
      wish-he-was-at-home-ish. The horse, too, began to caper.

      The thrill is caused by a shilling’s-worth of wide-awake on a
      stick held high against the sky-line of the gently-swelling hill
      on the left, denoting that the wild beast is found, causing the
      Major to hold up his hat as a signal of reply, and all the rest
      of the field to desist from their flopping and thistle-whipping,
      and rein in their screws for the coming conflict.

      “Now s-s-sir!” exclaims the stuttering Major, cantering up to our
      Billy all flurry and enthusiasm. “Now, s-s-sir! we ha-ha-have
      her, and if you’ll fo-fo-follow me, I’ll show you her,” thinking
      he was offering Billy the greatest treat imaginable. So saying
      the Major drops his hands on White Surrey’s neck, rises in his
      stirrups, and scuttles away, bounding over the gorse bushes and
      broom that intervened between him and the still stick-hoisted
      tenpenny.

      ****


      “_Where is she?_” demands the Major. “_Where is she!_’ repeats
      he, coming up.

      “A Major, he mun gi’ us halfe-croon ony ho’ this time,” exclaims
      our friend Tom Springer, whose head gear it is that has been
      hoisted.

      “Deed mun ye!” asserts Pitfall, who has now joined his companion.

      “_No, no!_” retorts the Major angrily, “I said a shillin’—a
      shillin’s my price, and you know it.”

      “Well, but consider what a time we’ve been a lookin’ for her,
      Major,” replied Springer, mopping his brow.

      “Well, but consider that you are about to partake of the
      enjoyments as well as myself, and that I find the whole of this
      expensive establishment,” retorted the Major, looking back for
      his hounds. “Not a farthin’ subscription.”

      “Say two shillin’s, then,” replied Springer coaxingly.

      “No, no,” replied the Major, “a shillin’s plenty.”

      “Make it eighteen-pence then,” said Pitfall, “and oop she goes
      for the money.”

      “Well, come,” snapped the Major hurriedly, as Billy now came
      elbowing up. “Where is she? Where is she?” demanded he.

      “A, she’s not here—she’s not here, but I see her in her form
      thonder,” replied Springer, nodding towards the adjoining
      bush-dotted hill.

      “Go to her, then,” said the Major, jingling the eighteen-pence in
      his hand, to be ready to give him on view of the hare.

      The man then led the way through rushes, brambles, and briars,
      keeping a steady eye on the spot where she sate. At length he
      stopped. “There she’s, see!” said he, _sotto voce_, pointing to
      the green hill-side.

      “I have her!” whispered the Major, his keen eyes sparkling with
      delight. “Come here,” said he to Billy, “and I’ll show her to
      you. There,” said he, “there you see that patch of gorse with the
      burnt stick stumps, at the low end—well, carry your eye down the
      slope of the land, past the old willow-tree, and you have her as
      plain as a pike-staff.”

      Billy shook his head. He saw nothing but a tuft or two of rough
      grass.

      “O yes, you see her large eyes watching us,” continued the Major,
      “thinking she sees us without our seeing her.

      “No,” our friend didn’t.

      “Very odd,” laughed the Major, “very odd,” with the sort of
      vexation a man feels when another can’t be made to see the object
      he does.

      “Will you give them a view now?” asked Springer, “or put her away
      quietly?”

      “Oh, put her away quietly,” replied the Major, “put her away
      quietly; and let them get their noses well down to the scent;”
      adding—“I’ve got some strange hounds out, and I want to see how
      they work.”

      The man then advanced a few paces, and touching one of the
      apparently lifeless tufts with his pole, out sprang puss and went
      stotting and dotting away with one ear back and the other
      forward, in a state of indignant perturbation. “Buck!” exclaims
      Pitfall, watching her as she goes.

      “Doubt it,” replied the Major, scrutinising her attentively.

      “Nay look at its head and shoulders; did you iver see sic red
      shoulders as those on a doe?” asked Springer.

      “Well,” said the Major, “there’s your money,” handing Springer
      the eighteen-pence, “and I hope she’ll be worth it; but mind, for
      the futur’ a shillin’s my price.”

      After scudding up the hill, puss stopped to listen and ascertain
      the quality of her pursuers. She had suffered persecution from
      many hands, shooters, coursers, snarers, and once before from the
      Major and his harriers. That, however, was on a bad scenting day,
      and she had not had much difficulty in beating them.

      Meanwhile Solomon has been creeping quietly on with his hounds,
      encouraging such to hunt as seemed inclined that way, though the
      majority were pretty well aware of the grand discovery and lean
      towards the horsemen in advance. Puss however had slipped away
      unseen by the hounds, and Twister darts at the empty form
      thinking to save all trouble by a chop. Bracelet then strikes a
      scent in advance. Ruffler and Chaunter confirm it, and after one
      or two hesitating rashes and flourishes, increasing in intensity
      each time, a scent is fairly established, and away they drive
      full cry amid exclamations of “Beautiful! beautiful! never saw
      anything puttier!” from the Major and the field—the music of the
      hounds being increased and prolonged by the echoes of the valleys
      and adjacent hills.

      The field then fall into line, Silent Solomon first, the Major of
      course next. Fine Billy third, with Wotherspoon and Nettlefold
      rather contending for his company. Nabley, Duffield, Bonnet,
      Reunison. Fanlder, Catcheside, truants, all mixed up together in
      heterogeneous confusion, jostling for precedence as men do when
      there are no leaps. So they round Hawthorn hill, and pour up the
      pretty valley beyond, each man riding a good deal harder than his
      horse, the hounds going best pace, which however is not very
      great.

      “Give me,—” inwardly prays the Major, cantering consequentially
      along with his thong-gathered whip held up like a sword, “give me
      five and twenty minutes, the first fifteen a burst, then a fault
      well hit off’, and the remaining ten without a turn,” thinking to
      astonish the supercilious foxhunter. Then he takes a sly look to
      see how Napoleon is faring, it being by no means his intention to
      let Fine Billy get to the bottom of him.

      On, on, the hounds press, for now is the time to enjoy the scent
      with a hare, and they have run long enough together to have
      confidence in their leaders.

      Now Lovely has the scent, now Lilter, now Ruffler flings in
      advance, and again is superseded by Twister.

      They brush through the heathery open with an increasing cry, and
      fling at the cross-road between Birwell Mill and Capstone with
      something like the energy of foxhounds; Twister catches it up
      beyond the sandy track, and hurrying over it, some twenty yards
      further on is superseded by Lovely, who hits it off to the left.

      Away she goes with the lead.

      “Beautiful! beautiful!” exclaims the Major, hoping the fox-hunter
      sees it.

      “Beautiful! beautiful!” echoes Nettlefold, as the clustering pack
      drop their sterns to the scent and push forward with renewed
      velocity.

      The Major again looks for our friend Billy, who is riding in a
      very careless slack-rein sort of style, not at all adapted for
      making the most of his horse. However it is no time for
      remonstrance, and the music of the hounds helps to make things
      pleasant. On, on they speed; up one hill, down another, round a
      third, and so on.

      One great advantage of hunting in a strange country undoubtedly
      is, that all runs are straight, with harriers as well as
      foxhounds, with some men, who ride over the same ground again and
      again without knowing that it is the same, and Billy was one of
      this sort. Though they rounded Hawthorn hill again, it never
      occurred to him that it was the second time of asking; indeed he
      just cantered carelessly on like a man on a watering-place hack,
      thinking when his hour will be out, regardless of the beautiful
      hits made by Lovely and Lilter or any of them, and which almost
      threw the Major and their respective admirers into ecstacies.
      Great was the praise bestowed upon their performances, it being
      the interest of every man to magnify the run and astonish the
      stranger. Had they but known as much of the Richest Commoner as
      the reader does, they would not have given themselves the
      trouble.

      Away they pour over hill and dale, over soft ground and sound,
      through reedy rushes and sedgy flats, and over the rolling stones
      of the fallen rocks.

      Then they score away full cry on getting upon more propitious
      ground. What a cry they make! and echo seemingly takes pleasure
      to repeat the sound!

      Napoleon the Great presently begins to play the castanets with
      his feet, an ominous sound to our Major, who looks back for the
      Bumbler, and inwardly wishes for a check to favour his design of
      dismounting our hero.

      Half a mile or so further on, and the chance occurs. They get
      upon a piece of bare heather burnt ground, whose peaty smell
      baffles the scent, and brings the hounds first to a check, then
      to a stand-still.

      Solomon’s hand in the air beckons a halt, to which the field
      gladly respond, for many of the steeds are eating new oats, and
      do not get any great quantity of those, while some are on swedes,
      and others only have hay. Altogether their condition is not to be
      spoken of.

      The Major now all hurry scurry, just like a case of “second
      horses! second horses! where’s my fellow with my second horse?”
      at a check in Leicestershire, beckons the Bumbler up to Billy;
      and despite of our friend’s remonstrance, who has got on such
      terms with Napoleon as to allow of his taking the liberty of
      spurring him, and would rather remain where he is, insists upon
      putting him upon the mare again, observing, that he couldn’t
      think of taking the only spare ‘orse from a gen’lman who had done
      him the distinguished honour of leaving the Earl’s establishment
      for his ‘umble pack; and so, in the excitement of the moment,
      Billy is hustled off one horse and hurried on to another, as if a
      moment’s hesitation would be fatal to the fray. The Major then,
      addressing the Bumbler in an undertone, says, “Now walk that
      ‘orse quietly home, and get him some linseed tea, and have him
      done up by the time we get in.” He then spurs gallantly up to the
      front, as though he expected the hounds to be off again at score.
      There was no need of such energy, for puss has set them a puzzle
      that will take them some time to unravel; but it saved an
      argument with Billy, and perhaps the credit of the bay. He now
      goes drooping and slouching away, very unlike the cock-horse he
      came out.

      Meanwhile, the hounds have shot out and contracted, and shot out
      and contracted—and tried and tested, and tried and tested—every
      tuft and every inch of burnt ground, while Solomon sits
      motionless between them and the head mopping chattering field.

      “Must be on,” observes Caleb Rennison, the horse-breaker, whose
      three-year-old began fidgetting and neighing.

      “Back, I say,” speculated Bonnet, whose domicile lay to the rear.

      “Very odd,” observed Captain Nabley, “they ran her well to here.”

      “Hares are queer things,” said old Duffield, wishing he had her
      by the ears for the pot.

      “Far more hunting with a hare nor a fox,” observed Mr. Rintoul,
      who always praised his department of the chase.

      “Must have squatted,” observes old “Wotherspoon, taking a pinch
      of snuff, and placing his double gold eye-glasses on his nose to
      reconnoitre the scene.

      “Lies very close, if she has,” rejoins Godfrey Faulder, flopping
      at a furze-bush as he spoke.

      “Lost her, I fear,” ejaculated Mr. Trail, who meant to beg her
      for a christening dinner if they killed.

      The fact is, puss having, as we said before, had a game at romps
      with her pursuers on a bad scenting day, when she regulated her
      speed by their pace, has been inconveniently pressed on the
      present occasion, and feeling her strength fail, has had recourse
      to some of the many arts for which hares are famous. After
      crossing the burnt ground she made for a greasy sheep-track, up
      which she ran some fifty yards, and then deliberately retracing
      her steps, threw herself with a mighty spring into a rushy furze
      patch at the bottom of the hill. She now lies heaving and
      panting, and watching the success of her stratagem from her
      ambush, with the terror-striking pack full before her.



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      And now having accommodated Mr. Pringle with a second horse,
      perhaps the reader will allow us to take a fresh pen and finish
      the run in another Chapter.



      CHAPTER XXV. A CRUEL FINISH.


      EVERY hound having at length sniffed and snuffed, and sniffed and
      snuffed, to satiety, Solomon now essays to assist them by casting
      round the flat of smoke-infected ground. He makes the ‘head good
      first, which manouvre hitting off the scent, he is hailed and
      applauded as a conqueror. Never was such a huntsman as Solomon!
      First harrier huntsman in England! Worth any money is a huntsman!
      The again clamorous pack bustle up the sheep-path, at such a pace
      as sends the leaders hurrying far beyond the scent. Then the rear
      rush to the front, and a general spread of bewildered, benighted,
      confusion ensues.

      “Where _has_ she got to?” is the question.

      “Doubled!” mutters the disappointed Major, reining in his steed.

      “Squatted!” exclaims Mr. Rintoul, who always sported an opinion.

      “Hold hard!” cries Mr. Trail, though they were all at a
      standstill; but then he wished to let them know he was there.

      The leading hounds retrace their steps, and again essay to carry
      the scent forward. The second effort is attended with the same
      result as the first. They cannot get it beyond the double.

      “Cunning animal!” mutters the Major, eyeing their endeavours.

      “Far more hunt with a hare nor a fox,” now observes Mr. Bonnet,
      raising his white hat to cool his bald head.

      “Far!” replies Mr. Faulder, thinking he must be off.

      “If it weren’t for the red coats there wouldn’t be so many
      fox-hunters,” chuckles old Duffield, who dearly loves roast hare.

      Solomon is puzzled; but as he doesn’t profess to be wiser than
      the hounds, he just lets them try to make it out for themselves.
      If they can’t wind her, he can’t: so the old sage sits like a
      statue.

      At length the majority give her up.

      And now Springer and Pitfall, and two or three other pedestrians
      who have been attracted from their work by the music of the
      hounds, and have been enjoying the panorama of the chase with
      their pipes from the summit of an inside hill, descend to see if
      they can either prick her or pole her.

      Down go their heads as if they were looking for a pin.—The
      hounds, however, have obliterated all traces of her, and they
      soon have recourse to their staves.

      _Bang, bang, bang_, they beat the gorse and broom and juniper
      bushes with vigorous sincerity. Crack, flop, crack, go the field
      in aid of their endeavours. Solomon leans with his hounds to the
      left, which is lucky for puss, for though she withstood the
      downward blow of Springer’s pole on her bush, a well-directed
      side thrust sends her flying out in a state of the greatest
      excitement. What an outburst of joy the sight of her occasioned!
      Hounds, horses, riders, all seemed to participate in the common
      enthusiasm! How they whooped, and halloo’d and shouted! enough to
      frighten the poor thing out of her wits. Billy and the field have
      a grand view of her, for she darts first to the right, then to
      the left, then off the right and again to the left, ere she tucks
      her long legs under her and strides up Kleeope hill at a pace
      that looks quite unapproachable. Faulder alone remains where he
      is, muttering “fresh har” as she goes.

      The Major and all the rest of the field hug their horses and tear
      along in a state of joyous excitement, for they see her life is
      theirs. They keep the low ground and jump with the hounds at the
      bridlegate between Greenlaw sheep-walks and Hindhope cairn just
      as Lovely hits the scent off over the boundary wall, and the rest
      of the pack endorse her note. They are now on fresh ground, which
      greatly aids the efforts of the hounds, who push on with a head
      that the Major thinks ought to procure them a compliment from
      Billy. Our friend, however, keeps all his compliments for the
      ladies, not being aware that there is anything remarkable in the
      performance, which he now begins to wish at an end. He has ridden
      as long as he likes, quite as much as Mr. Spavin, or any of the
      London livery stable-keepers, would let him have for
      half-a-guinea. Indeed he wishes he mayn’t have got more than is
      good for him.

      The Major meanwhile, all energy and enthusiasm, rides gallantly
      forward, for though he is no great hand among the enclosures, he
      makes a good fight in the hills, especially when, as now, he
      knows every yard of the country. Many’s the towl he’s had over
      it, though to look at his excited face one would think this was
      his first hunt. He’ll now “bet half-a-crown they kill her!” He’ll
      “bet a guinea they kill her!” He’ll “bet a fi-pun note they kill
      her!” He’ll “bet half the national debt they kill her!” as
      Dainty, and Lovely, and Bustler, after dwelling and hesitating
      over some rushy ground, at length proclaim the scent beyond.

      Away they all sweep like the careering wind. On follow the field
      in glorious excitement. A flock of black-faced sheep next foil
      the ground—sheep as wild, if not wilder, than the animal the
      hounds are pursuing. We often think, when we see these
      strong-scented animals scouring the country, that a good beast of
      chase has been overlooked for the stag. Why shouldn’t an old wiry
      black-faced tup, with his wild sparkling eyes and spiral horns,
      afford as good a run as a home-fed deer? Start the tup in his own
      rough region, and we will be bound to say he will give the hounds
      and their followers a scramble. The Major now denounces the
      flying flock—“Oh, those nasty muttons!” exclaims he, “bags of
      bone rather, for they won’t be meat these five years. Wonder how
      any sane people can cultivate such animals.”

      The hounds hunt well through the difficulty, or the Major would
      have been more savage still. On they go, yapping and towling, and
      howling as before, the Major’s confidence in a kill increasing at
      every stride.

      The terror-striking shouts that greeted poor puss’s exit from the
      bush, have had the effect as well of driving her out of her
      country as of pressing her beyond her strength; and she has no
      sooner succeeded in placing what she hopes is a comfortable
      distance between herself and her pursuers, than she again has
      recourse to those tricks with which nature has so plentifully
      endowed her. Sinking the hill she makes for the little enclosed
      allotments below, and electing a bare fallow—bare, except in the
      matter of whicken grass—she steals quietly in, and commences her
      performances on the least verdant part of it.

      First she described a small circle, then she sprung into the
      middle of it and squatted. Next she jumped up and bounded out in
      a different direction to the one by which she had entered. She
      then ran about twenty yards up a furrow, retracing her steps
      backwards, and giving a roll near where she started from. Then
      she took three bounding springs to the left, which landed her on
      the hard headland, and creeping along the side of the wall she
      finally popped through the water-hole, and squeezed into an
      incredibly small space between the kerbstone and the gate-post.
      There she lay with her head to the air, panting and heaving, and
      listening for her dread pursuers coming. O what agony was hers!

      Presently the gallant band came howling and towling over the
      hill, in all the gay delirium of a hunt without leaps—the Major
      with difficulty restraining their ardour as he pointed out the
      brilliance of the performance to Billy—“Most splendid running!
      most capital hunting! most superb pack!” with a sly “_pish_” and
      “_shaw_” at foxhounds in general, and Sir Mosey’s in particular.
      The Major hadn’t got over the Bo-peep business, and never would.

      The pack now reached the scene of Puss’s frolics, and the music
      very soon descended from a towering tenour to an insignificant
      whimper, which at length died out altogether. Soloman and Bulldog
      were again fixtures, Solomon as usual with his hand up beckoning
      silence. He knew how weak the scent must be, and how important it
      was to keep quiet at such a critical period; and let the hounds
      hit her off if they could.

      Puss had certainly given them a Gordian knot to unravel, and not
      all the hallooing and encouragement in the world could drive them
      much beyond the magic circle she had described. Whenever the hunt
      seemed likely to be re-established, it invariably resulted in a
      return to the place from whence they started. They couldn’t get
      forward with it at all, and poked about, and tested the same
      ground over and over again.

      It was a regular period or full stop.

      “Very rum,” observed Caleb Rennison, looking first at his
      three-year-old, then at his watch, thinking that it was about
      pudding-time.

      “She’s surely a witch,” said Mr. Wotherspoon, taking a prolonged
      pinch of snuff.

      “‘We’ll roast her for one at all events,” laughed Mr. Trail, the
      auctioneer, still hoping to get her.

      “First catch your hare, says Mrs. Somebody,” responded Captain
      Nabley, eyeing the sorely puzzled pack.

      “O ketch her! we’re sure to ketch her,” observed Mr. Nettlefold,
      chucking up his chin and dismounting.

      “Not so clear about that,” muttered Mr. Rintoul, as Lovely, and
      Bustler, and Lilter, again returned to repeat the search.

      “If those hounds can’t own her, there are no hounds in England
      can,” asserted the Major, anxious to save the credit of his pack
      before the—he feared—too critical stranger.

      At this depressing moment, again come the infantry, and commence
      the same system of peering and poking that marked their descent
      on the former occasion.

      And now poor puss being again a little recruited, steals out of
      her hiding-place, and crosses quietly along the outside of the
      wall to where a flock of those best friends to a hunted hare,
      some newly-smeared, white-faced sheep, were quietly nibbling at
      the halfgrass, half-heather, of the little moor-edge farm of
      Mossheugh-law, whose stone-roofed buildings, washed by a clear
      mountain stream, and sheltered by a clump of venerable Scotch
      firs, stand on a bright green patch, a sort of oasis in the
      desert. The sheep hardly deign to notice the hare, far different
      to the consternation bold Reynard carries into their camp, when
      they go circling round like a squadron of dragoons, drawing
      boldly up to charge when the danger’s past. So poor, weary, foot
      sore, fur-matted puss, goes hobbling and limping up to the
      farm-buildings as if to seek protection from man against his
      brother man.

      Now it so happened that Mrs. Kidwell, the half-farmer,
      half-shepherd’s pretty wife, was in the fold-yard, washing her
      churn, along with her little chubby-faced Jessey, who was equally
      busy with her Mamma munching away at a very long slice of
      plentifully-buttered and sugar’d bread; and Mamma chancing to
      look up from the churn to see how her darling progressed, saw
      puss halting at the threshold, as if waiting to be asked in.



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      “It’s that mad old Major and his dogs!” exclaimed Mrs. Kidwell,
      catching up the child lest its red petticoat might scare away the
      visitor, and popping into the dairy, she saw the hare, after a
      little demur, hobble into the cow-house. Having seen her well in,
      Mrs. Kidwell emerged from her hiding-place, and locking the door,
      she put the key in her pocket, and resumed her occupation with
      her churn. Presently the familiar melody—the yow, yow, yap, yap,
      yow, yow of the hounds broke upon her ear, increasing in strength
      as she listened, making her feel glad she was at hand to befriend
      the poor hare.

      The hunt was indeed revived. The hounds, one and all, having
      declared their inability to make any thing more of it.

      Solomon had set off on one of his cruises, which resulted in the
      yeomen prickers and he meeting at the gate, where the hare had
      squatted, when Lovely gave tongue, just as Springer, with his
      eyes well down, exclaimed, “_here she’s!_” Bustler, and Bracelet,
      and Twister, and Chaunter, confirmed Lovely’s opinion, and away
      they went with the feeble scent peculiar to the sinking animal.
      Their difficulties are further increased by the sheep, it
      requiring Solomon’s oft-raised hand to prevent the hounds being
      hurried over the line—as it is, the hunt was conducted on the
      silent system for some little distance. The pace rather improved
      after they got clear of the smear and foil of the muttons, and
      the Major pulled up his gills, felt his tie, and cocked his hat
      jauntily, as the hounds pointed for the pretty farm-house, the
      Major thinking to show off to advantage before Mrs. Kidwell. They
      presently carried the scent up to the still open gates of the
      fold-yard. Lovely now proclaims where puss has paused. Things
      look very critical.

      “Good mornin’, Mrs. Kidwell,” exclaimed the gallant Major,
      addressing her; “pray how long have you been at the churn?”

      “O, this twenty minutes or more, Major,” replied Mrs. Kidwell,
      gaily.

      “You haven’t got the hare in it, have you?” asked he.

      “Not that I know of; but you can look if you like,” replied Mrs.
      Kidwell, colouring slightly.

      “Why, no; we’ll take your word for it,” rejoined the Major
      gallantly. “Must be on, Solomon; must be on,” said he—nodding his
      huntsman to proceed.

      Solomon is doubtful, but “master being master,” Solomon holds his
      hounds on past the stable, round the lambing-sheds and stackyard,
      to the front of the little three windows and a doored farm-house,
      without eliciting a whimper, no, not even from a babbler.

      Just at this moment a passing cloud discharged a gentle shower
      over the scene, and when Solomon returned to pursue his inquiries
      in the fold-yard, the last vestige of scent had been effectually
      obliterated.

      Mrs. Kidwell now stood watching the inquisitive proceedings if
      the party, searching now the hen-house, now the pigstye, now the
      ash-hole; and when Solomon tried the cow-house door, she observed
      carelessly: “Ah, that’s locked;” and he passed on to examine the
      straw-shed adjoining. All places were overhauled and scrutinized.
      At length, even Captain Nabley’s detective genius failed in
      suggesting where puss could be.

      “Where did you see her last?” asked Mrs. Kidwell, with
      well-feigned ignorance.

      “Why, we’ve not seen her for some time; but the hounds hunted her
      up to your very gate,” replied the Major.

      “Deary me, how strange! and you’ve made nothin’ of her since?”
      observed she.

      “Nothin’,” assented the Major, reluctantly.

      “Very odd,” observed Mr. Catcheside, who was anxious for a kill.

      “Never saw nothin’ like it,” asserted Mr. Rintoul, looking again
      into the pigstye.

      “She must have doubled back,” suggested Mr. Nettlefold.

      “Should have met her if she had,” observed old Duffield.

      “She must be somewhere hereabouts,” observes Mr. Trail,
      dismounting, and stamping about on foot among the half-trodden
      straw of the fold-yard.

      No puss there.

      “Hard upon the hounds,” observes Mr. Wotherspoon, replenishing
      his nose with a good charge of snuff.

      “_Cruel_, indeed,” assented the Major, who never gave them more
      than entrails.

      “Never saw a hare better hunted!” exclaimed Captain Nabley,
      lighting a cigar.

      “Nor I,” assented fat Mr. Nettleford, mopping his brow.

      “How long was it?” asked Mr. Rintoul.

      “An hour and five minutes,” replied the Major, looking at his
      watch (five-and-forty minutes in reality).

      “V-a-a-ry good running,” elaborates old dandy Wortherspoon. “I
      see by the _Post_, that——”

      “Well, I s’pose we must give her up,” interrupted the Major, who
      didn’t want to have the contents of his own second-hand copy
      forestalled.

      “Pity to leave her,” observes Mr. Trail, returning to his horse.

      “What can you do?” asked the Major, adding, “it’s no use sitting
      here.”

      “None,” assents Captain Nabley, blowing a cloud.

      At a nod from the Major, Solomon now collects his hounds, and
      passing through the scattered group, observes with a sort of
      Wellingtonian touch of his cap, in reply to their condolence,
      “Yes, sir, but it takes a _slee_ chap, sir, to kill a moor-edge
      hare, sir!”

      So the poor Major was foiled of his fur, and when the cows came
      lowing down from the fell to be milked, kind Mrs. Kidwell opened
      the door and out popped puss, as fresh and lively as ever; making
      for her old haunts, where she was again to be found at the end of
      a week.



      CHAPTER XXVI. THE PRINGLE CORRESPONDENCE.


      THE reader will perhaps wonder what our fair friend Mrs. Pringle
      is about, and how there happens to be no tidings from Curtain
      Crescent. Tidings there were, only the Tantivy Castle servants
      were so oppressed with work that they could never find time to
      redirect her effusions. At length Mr. Beverage, the butler,
      seeing the accumulation of letters in Mr. Packwood, the
      house-steward’s room, suggested that they might perhaps be
      wanted, whereupon Mr. Packwood huddled them into a fresh
      envelope, and sent them to the post along with the general
      consignment from the Castle. Very pressing and urgent the letters
      were, increasing in anxiety with each one, as no answer had been
      received to its predecessor. Were it not that Mrs. Pringle knew
      the Earl would have written, she would have feared her Billy had
      sustained some hunting calamity. The first letter merely related
      how Mrs. Pringle had gone to uncle Jerry’s according to
      appointment to have a field-day among the papers, and how Jerry
      had gone to attend an anti-Sunday-band meeting, leaving
      seed-cake, and sponge-cake, and wine, with a very affectionate
      three-cornered note, saying how deeply he deplored the necessity,
      but how he hoped to remedy the delay by another and an early
      appointment. This letter enclosed a very handsome large
      coat-of-arms seal, made entirely out of Mrs. Pringle’s own
      head—containing what the heralds call assumptive arms—divided
      into as many compartments as a backgammon board, which she
      advised Billy to use judiciously, hinting that Major H. (meaning
      our friend Major Y.) would be a fitter person to try it upon than
      Lord L. The next letter, among many other things of minor
      importance, reminded Billy that he had not told his Mamma what
      Mrs. Moffatt had on, or whether they had any new dishes for
      dinner, and urging him to write her full particulars, but to be
      careful not to leave either his or her letters lying about, and
      hoping that he emptied his pockets every night instead of leaving
      that for Rougier to do, and giving him much other good and
      wholesome advice. The third letter was merely to remind him that
      she had not heard from him in answer to either of her other two,
      and begging him just to drop her a single line by return of post,
      saying he was well, and so on. The next was larger, enclosing him
      a double-crest seal, containing a lion on a cap of dignity, and
      an eagle, for sealing notes in aid of the great seal, and saying
      that she had had a letter from uncle Jerry, upbraiding her for
      not keeping her appointment with him, whereas she had never made
      any, he having promised to make one with her, and again urging
      Billy to write to her, if only a single line, and when he had
      time to send her a full account of what Mrs. Moffatt had on every
      day, and whether they had any new dishes for dinner, and all the
      news, sporting and otherwise, urging him as before to take care
      of Dowb (meaning himself), and hoping he was improving in his
      hunting, able to sit at the jumps, and enjoying himself
      generally..

      The fifth, which caused the rest to come, was a mere repetition
      of her anxieties and requests for a line, and immediately
      produced the following letter:—

      MR. WILLIAM TO HIS MAMMA.


      “Yammerton Grange.

      “My dearest Mamma,

      “Your letters have all reached me at once, for though both
      Rougier and I especially charged the butler and another fine
      fellow, and gave them heads to put on, to send all that came
      immediately, they seem to have waited for an accumulation so as
      to make one sending do. It is very idle of them.

      “The seals are beautiful, and I am very much obliged to you for
      them. I will seal this letter with the large one by way of a
      beginning. It seems to be uncommonly well quartered—quite noble.

      “I will now tell you all my movements.

      “I have been here at Major Yammerton’s,—not Hammerton’s as you
      called him—for some days enjoying myself amazingly, for the Major
      has a nice pack of harriers that go along leisurely, instead of
      tearing away at the unconscionable pace the Earl’s do. Still, a
      canter in the Park at high tide in my opinion is a much better
      thing with plenty of ladies looking on. Talking of cantering
      reminds me I’ve bought a horse of the Major’s,—bought him all
      except paying for him, so you had better send me the money, one
      hundred guineas; for though the Major says I may pay for him when
      I like, and seems quite easy about it, they say horses are always
      ready money, so I suppose I must conform to the rule. It is a
      beautiful bay with four black legs, and a splendid mane and
      tail—very blood-like and racing; indeed the Major says if I was
      to put him into some of the spring handicaps I should be sure to
      win a hatful of money with him, or perhaps a gold cup or two. The
      Major is a great sportsman and has kept hounds for a great number
      of years, and altogether he is very agreeable, and I feel more at
      home here than I did at the Castle, where, though everything was
      very fine, still there was no fun and only Mrs. Moffatt to talk
      to, at least in the lady way, for though she always professed to
      be expecting lady callers, none ever came that I saw or heard of.

      “I really forget all about the dinners there, except that they
      were very good and lasted a long time. We had a new dish here the
      other night, which if you want a novelty, you can introduce,
      namely, to flavour the plates with castor oil; you will find it a
      very serviceable one for saving your meat, as nobody can eat it.
      Mrs. Moffatt was splendidly dressed every day, sometimes in blue,
      sometimes in pink, sometimes in green, sometimes in silk,
      sometimes in satin, sometimes in velvet with a profusion of very
      lovely lace and magnificent jewelry. Rougier says, ‘she makes de
      hay vile the son does shine.’

      “I don’t know how long I shall stay here, certainly over Friday,
      and most likely until Monday, after which I suppose I shall go
      back to the Castle. The Major says I must have another day with
      his hounds, and I don’t care if I do, provided he keeps in the
      hills and away from the jumps, as I can manage the galloping well
      enough. It’s the jerks that send me out of my saddle. A hare is
      quite a different animal to pursue to a fox, and seems to have
      some sort of consideration for its followers. She stops short
      every now and then and jumps up in view, instead of tearing away
      like an express train on a railway.

      “The girls here are very pretty—Miss Yammerton extremely
      so,—fair, with beautiful blue eyes, and such a figure; but
      Rougier says they are desperately bad-tempered, except the
      youngest one, who is dark and like her Mamma; but I shouldn’t say
      Monsieur is a particular sweet-tempered gentleman himself. He is
      always grumbling and grouting about what he calls his ‘grob’ and
      declares the Major keeps his house on sturdied mutton and stale
      beer. But he complained at the Castle that there was nothing but
      port and sherry, and composite candles to go to bed with, which
      he declared was an insult to his station, which entitles him to
      wax.

      “You can’t, think how funny and small this place looked after the
      Castle. It seemed just as if I had got into a series of closets
      instead of rooms. However, I soon got used to it, and like it
      amazingly. But here comes Monsieur with my dressing things, so I
      must out with the great seal and bid you good bye for the
      present, for the Major is a six o’clock man, and doesn’t like to
      be kept waiting for his dinner, so now, my dearest Mamma, believe
      me to remain ever your most truly affectionate son,

      “Wm. Pringle,”

      To which we need scarcely say the delighted Mrs. Pringle replied
      by return of post, writing in the following loving and judicious
      strain.

      “25, Curtain Crescent,

      “Belgrave Square.

      “My own Beloved Darling,

      “I was so overjoyed you can’t imagine, to receive your most
      welcome letter, for I really began to be uneasy about you, not
      that I feared any accident out hunting, but I was afraid you
      might have caught cold or be otherwise unwell—mind, if ever you
      feel in the slightest degree indisposed send for the doctor
      immediately. There is nothing like taking things in time. It was
      very idle of the servants at Tantivy Castle to neglect your
      instructions so, but for the future you had better always write a
      line to the post-master of the place where you are staying,
      giving him your next address to forward your letters to; for it
      is the work for which they are paid, and there is no shuffling it
      off on to anybody else’s shoulders. The greatest people are
      oftentimes the worst served, not because the servants have any
      particular objection to them personally—but because they are so
      desperately afraid of being what they call put upon by each
      other, that they spend double the time in fighting off doing a
      thing that it would take to do it. This is one of the drawbacks
      upon rank. Noblemen must keep a great staff of people, whom in a
      general way they cannot employ, and who do nothing but squabble
      and fight with each other who is to do the little there is, the
      greatest man among servants being he who does the least. However,
      as you have got the letters at last we will say no more about it.

      “I hope your horse is handsome, and neighs and paws the ground
      prettily; you should be careful, however, in buying, for few
      people are magnanimous enough to resist cheating a young man in
      horses;—still, I am glad you have bought one if he suits you, as
      it is much better and pleasanter to ride your own horse than be
      indebted to other people for mounts. Nevertheless, I would
      strongly advise you to stick to either the fox or the stag, with
      either of which you can sport pink and look smart. Harriers are
      only for bottle-nosed old gentlemen with gouty shoes. I can’t
      help thinking, that a day with a milder, more reasonable fox than
      the ones you had with Lord Ladythorne, would convince you of the
      superiority of fox-hounds over harriers. I was asking Mr. Ralph
      Rasper, who called here the other day, how little Tom Stott of
      the Albany managed with the Queen’s, and he said Tom always shoes
      his horses with country nails, and consequently throws a shoe
      before he has gone three fields, which enables him to pull up and
      lament his ill luck. He then gets it put on, and has a glorious
      ride home in red—landing at the Piccadilly end of the Albany
      about dusk. He then goes down to the Acacia or some other Club,
      and having ordered his dinner, retires to one of the
      dressing-rooms to change—having had, to his mind, a delightful
      day.

      “Beware of the girls!—There’s nothing so dangerous as a young man
      staying in a country house with pretty girls. He is sure to fall
      in love with one or other of them imperceptibly, or one or other
      of them is sure to fall in love with him; and then when at length
      he leaves, there is sure to be a little scene arranged, Miss with
      her red eye-lids and lace fringed kerchief, Mamma with her smirks
      and smiles, and hopes that he’ll _soon return,_ and so on. There
      are more matches made up in country houses than in all the
      west-end London ones put together,—indeed, London is always
      allowed to be only the cover for finding the game in, and the
      country the place for running it down. Just as you find your fox
      in a wood and run him down in the open. Be careful therefore what
      you are about.

      “It is much easier to get entangled with a girl than to get free
      again, for though they will always offer to set a young man free,
      they know better than do it, unless, indeed, they have secured
      something better,—above all, never consult a male friend in these
      matters.

      “The stupidest woman that ever was born, is better than the
      cleverest man in love-affairs. In fact, no man is a match for a
      woman until he’s married,—not all even then. The worst of young
      men is, they never know their worth until it is too late—they
      think the girls are difficult to catch, whereas there is nothing
      so easy, unless, as I said before, the girls are better engaged.
      Indeed, a young man should always have his Mamma at his elbow, to
      guard him against the machinations of the fair. As, however, that
      cannot be, let me urge you to be cautious what you are about, and
      as you seem to have plenty of choice, Don’t be more attentive to
      one sister than to another, by which means you will escape the
      red eye-lids, and also escape having Mamma declaring you have
      trifled with Maria or Sophia’s feelings, and all the old women of
      the neighbourhood denouncing your conduct and making up to you
      themselves for one of their own girls. Some ladies ask a man’s
      intentions before he is well aware that he has any himself, but
      these are the spoil-sport order of women. Most of them are
      prudent enough to get a man well hooked before they hand him over
      to Papa. It is generally a case of ‘Ask Mamma’ first. Beware of
      brothers!—I have known undoubted heiresses crumpled up into
      nothing by the appearance (after the catch) of two or three great
      heavy dragooners. Rougier will find all that out for you.

      “Be cautious too about letter-writing. There is no real privacy
      about love-letters, any more than there is about the flags and
      banners of a regiment, though they occasionally furl and cover
      them up. The love letters are a woman’s flags and banners, her
      trophies of success, and the more flowery they are, the more
      likely to be shown, and to aid in enlivening a Christmas
      tea-party. Then the girls’ Mammas read them, their sisters read
      them, their maids read them, and ultimately, perhaps, a
      boisterous energetic barrister reads them to an exasperated jury,
      some of whose daughters may have suffered from simitar effusions
      themselves. Altogether, I assure you, you are on very ticklish
      ground, and I make no doubt if you could ascertain the opinion of
      the neighbourhood, you are booked for one or other of the girls,
      so again I say, my dearest boy, beware what you are about, for it
      is much easier to get fast than to get free again;—get a lady of
      rank, and not the daughter of a little scrubby squire; and
      whatever you do, don’t leave this letter lying about, and mind,
      empty your pockets at nights, and don’t leave it for Rougier to
      find.

      “Now, about your movements. I think I wouldn’t go back to Lord
      L.‘s unless he asks you, or unless he named a specific day for
      your doing so when you came away. Mere general invitations mean
      nothing; they are only the small coin of good society. ‘Sorry
      you’re going. Hope we shall soon meet again. Hope we shall have
      the pleasure of seeing you to dinner some day,’ is a very common
      mean-nothing form of politeness.

      “Indeed, I question that your going to a master of harriers from
      Tantivy Castle would be any great recommendation to his Lordship;
      for masters of foxhounds and masters of harriers are generally at
      variance. Altogether, I think I would pause and consider before
      you decided on returning. I would not talk much about his
      Lordship where you now are, as it would look as if you were not
      accustomed to great people. You’ll find plenty of friends ready
      to bring him in for you, just as Mr. Handycock brings in Lord
      Privilege in Peter Simple. We all like talking of titles.
      Remember, all noblemen under the rank of dukes are lords in
      common conversation. No earls or marquises then.

      “It just occurs to me, that as you are in the neighbourhood, you
      might take advantage of the opportunity for paying a visit to
      Yawnington Hot Wells, where you will find a great deal of good
      society assembled at this time of year, and where you might
      pickup some useful and desirable acquaintances. Go to the best
      hotel whatever it is, and put Rougier on board wages, which will
      get rid of his grumbling. It is impertinent, no doubt, but still
      it carries weight in a certain quarter.

      “As you have got a hunting horse, you will want a groom, and
      should try to get a nice-looking one. He should not be
      knocknee’d; on the contrary, bow-legged,—the sort of legs that a
      pig can pop through. Look an applicant over first, and if his
      appearance is against him. just put him off quietly by taking his
      name and address, and say that there are one or two before him,
      and that you will write to him if you are likely to require his
      services.

      “You will soon have plenty to choose from, but it is hard to say
      whether the tricks of the town ones, or the gaucheries of the
      country ones are most objectionable. The latter never put on
      their boots and upper things properly. A slangy, slovenly-looking
      fellow should be especially avoided. Also men with great shock
      heads of hair. If they can’t trim themselves, there will not be
      much chance of their trimming their horses. In short, I believe a
      groom—a man who really knows and cares anything about horses—is a
      very difficult person to get. There are plenty who can hiss and
      fuss, and be busy upon nothing, but very few who can both dress a
      horse, and dress themselves.

      “I know Lord Ladythorne makes it a rule never to take one who has
      been brought up in the racing-stable, for he says they are all
      hurry and gallop, and for putting two hours’ exercise into one.
      Whatever you do, don’t take one without a character, for however
      people may gloss over their late servant’s faults and
      imperfections, and however abject and penitent the applicants may
      appear, rely upon it, nature will out, and as soon as ever they
      get up their condition, as they call it, or are installed into
      their new clothes, they begin to take liberties, and ultimately
      relapse into their old drunken dissolute habits. It is fortunate
      for the world that most of them carry their characters in their
      faces. Besides, it isn’t fair to respectable servants to bring
      them in contact with these sort of profligates.

      “Whatever you do, don’t let him find his own clothes. There isn’t
      one in twenty who can be trusted to do so, and nothing looks
      worse than the half-livery, half-plain, wholly shabby clothes
      some of them adopt.

      “It is wonderful what things they will vote good if they have to
      find others themselves, things that they would declare were not
      fit to put on, and they couldn’t be seen in if master supplied
      them. The best of everything then is only good enough for them.

      “Some of them will grumble and growl whatever you give them;
      declare this man’s cloth is bad, and another’s boots inferior,
      and recommend you to go to Mr. Somebody else, who Mr. This, or
      Captain That, employs, Mr. This, or Captain That, having, in all
      probability, been recommended to this Mr. Somebody by some other
      servant. The same with the saddlers and tradespeople generally.
      If you employ a saddler who does not tip them, there will be
      nothing bad enough for his workmanship, or they will declare he
      does not do that sort of work, only farmer’s work—cart-trappings,
      and such like things.

      “The remedy for this is to pay your own bills, and give the
      servants to understand at starting that you mean to be master.
      They are to be had on your own terms, if you only begin as you
      mean to go on. If the worst comes to the worst, a month’s notice,
      or a month’s pay, settles all differences, and it is no use
      keeping and paying a servant that doesn’t suit you. Perhaps you
      will think Rougier trouble enough, but he would be highly
      offended if you were to ask him to valet a horse. I will try if I
      can hear of anything likely to suit you, but the old saying, ‘who
      shall counsel a man in the choice of a wife, or a horse,’ applies
      with equal force to grooms.

      “And now, my own dearest boy, having given you all the advice and
      assistance in my power, I will conclude by repeating what joy the
      arrival of your letter occasioned me, and also my advice to
      beware of the girls, and request that you will not leave this
      letter in your pockets, or lying about, by signing myself ever,
      my own dearest son, your most truly loving and affectionate
      Mamma,

      “Emma Pringle.

      “_P.S.—I will enclose the halves of two fifty-pound notes for the
      horse, the receipt of which please to acknowledge by return of
      post, when I will send the other halves._

      “P.S.—Mind the red eyelids! There’s nothing so infectious



      CHAPTER XXVII. SIR MOSES MAINCHANCE.


      OUR friend Billy, as the foregoing letter shows, was now very
      comfortably installed in his quarters, and his presence brought
      sundry visitors, as well to pay their respects to him and the
      family, as to see how matters were progressing.

      Mr. and Mrs. Rocket Larkspur, Mrs. Blurkins, and Mrs.
      Dotherington, also Mrs. Crickleton came after their castor-oil
      entertainment, and Mrs. and Miss Wasperton, accompanied by their
      stiff friend Miss Freezer, who had the reputation of being very
      satirical. Then there were Mr. Tight and Miss Neate, chaperoned
      by fat Mrs. Plumberry, of Hollingdale Lodge, and several others.
      In fact Billy had created a sensation in the country, such
      godsends as a London dandy not being of every-day occurrence in
      the country, and everybody wanted to see the great “catch.” How
      they magnified him! His own mother wouldn’t have known him under
      the garbs he assumed; now a Lord’s son, now a Baronet’s, now the
      Richest Commoner in England; with, oh glorious recommendation! no
      Papa to consult in the matter of a wife. Some said not even a
      Mamma, but there the reader knows they were wrong. In proportion
      as they lauded Billy they decried Mrs. Yammerton; she was a
      nasty, cunning, designing woman, always looking after somebody.

      Mrs. Wasperton, alluding to Billy’s age, declared that it was
      just like kidnapping a child, and she inwardly congratulated
      herself that she had never been guilty of such meanness. Billy,
      on his part, was airified and gay, showing off to the greatest
      advantage, perfectly unconscious that he was the observed of all
      observers. Like Mrs. Moffatt he never had the same dress on
      twice, and was splendid in his jewelry.

      Among the carriage company who came to greet him was the sporting
      Baronet, Sir Moses Mainchance, whose existence we have already
      indicated, being the same generous gentleman that presented Major
      Yammerton with a horse, and then made him pay for it.

      Sir Moses had heard of Billy’s opulence, and being a man of great
      versatility, he saw no reason why he should not endeavour to
      partake of it. He now came grinding up in his dog cart, with his
      tawdry cockaded groom (for he was a Deputy-Lieutenant of Hit-im
      and Holt-im shire), to lay the foundation of an invitation, and
      was received with the usual _wow, wow, wow, wow_, of Fury, the
      terrier, and the coat shuffling of the Bumbler.

      If the late handsome Recorder of London had to present this ugly
      old file to the Judges as one of the Sheriffs of London and
      Middlesex, he would most likely introduce him in such terms as
      the following:—

      “My Lords, I have the honour to present to your Lordships’ (hem)
      notice Sir Moses Mainchance, (cough) Baronet, and (hem)
      foxhunter, who has been unanimously chosen by the (hem) livery of
      London to fill the high and important (cough) office of Sheriff
      of that ancient and opulent city. My Lords, Sir Moses, as his
      name indicates, is of Jewish origin. His great-grandfather, Mr.
      Moses Levy, I believe dealt in complicated penknives,
      dog-collars, and street sponges. His grandfather, more ambitious,
      enlarged his sphere of action, and embarked in the old-clothes
      line. He had a very extensive shop in the Minories, and dealt in
      rhubarb and gum arabic as well. He married a lady of the name of
      Smith, not an uncommon one in this country, who inheriting a
      large fortune from her uncle, Mr. Mainchance, Mr. Moses Levy
      embraced Christianity, and dropping the name of Levy became Mr.
      Mainchance, Mr. Moses Mainchance, the founder of the present most
      important and distinguished family. His son, the Sheriff elect’s
      father, also carried on the business in the Minories, adding very
      largely to his already abundant wealth, and espousing a lady of
      the name of Brown.

      “In addition to the hereditary trade he opened a curiosity shop
      in the west end of London, where, being of a highly benevolent
      disposition, he accommodated young gentlemen whose parents were
      penurious,—unjustly penurious of course,—with such sums of money
      as their stations in life seemed likely to enable them to repay.

      “But, my Lords, the usury laws, as your Lordships will doubtless
      recollect, being then in full operation, to the great detriment
      of heirs-at-law, Mr. Mainchance, feeling for the difficulties of
      the young, introduced an ingenious mode of evading them, whereby
      _some_ article of _vertu_—generally a picture or something of
      that sort—was taken as half, or perhaps three-quarters of the
      loan, and having passed into the hands of the borrower was again
      returned to Mr. Mainchance at its real worth, a Carlo Dolce, or a
      Coal Pit, as your Lordships doubtless know, being capable of
      representing any given sum of money. This gentleman, my Lords,
      the Sheriff elect’s father, having at length paid the debt of
      nature—the only debt I believe that he was ever slow in
      discharging—the opulent gentleman who now stands at my side, and
      whom I have the honour of presenting to the Court, was enabled
      through one of those monetary transactions to claim the services
      of a distinguished politician now no more, and obtain that
      hereditary rank which he so greatly adorns. On becoming a baronet
      Sir Moses Mainchance withdrew from commercial pursuits, and set
      up for a gentleman, purchasing the magnificent estate of Pangburn
      Park, in Hit-im and Hold-im shire, of which county he is a
      Deputy-Lieutenant, getting together an unrivalled pack of
      foxhounds—second to none as I am instructed—and hunting the
      country with great circumspection; and he requests me to add, he
      will be most proud and happy to see your Lordships to take a day
      with his hounds whenever it suits you, and also to dine with him
      this evening in the splendid Guildhall of the ancient and
      renowned City of London.’”

      The foregoing outline, coupled with Sir Moses’ treatment of the
      Major, will give the reader some idea of the character of the
      gentleman who had sought the society of our hero. In truth, if
      nature had not made him the meanest, Sir Moses would have been
      the most liberal of mankind, for his life was a continual
      struggle between the magnificence of his offers and the penury of
      his performances. He was perpetually forcing favours upon people,
      and then backing out when he saw they were going to be accepted.
      It required no little face to encounter the victim of such a
      recent “do” as the Major’s, but Sir Moses was not to be foiled
      when he had an object in view. Telling his groom to stay at the
      door, and asking in a stentorian voice if Mr. Pringle is at home,
      so that there may be no mistake as to whom he is calling upon,
      the Baronet is now ushered into the drawing-room, where the
      dandified Billy sits in all the dangerous proximity of three
      pretty girls without their Mamma. Mrs. Yammerton knew when to be
      out. “Good morning, young ladies!” exclaims Sir Moses gaily,
      greeting them all round—“Mr. Pringle,” continued he, turning to
      Billy, “allow me to introduce myself—I believe I have the
      pleasure of addressing a nephew of my excellent old friend Sir
      Jonathan Pringle, and I shall be most happy if I can contribute
      in any way to your amusement while in this neighbourhood. Tell me
      now,” continued he, without waiting for Billy’s admission or
      rejection of kindred with Sir Jonathan, “tell me now, when you
      are not engaged in this delightful way,” smiling round on the
      beauties, “would you like to come and have a day with my hounds?”

      Billy shuddered at the very thought, but quickly recovering his
      equanimity, he replied, “Yarse, he should like it very much.

      “Oh, Mr. Pringle’s a mighty hunter!” exclaimed Miss Yammerton,
      who really thought he was.—“Very good!” exclaimed Sir Moses,
      “very good! Then I’ll tell you what we’ll do. We meet on Monday
      at the Crooked Billet on the Bushmead Road—Tuesday at Stubbington
      Hill—Thursday, Woolerton, by Heckfield—Saturday, the Kennels.
      S’pose now you come to me on Sunday, I would have said Saturday,
      only I’m engaged to dine with Lord Oilcake, but you wouldn’t mind
      coming over on a Sunday, I dare say, would you?” and without
      waiting for an answer he went on to say, “Come on Sunday, I’ll
      send my dogcart for you, the thing I have at the door, we’ll then
      hunt Monday and Tuesday, dine at the Club at Hinton on Wednesday,
      where we always have a capital dinner, and a party of excellent
      fellows, good singing and all sorts of fun, and take Thursday at
      Woolerton, in your way home—draw Shawley Moss, the Withy beds at
      Langton, Tangleton Brake, and so on, but sure to find before we
      get to the Brake, for there were swarms of foxes on the moss the
      last time we were there, and capital good ones they are. Dom’d if
      they aren’t. So know I think you couldn’t be better Thursday, and
      I’ll have a two-stalled stable ready for you on Sunday, so that’s
      a bargain—ay, young ladies, isn’t it?” appealing to our fair
      friends. And now fine Billy, who had been anxiously waiting to
      get a word in sideways while all this dread enjoyment was
      paraded, proceeded to make a vigorous effort to deliver himself
      from it. He was very much obliged to this unknown friend of his
      unknown uncle, Sir Jonathan, but he had only one horse, and was
      afraid he must decline. “Only one horse!” exclaimed Sir Moses,
      “only one horse!” who had heard he had ten, “ah, well, never
      mind,” thinking he would sell him one. “I’ll tell you what I’ll
      do, I’ll mount you on the Tuesday—I’ll mount you on the
      Tuesday—dom’d if I won’t—and that’ll make it all right—and
      that’ll make all right.” So extending his hand he said, “Come on
      Sunday then, come on Sunday,” and, bowing round to the ladies, he
      backed out of the room lest his friend the Major might appear and
      open his grievance about the horse. Billy then accompanied him to
      the door, where Sir Moses, pointing to the gaudy vehicle, said,
      “Ah, there’s the dog-cart you see, there’s the dog-cart, much at
      your service, much at your service,” adding, as he placed his
      foot upon the step to ascend, “Our friend the Major here I make
      no doubt will lend you a horse to put in it, and between
      ourselves,” concluded he in a lower tone, “you may as well try if
      you can’t get him to lend you a second horse to bring with you.”
      So saying, Sir Moses again shook hands most fervently with his
      young friend, the nephew of Sir Jonathan, and mounting the
      vehicle soused down in his seat and drove off with the air of a
      Jew bailiff in his Sunday best.



      213m


      _Original Size_


      Of course, when Billy returned to the drawing-room the young
      ladies were busy discussing the Baronet, aided by Mamma, who had
      gone up stairs on the sound of wheels to reconnoitre her person,
      and was disappointed on coming down to find she had had her
      trouble for nothing.

      If Sir Moses had been a married man instead of a widower, without
      incumbrance as the saying is, fine Billy would have been more
      likely to have heard the truth respecting him, than he was as
      matters stood. As it was, the ladies had always run Sir Moses up,
      and did not depart from that course on the present occasion. Mrs.
      Yammerton, indeed, always said that he looked a great deal older
      than he really was, and had no objection to his being talked of
      for one of her daughters, and as courtships generally go by
      contraries, the fair lady of the glove with her light sunny hair,
      and lambent blue eyes, rather admired Sir Moses’ hook-nose and
      clear olive complexion than otherwise. His jewelry, too, had
      always delighted her, for he had a stock equal to that of any
      retired pawnbroker. So they impressed Billy very favourably with
      the Baronet’s pretensions, far more favourably the reader may be
      sure than the Recorder did the Barons of the Court of Exchequer.



      CHAPTER XXVIII. THE HIT-IM AND HOLD-IM SHIRE HOUNDS.


      DESCENDING Long Benningborough Hill on the approach from the
      west, the reader enters the rich vale of Hit-im and Hold-im
      shire, rich in agricultural productions, lavish of rural
      beauties, and renowned for the strength and speed of its foxes.

      As a hunting country Hit-im and Hold-im shire ranks next to
      Featherbedfordshire, and has always been hunted by men of wealth
      and renown. The great Mr. Bruiser hunted it at one time, and was
      succeeded by the equally great Mr. Customer, who kept it for
      upwards of twenty years. He was succeeded by Mr. Charles Crasher,
      after whom came the eminent Lord Martingal, who most materially
      improved its even then almost perfect features by the judicious
      planting of gorse covers on the eastern or Droxmoor side, where
      woodlands are deficient.

      It was during Lord Martingal’s reign that Hit-im and Hold-im
      shire may be said to have attained the zenith of its fame, for he
      was liberal in the extreme, not receiving a farthing
      subscription, and maintaining the Club at the Fox and Hounds
      Hotel at Hinton with the greatest spirit and popularity. He
      reigned over Hit-im and Hold-im shire for the period of a quarter
      of a century, his retirement being at length caused by a fall
      from his horse, aggravated by distress at seeing his favourite
      gorses Rattleford and Chivington cut up by a branch-line of the
      Crumpletin railway.

      On his lordship’s resignation, the country underwent the
      degradation of passing into the hands of the well-known Captain
      Flasher, a gentleman who, instead of keeping hounds, as Lord
      Martingal had done, expected the hounds to keep him. To this end
      he organised a subscription—a difficult thing to realise even
      when men have got into the habit of paying, or perhaps promising
      one—but most difficult when, as in this case, they had long been
      accustomed to have their hunting for nothing. It is then that the
      beauties of a free pack are apparent. The Captain, however,
      nothing daunted by the difficulty, applied the screw most
      assiduously, causing many gentlemen to find out that they were
      just going to give up hunting, and others that they must go
      abroad to economise. This was just about the gloomy time that our
      friend the Major was vacillating between Boulogne and Bastille;
      and it so happened that Mr. Plantagenet Brown, of Pangburn Park,
      whose Norman-conquest family had long been pressing on the vitals
      of the estate, taking all out and putting nothing in, suddenly
      found themselves at the end of their tether. The estate had
      collapsed. Then came the brief summing-up of a long career of
      improvidence in the shape of an auctioneer’s advertisement,
      offering the highly valuable freehold property, comprising about
      two thousand five hundred acres in a ring fence, with a modern
      mansion replete with every requisite for a nobleman or
      gentleman’s seat, for sale, which, of course, brought the usual
      train of visitors, valuers, Paul-Pryers, and so on—some lamenting
      the setting, others speculating on the rising sun.

      At the sale, a most repulsive, poverty-stricken looking little
      old Jew kept protracting the biddings when everybody else seemed
      done, in such a way as to cause the auctioneer to request an
      _imparlance_, in order that he might ascertain who his principal
      was; when the Jew, putting his dirty hands to his bearded mouth,
      whispered in the auctioneer’s ear, “Shir Moshes Mainchance,”
      whereupon the languid biddings were resumed, and the estate was
      ultimately knocked down to the Baronet.

      Then came the ceremony of taking possession—the
      carriage-and-four, the flags, the band of music, the triumphal
      arch, the fervid address and heartfelt reply, amid the prolonged
      cheers of the wretched pauperised tenantry.

      That mark of respect over, let us return to the hounds.

      Captain Flasher did not give satisfaction, which indeed was not
      to be expected, considering that he wanted a subscription. No man
      would have given satisfaction under the circumstances, but the
      Captain least of all, because he brought nothing into the common
      stock, nothing, at least, except his impudence, of which the
      members of the hunt had already a sufficient supply of their own.
      The country was therefore declared vacant at the end of the
      Captain’s second season, the Guarantee Committee thinking it best
      to buy him off the third one, for which he had contracted to hunt
      it. This was just about the time that Sir Moses purchased
      Pangburn Park, and, of course, the country was offered to him. A
      passion for hunting is variously distributed, and Sir Moses had
      his share of it. He was more than a mere follower of hounds, for
      he took a pleasure in their working and management, and not
      knowing much about the cost, he jumped at the offer, declaring he
      didn’t want a farthing subscription, no, not a farthing: he
      wouldn’t even have a cover fund—no, not even a cover fund! He’d
      pay keepers, stoppers, damage, everything himself,—dom’d if he
      wouldn’t. Then when he got possession of the country, he declared
      that he found it absolutely indispensable for the promotion of
      sport, and the good of them all, that there should be a putting
      together of purses—every man ought to have a direct interest in
      the preservation of foxes, and, therefore, they should all pay
      five guineas,—just five guineas a-year to a cover fund. It wasn’t
      fair that he should pay all the cost—dom’d if it was. He wouldn’t
      stand it—dom’d if he would.

      Then the next season he declared that five guineas was all
      moonshine—it would do nothing in the way of keeping such a
      country as Hit-im and Hold-im shire together—it must be ten
      guineas, and that would leave a great balance for him to pay.
      Well, ten guineas he got, and emboldened by his success, at the
      commencement of the next season he got a grand gathering
      together, at a hand-in-the-pocket hunt dinner at the Fox and
      Hounds Hotel at Hinton, to which he presented a case of
      champagne, when his health being drunk with suitable enthusiasm,
      he got up and made them a most elaborate speech on the pleasures
      and advantages of fox-hunting, which he declared was like meat,
      drink, washing and lodging to him, and to which he mainly
      attributed the very excellent health which they had just been
      good enough to wish him a continuance of in such complimentary
      terms, that he was almost overpowered by it. He was glad to see
      that he was not a monopoliser of the inestimable blessings of
      health, for, looking round the table, he thought he never saw
      such an assemblage of cheerful contented
      countenances—(applause)—and it was a great satisfaction to him to
      think that he in any way contributed to make them so—(renewed
      applause). He had been thinking since he came into the room
      whether it was possible to increase in any way the general stock
      of prosperity—(great applause)—and considering the success that
      had already marked his humble endeavours, he really thought that
      there was nothing like sticking to the same medicine, and, if
      possible, increasing the dose; for—(the conclusion of this
      sentence was lost in the general applause that followed). Having
      taken an inspiriting sip of wine, he thus resumed, “He now hunted
      the country three days a-week,” he said, “and, thanks to their
      generous exertions, and the very judicious arrangement they had
      spontaneously made of having a hunt club, he really thought it
      would stand four days.”—(Thunders of applause followed this
      announcement, causing the glasses and biscuits to dance jigs on
      the table. Sir Moses took a prolonged sip of wine, and silence
      being at length again restored, he thus resumed):—“It had always
      stood four in old Martingal’s time, and why shouldn’t it do so in
      theirs?—(applause). Look at its extent! Look at its splendid
      gorses! Look at its magnificent woodlands! He really thought it
      was second to none!” And so the company seemed to think too by
      the cheering that followed the announcement.

      “Well then,” said Sir Moses, drawing breath for the grand effort,
      “there was only one thing to be considered—one leetle difficulty
      to be overcome—but one, which after the experience he had had of
      their gameness and liberality, he was sure they would easily
      surmount.”—(A murmur of “O-O-O’s,” with Hookey Walkers, and
      fingers to the nose, gradually following the speaker.)

      “That _leetle_ difficulty, he need hardly say, was their old
      familiar friend £ s. d.! who required occasionally to be looked
      in the face.”—(Ironical laughter, with _sotto voce_ exclamations
      from Jack to Tom and from Sam to Harry, of—) “I say! _three_ days
      are _quite_ enough—_quite_ enough. Don’t you think so?” With
      answers of “Plenty! plenty!” mingled with whispers of, “I say,
      this is what he calls hunting the country for nothing!”

      “Well, gentlemen,” continued Sir Moses, tapping the table with
      his presidential hammer, to assert his monopoly of noise, “Well,
      gentlemen, as I said before, I have no doubt we can overcome any
      difficulty in the matter of money—what’s the use of money if it’s
      not to enjoy ourselves, and what enjoyment is there equal to
      fox-hunting? (applause). None! none!” exclaimed Sir Moses with
      emphasis.

      “Well then, gentlemen, what I was going to say was this: It
      occurred to me this morning as I was shaving myself——”

      “That you would shave us,” muttered Mr. Paul Straddler to Hicks,
      the flying hatter, neither of whom ever subscribed.

      “—It occurred to me this morning, as I was shaving myself, that
      for a very little additional outlay—say four hundred a year—and
      what’s four hundred a-year among so many of us? we might have
      four days a-week, which is a great deal better than three in many
      respects, inasmuch as you have two distinct lots of hounds,
      accustomed to hunt together, instead of a jumble for one day, and
      both men and horses are in steadier and more regular work; and as
      to foxes, I needn’t say we have plenty of them, and that they
      will be all the better for a little more exercise.—(Applause from
      Sir Moses’ men, Mr. Smoothley and others). Well, then, say four
      hundred a-year, or, as hay and corn are dear and likely to
      continue so, suppose we put it at the worst, and call it
      five—five hundred—what’s five hundred a-year to a great
      prosperous agricultural and commercial country like this?
      Nothing! A positive bagatelle! I’d be ashamed to have it known at
      the ‘Corner’ that we had ever haggled about such a sum.”

      “You pay it, then,” muttered Mr. Straddler.

      “Catch him doing that,” growled Hicks.

      Sir Moses here took another sip of sherry, and thus resumed:—

      “Well, now, gentlemen, as I said before, it only occurred to me
      this morning as I was shaving, or I would have been better
      prepared with some definite proposal for your consideration, but
      I’ve just dotted down here, on the back of one of Grove the
      fishmonger’s cards (producing one from his waistcoat pocket as he
      spoke), the names of those who I think ought to be called upon to
      contribute;—and, waiter!” exclaimed he, addressing one of the
      lanky-haired order, who had just protruded his head in at the
      door to see what all the eloquence was about, “if you’ll give me
      one of those mutton fats,—and your master ought to be kicked for
      putting such things on the table, and you may tell him I said
      so,—I’ll just read the names over to you.” Sir Moses adjusting
      his gold double eye glasses on his hooked nose as the waiter
      obeyed his commands.

      “Well, now,” said the Baronet, beginning at the top of the list,
      “I’ve put young Lord Polkaton down for fifty.”

      “But my Lord doesn’t hunt, Sir Moses!” ejaculated Mr. Mossman,
      his Lordship’s land-agent, alarmed at the demand upon a very
      delicate purse.

      “Doesn’t hunt!” retorted Sir Moses angrily. “No; but he might if
      he liked! If there were no hounds, how the deuce could he? It
      would do him far more good, let me tell him, than dancing at
      casinos and running after ballet girls, as he does. I’ve put him
      down for fifty, however,” continued Sir Moses, with a jerk of his
      head, “and you may tell him I’ve done so.”

      “Wish you may get it,” growled Mr. Mossman, with disgust.

      “Well, then,” said the Baronet, proceeding to the next name on
      the list, “comes old Lord Harpsichord. He’s good for fifty, too,
      I should say. At all events, I’ve put him down for that sum;”
      adding, “I’ve no notion of those great landed cormorants cutting
      away to the continent and shirking the obligations of country
      life. I hold it to be the duty of every man to subscribe to a
      pack of fox-hounds. In fact, I would make a subscription a first
      charge upon land, before poor-rate, highway-rate, or any sort of
      rate. I’d make it payable before the assessed taxes
      themselves”—(laughter and applause, very few of the company being
      land-owners). “Two fifties is a hundred, then,” observed Sir
      Moses, perking up; “and if we can screw another fifty out of old
      Lady Shortwhist, so much the better; at all events. I think
      she’ll be good for a pony; and then we come to the Baronets.
      First and foremost is that confounded prosy old ass, Sir George
      Persiflage, with his empty compliments and his fine cravats. I’ve
      put him down for fifty, though I don’t suppose the old sinner
      will pay it, though we may, perhaps, get half, which we shouldn’t
      do if we were not to ask for more. Well, we’ll call the
      supercilious old owls five-and-twenty for safety,” added Sir
      Moses. “Then there’s Sir Morgan Wildair; I should think we may
      say five-aud-twenty for him. What say you, Mr. Squeezely?”
      appealing to Sir Morgan’s agent at the low end of the table.

      “I’ve no instructions from Sir Morgan on the subject, Sir Moses,”
      replied Mr. Squeezely, shaking his head.

      “Oh, but he’s a young man, and you must tell him that it’s
      right—_necessary_, in fact,” replied Sir Moses. “You just pay it,
      and pass it through his accounts—that’s the shortest way. It’s
      the duty of an agent to save his principal trouble. I wouldn’t
      keep an agent who bothered me with all the twopenny-halfpenny
      transactions of the estate—dom’d if I would,” said Sir Moses,
      resuming his eye-glass reading.

      He then went on through the names of several other parties, who
      he thought might be coaxed or bullied out of subscriptions, he
      taking this man, another taking that, and working them, as he
      said, on the fair means first, and foul means principle
      afterwards.

      “Well, then, now you see, gentlemen,” said Sir Moses, pocketing
      his card and taking another sip of sherry prior to summing up;
      “it just amounts to this. Four days a-week, as I said before, is
      a dom’d deal better than three, and if we can get the fourth day
      out of these shabby screws, why so much the better; but if that
      can’t be done entirely, it can to a certain extent, and then it
      will only remain for the members of the club and the strangers—by
      the way, we shouldn’t forget them—it will only remain for the
      members of the club and the strangers to raise any slight
      deficiency by an increased subscription, and according to my plan
      of each man working his neighbour, whether the club subscription
      was to be increased to fifteen, or seventeen, or even to twenty
      pounds a-year will depend entirely upon ourselves; so you see,
      gentlemen, we have all a direct interest in the matter, and
      cannot go to work too earnestly or too strenuously; for believe
      me, gentlemen, there’s nothing like hunting, it promotes health
      and longevity, wards off the gout and sciatica, and keeps one out
      of the hands of those dom’d doctors, with their confounded
      bills—no offence to our friend Plaister, there,” alluding to a
      doctor of that name who was sitting about half-way down the
      table—“so now,” continued Sir Moses, “I think I cannot do better
      than conclude by proposing as a bumper toast, with all the
      honours, Long life and prosperity to the Hit-im and Hold-im shire
      hounds!”

      When the forced cheering had subsided, our friend—or rather Major
      Yammerton’s friend—Mr. Smoothley, the gentleman who assisted at
      the sale of Bo-peep, arose to address the meeting amid coughs and
      knocks and the shuffling of feet. Mr. Smoothley coughed too, for
      he felt he had an uphill part to perform; but Sir Moses was a
      hard task-master, and held his “I. O. U.‘s” for a hundred and
      fifty-seven pounds. On silence being restored, Mr. Smoothley
      briefly glanced at the topics urged, as he said, in such a
      masterly manner by their excellent and popular master, to whom
      they all owed a deep debt of gratitude for the spirited manner in
      which he hunted the country, rescuing it from the degradation to
      which it had fallen, and restoring it to its pristine fame and
      prosperity—(applause from Sir Moses and his _claqueurs_). “With
      respect to the specific proposal submitted by Sir Moses, Mr.
      Smoothley proceeded to say, he really thought there could not be
      a difference of opinion on the subject—(renewed applause, with
      murmurs of dissent here and there). It was clearly their interest
      to have the country hunted four days a week, and the mode in
      which Sir Moses proposed accomplishing the object was worthy the
      talents of the greatest financier of the day—(applause)—for it
      placed the load on the shoulders of those who were the best able
      to bear it—(applause). Taking all the circumstances of the case,
      therefore, into consideration, he thought the very least they
      could do would be to pass a unanimous vote of thanks to their
      excellent friend for the brilliant sport he had hitherto shown
      them, and pledge themselves to aid to the utmost of their power
      in carrying out his most liberal and judicious proposal.

      “Jewish enough,” whispered Mr. Straddler into the flying hatter’s
      ear.

      And the following week’s Hit-im and Hold-im shire Herald, and
      also the Featherbedfordshire Gazette, contained a string of
      resolutions, embodying the foregoing, as unanimously passed at a
      full meeting of the members of the Hit-im and Hold-im shire hunt,
      held at the Fox and Hounds Hotel, in Ilinton, Sir Moses
      Mainchance, Bart., in the chair.

      And each man set to work on the pocket of his neighbour with an
      earnestness inspired by the idea of saving his own. The result
      was that a very considerable sum was raised for the four days
      a-week, which, somehow or other, the country rarely or ever got,
      except in the shape of advertisements; for Sir Moses always had
      some excuse or other for shirking it,—either his huntsman had got
      drunk the day before, or his first whip had had a bad fall, or
      his second whip had been summoned to the small debts court, or
      his hounds had been fighting and several of them had got lamed,
      or the distemper had broken out in his stable, or something or
      other had happened to prevent him.

      Towards Christmas, or on the eve of an evident frost, he came
      valiantly out, and if foiled by a sudden thaw, would indulge in
      all sorts of sham draws, and short days, to the great disgust of
      those who were not in the secret. Altogether Sir Moses Mainchance
      rode Hit-im and Hold-im shire as Hit-im and Hold-im shire had
      never been ridden before.



      223m


      _Original Size_

      CHAPTER XXIX. THE PANGBURN PARK ESTATE.


      THE first thing that struck Sir Moses Mainchance after he became
      a “laird” was that he got very little interest for his money.
      Here he was he who had always looked down with scorn upon any
      thing that would not pay ten per cent., scarcely netting three by
      his acres. He couldn’t understand it—dom’d if he could. How could
      people live who had nothing but land? Certainly Mr. Plantagenet
      Smith had left the estate in as forlorn a condition as could well
      be imagined. Latterly his agent, Mr. Tom Teaser, had directed his
      attention solely to the extraction of rent, regardless of
      maintenance, to say nothing of improvements, consequently the
      farm buildings were dilapidated, and the land impoverished in
      every shape and way. Old pasture-field after old pasture-field
      had gradually succumbed to the plough, and the last ounce of
      freshness being extracted, the fields were left to lay themselves
      down to weeds or any thing they liked. As this sort of work never
      has but one ending, the time soon arrived when the rent was not
      raiseable. Indeed it was the inability to make “both ends meet,”
      as Paul Pry used to say, which caused Mr. Plantagenet Smith to
      retire from Burke’s landed gentry, which he did to his own
      advantage, land being sometimes like family plate, valuable to
      sell, but unprofitable to keep.

      Sir Moses, flushed with his reception and the consequence he had
      acquired, met his tenants gallantly the first rent-day, expecting
      to find everything as smooth and pleasant as a London house-rent
      audit. Great was his surprise and disgust at the pauperised
      wretches he encountered, creatures that really appeared to be but
      little raised above the brute creation, were it not for the
      uncommon keenness they showed at a “catch.” First came our old
      friend Henerey Brown & Co., who, foiled in their attempt to
      establish themselves on Major Yammerton’s farm at Bonnyrigs, and
      also upon several other farms in different parts of the county,
      had at length “wheas we have considered” Mr. Teaser to some
      better purpose for one on the Pangburn Park Estate.

      This was Doblington farm, consisting of a hundred and sixty of
      undrained obdurate clay, as sticky as bird-lime in wet, and as
      hard as iron in dry weather, and therefore requiring extra
      strength to take advantage of a favourable season. Now Henerey
      Brown & Co. had farmed, or rather starved, a light sandy soil of
      some two-thirds the extent of Doblington, and their half-fed pony
      horses and wretched implements were quite unable to cope with the
      intractable stubborn stuff they had selected. Perhaps we can
      hardly say they selected it, for it was a case of Hobson’s choice
      with them, and as they offered more rent than the outgoing
      tenant, who had farmed himself to the door, had paid, Mr. Teaser
      installed them in it. And now at the end of the year, (the farms
      being let on that beggarly pauper-encouraging system of a running
      half year) Henerey & Humphrey came dragging their legs to the
      Park with a quarter of a year’s rent between them, Henerey who
      was the orator undertaking to appear, Humphrey paying his
      respects only to the cheer. Sir Moses and Mr. Teaser were sitting
      in state in the side entrance-hall, surrounded by the usual
      paraphernalia of pens, ink, and paper, when Henerey’s short,
      square turnip-headed, vacant-countenanced figure loomed in the
      distance. Mr. Teaser trembled when he saw him, for he knew that
      the increased rent obtained for Henerey’s farm had been much
      dwelt upon by the auctioneer, and insisted upon by the vendor as
      conducive evidence of the improving nature of the whole estate.
      Teaser, like the schoolboy in the poem, now traced the day’s
      disaster in Henerey’s morning face. However, Teaser put a good
      face on the matter, saying, as Henerey came diverging up to the
      table, “This is Mr. Brown, Sir Moses, the new tenant of
      Doblington—the farm on the Hill.” he was going to add “with the
      bad out-buildings,” but he thought he had better keep that to
      himself. _Humph_ sniffed the eager baronet, looking the new
      tenant over.

      “Your sarvent, Sir Moses,” ducked the farmer, seating himself in
      the dread cash-extracting chair.

      “Well, my man, and how dy’e do? I hope you’re well—How’s your
      wife? I hope she’s well,” continued the Baronet, watching
      Henerey’s protracted dive into his corduroy breeches-pockets, and
      his fish up of the dirty canvas money-bag. Having deliberately
      untied the string, Henerey, without noticing the Baronet’s polite
      enquiries, shook out a few local five pound notes, along with
      some sovereigns, shillings, and sixpence upon the table, and
      heaving a deep sigh, pushed them over towards Mr. Teaser. That
      worthy having wet his thumb at his mouth proceeded to count the
      dirty old notes, and finding them as he expected, even with the
      aid of the change, very short of the right amount, he asked
      Henerey if he had any bills against them?

      “W-h-o-y no-a ar think not,” replied Henerey, scratching his
      straggling-haired head, apparently conning the matter over in his
      mind. “W-h-o-y, yeas, there’s the Income Tax, and there’s the
      lime to ‘loo off.”

      “Lime!” exclaimed the Baronet, “What have I to do with lime?”

      “W-h-o-y, yeas, you know you promised to ‘loo the lime,” replied
      Hererey, appealing to Mr. Teaser, who frowned and bit his lip at
      the over-true assertion.

      “Never heard of such a thing!” exclaimed Sir Moses, seeing
      through the deceit at a glance. “Never heard of such a thing,”
      repeated he. “That’s the way you keep up your rents is it?” asked
      he: “Deceive yourselves by pretending to get more money than you
      do, and pay rates and taxes upon your deceit as a punishment.
      That ‘ill not do! dom’d if it will,” continued the Baronet,
      waxing warm.

      “Well, but the income tax won’t bring your money up to anything
      like the right amount,” observed Mr. Teaser to Henerey, anxious
      to get rid of the lime question.

      “W-h-o-y n-o-a,” replied Henerey, again scratching his pate, “but
      it’s as much as I can bring ye to-day.”

      “To-day, man!” retorted Sir Moses, “Why, don’t you know that this
      is the rent-day! the day on which the entire monetary
      transactions on the whole estate are expected to be settled.”

      _Henerey_—“O, w-h-o-y it ‘ill make ne odds to ye, Sir Moses.”

      _Sir Moses_—“Ne odds to me! How do you know that?”

      _Henerey_—(apologetically) “Oh, Sir Moses, you have plenty, Sir
      Moses.”

      _Sir Moses_—“Me plenty! me plenty! I’m the poorest crittur
      alive!” which was true enough, only not in the sense Sir Moses
      intended it.

      _Henerey_—“Why, why, Sir Moses, ar’ll bring ye some more after a
      bit; but ar tell ye,” appealing to Teaser, “_Ye mun ‘loo for the
      lime._”

      “The lime be hanged,” exclaimed Sir Moses. “Dy’e sp’ose I’m such
      a fool as to let you the land, and farm ye the land, and pay
      income tax on rent that I never receive? That won’t do—dom’d if
      it will.”

      _Henerey_—(boiling up) “Well, but Sir Moses, wor farm’s far o’er
      dear.”

      _Sir Moses_—(turning flesh-colour with fury) “O’er dear! Why,
      isn’t it the rent you yourself offered for it?”

      _Henerey_—“Why, why, but we hadn’t looked her carefully over.”

      “Bigger fool you,” ejaculated the Jew.

      “The land’s far worse nor we took it for—some of the plough’s a
      shem to be seen—wor stable rains in desprate—there isn’t a dry
      place for a coo—the back wall of the barn’s all bulgin oot—the
      pigs get into wor garden for want of a gate—there isn’t a fence
      ‘ill turn a foal—the hars eat all wor tormots—we’re perfectly
      ruined wi’ rats,” and altogether Henerey opened such a battery of
      grievances as completely drove Sir Moses, who hated anyone to
      talk but himself, from his seat, and made him leave the finish of
      his friend to Mr. Teaser.

      As the Baronet went swinging out of the room he mentally
      exclaimed, “Never saw such a man as that in my life—dom’d if ever
      I did!”

      Mr. Teaser then proceeded with the wretched audit, each
      succeeding tenant being a repetition of the
      first—excuses—drawbacks—allowances for lime—money no matter to
      Sir Moses—and this with a whole year’s rent due, to say nothing
      of hopeless arrears.

      “How the deuce,” as Sir Moses asked, “do people live who have
      nothing but land?”

      When Sir Moses returned, at the end of an hour or so, he found
      one of the old tenants of the estate, Jacky Hindmarch, in the
      chair. Jacky was one of the real scratching order of farmers, and
      ought to be preserved at Madame Tussaud’s or the British Museum,
      for the information of future ages. To see him in the fields,
      with his crownless hat and tattered clothes, he was more like a
      scare-crow than a farmer; though, thanks to the influence of
      cheap finery, he turned out very shiney and satiney on a Sunday.
      Jacky had seventy acres of land,—fifty acres of arable and twenty
      acres of grass, which latter he complimented with an annual
      mowing without giving it any manure in return, thus robbing his
      pastures to feed his fallows,—if, indeed, he did not rob both by
      selling the manure off his farm altogether. Still Jacky was
      reckoned a cute fellow among his compatriots. He had graduated in
      the Insolvent Debtors’ Court to evade his former landlord’s
      claims, and emerged from gaol with a good stock of bad law
      engrafted on his innate knavery. In addition to this, Jacky, when
      a hind, had nearly had to hold up his hand at Quarter Sessions
      for stealing his master’s corn, which he effected in a very
      ingenious way:—The granary being above Jacky’s stable, he bored a
      hole through the floor, to which he affixed a stocking; and,
      having drawn as much corn as he required, he stopped the hole up
      with a plug until he wanted a fresh supply. The farmer—one Mr.
      Podmore—at length smelt a rat; but giving Jacky in charge rather
      prematurely, he failed in substantiating the accusation, when the
      latter, acting “under advice,” brought an action against Podmore,
      which ended in a compromise, Podmore having to pay Jacky twenty
      pounds for robbing him! This money, coupled with the savings of a
      virtuous young woman he presently espoused, and who had made free
      with the produce of her master’s dairy, enabled Jacky to take the
      farm off which he passed through the Insolvent Debtors’ Court, on
      to the Pangburn Park estate, where he was generally known by the
      name of Lawyer Hindmarch.

      Jacky and his excellent wife attempted to farm the whole seventy
      acres themselves; to plough, harrow, clean, sow, reap, mow, milk,
      churn,—do everything, in fact; consequently they were always well
      in arrear with their work, and had many a fine run after the
      seasons. If Jacky got his turnips in by the time other people
      were singling theirs, he was thought to do extremely well. To see
      him raising the seed-furrow in the autumn, a stranger would think
      he was ploughing in a green crop for manure, so luxuriant were
      the weeds. But Jacky Hindmarch would defend his system against
      Mr. Mechi himself; there being no creature so obstinate or
      intractable as a pig-headed farmer. A landlord had better let his
      land to a cheesemonger, a greengrocer, a draper, anybody with
      energy and capital, rather than to one of these self-sufficient,
      dawdling nincompoops. To be sure, Jacky farmed as if each year
      was to be his last, but he wouldn’t have been a bit better if he
      had had a one-and-twenty years’ lease before him. “Take all out
      and put nothing in,” was his motto. This was the genius who was
      shuffling, and haggling, and prevaricating with Mr. Teaser when
      Sir Moses returned, and who now gladly skulked off: Henerey Brown
      not having reported very favourably of the great man’s temper.

      The next to come was a woman,—a great, mountainous woman—one Mrs.
      Peggy Turnbull, wife of little Billy Turnbull of Lowfield Farm,
      who, she politely said, was not fit to be trusted from home by
      hisself.—Mrs. Turnbull was, though, being quite a match for any
      man in the country, either with her tongue or her fists. She was
      a great masculine knock-me-down woman, round as a sugar-barrel,
      with a most extravagant stomach, wholly absorbing her neck, and
      reaching quite up to her chin. Above the barrel was a round,
      swarthy, sunburnt face, lit up with a pair of keen little
      twinkling beady black eyes. She paused in her roll as she neared
      the chair, at which she now cast a contemptuous look, as much as
      to say, “How can I ever get into such a thing as that?”

      Mr. Teaser saw her dilemma and kindly gave her the roomier one on
      which he was sitting—while Sir Moses inwardly prepared a little
      dose of politeness for her.

      “Well, my good woman,” said he as soon as she got soused on to
      the seat. “Well, my good woman, how dy’e do? I hope you’re well.
      How’s your husband? I hope he’s well;” and was proceeding in a
      similar strain when the monster interrupted his dialogue by
      thumping the table with her fist, and exclaiming at the top of
      her voice, as she fixed her little beady black eyes full upon
      him—

      “_D’ye think we’re ganninn to get a new B-a-r-r-u-n?_”

      “Dom you and your b-a-r-r-n!” exclaimed the Baronet, boiling up.
      “Why don’t you leave those things to your husband?”

      “_He’s see shy!_” roared the monster.

      “You’re not shy, however!” replied Sir Moses, again jumping up
      and running away.

      And thus what with one and another of them, Sir Moses was so put
      out, that dearly as he loved a let off for his tongue, he
      couldn’t bring himself to face his friends again at dinner. So
      the agreeable duty devolved upon Mr. Teaser, of taking the chair,
      and proposing in a bumper toast, with all the honours and one
      cheer more, the health of a landlord who, it was clear, meant to
      extract the uttermost farthing he could from his tenants.

      And that day’s proceedings furnished ample scope for a beginning,
      for there was not one tenant on the estate who paid up; and Sir
      Moses declared that of all the absurdities he had ever heard tell
      of in the whole course of his life, that of paying income-tax on
      money he didn’t receive was the greatest. “Dom’d if it wasn’t!”
      said he.

      In fact the estate had come to a stand still, and wanted nursing
      instead of further exhaustion. If it had got into the hands of an
      improving owner—a Major Yammerton, for instance,—there was
      redemption enough in the land; these scratching fellows, only
      exhausting the surface; and draining and subsoiling would soon
      have put matters right, but Sir Moses declared he wouldn’t throw
      good money after bad, that the rushes were meant to be there and
      there they should stay. If the tenants couldn’t pay their rents
      how could they pay any drainage interest? he asked. Altogether
      Sir Moses declared it shouldn’t be a case of over shoes, over
      boots, with him—that he wouldn’t go deeper into the mud than he
      was, and he heartily wished he had the price of the estate back
      in his pocket again, as many a man has wished, and many a one
      will wish again—there being nothing so ticklish to deal with as
      land. There is no reason though why it should be so; but we will
      keep our generalities for another chapter.

      Sir Moses’s property went rapidly back, and soon became a sort of
      last refuge for the destitute, whither the ejected of all other
      estates congregated prior to scattering their stock, on failing
      to get farms in more favoured localities. As they never meant to
      pay, of course they all offered high rents, and then having got
      possession the Henerey Brown scene was enacted—the farm was “far
      o’er dear”—they could “make nout on’t at that rent!” nor could
      they have made aught on them if they had had them for nothing,
      seeing that their capital consisted solely of their intense
      stupidity. Then if Sir Moses wouldn’t reduce the rent, he might
      just do his “warst,” meanwhile they pillaged the land both by day
      and by night. The cropping of course corresponded with the
      tenure, and may be described as just anything they could get off
      the land. White crop succeeded white crop, if the weeds didn’t
      smother the seeds, or if any of the slovens did “try for a few
      turnips,” as they called it, they were sown on dry spots selected
      here and there, with an implement resembling a dog’s-meat man’s
      wheelbarrow—drawn by one ass and steered by another.

      Meanwhile Mr. Teaser’s labours increased considerably, what with
      the constant lettings and leavings and watchings for “slopings.”
      There was always some one or other of the worthies on the wing,
      and the more paper and words Mr. Teaser employed to bind them,
      the more inefficient and futile he found the attempt. It soon
      became a regular system to do the new landlord, in furtherance of
      which the tenants formed themselves into a sort of mutual aid
      association. Then when a seizure was effected, they combined not
      to buy, so that the sufferer got his wretched stock back at
      little or no loss.

      Wretched indeed, was the spectacle of a sale; worn out horses,
      innocent of corn; cows, on whose hips one could hang one’s hat;
      implements that had been “fettled oop” and “fettled oop,” until
      not a particle of the parent stock remained; carts and trappings
      that seemed ready for a bonfire; pigs, that looked as if they
      wanted food themselves instead of being likely to feed any one
      else; and poultry that all seemed troubled with the pip.

      The very bailiff’s followers were shocked at the emptiness of the
      larders. A shank bone of salt meat dangling from the ceiling, a
      few eggs on a shelf, a loaf of bread in a bowl, a pound of butter
      in a pie-dish,—the whole thing looking as unlike the plentiful
      profusion of a farm-house as could well be imagined.

      The arduous duties of the office, combined with the difficulty of
      pleasing Sir Moses, at length compelled Mr. Teaser to resign,
      when our “laird,” considering the nature of the services required
      concluded that there could be no one so fit to fulfil them as one
      of the “peoplish.” Accordingly he went to town, and after
      Consulting Levy this, and “Goodman” that, and Ephraim t’other, he
      at length fixed upon that promising swell, young Mr. Mordecai
      Nathan, of Cursitor-street, whose knowledge of the country
      consisted in having assisted in the provincial department of his
      father’s catchpoll business in the glorious days of writs and
      sponging-houses.

      In due time down came Mordecai, ringed and brooched and chained
      and jewelled, and as Sir Moses was now the great man, hunting the
      country, associating with Lord Oilcake, and so on, he gave
      Mordecai a liberal salary, four-hundred a year made up in the
      following clerical way:

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      Besides, which, Sir Moses promised him ten per cent, upon all
      recovered arrears, which set Mordecai to work with all the
      enthusiastic energy of his race.



      CHAPTER XXX. COMMERCE AND AGRICULTURE.

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      ONE of the most distinguishing features between commerce and
      agriculture undoubtedly is the marked indifference shown to the
      value of time by the small followers of the latter, compared to
      the respectful treatment it receives at the hands of the members
      of the commercial world. To look at their relative movements one
      would think that the farmer was the man who carried on his
      business under cover, instead of being the one who exposes all
      his capital to the weather. It is a rare thing to see a
      farmer—even in hay time—in a hurry. If the returns could be
      obtained we dare say it would be found that three-fourths of the
      people who are late for railway trains are farmers.

      In these accelerated days, when even the very street waggon
      horses trot, they are the only beings whose pace has not been
      improved. The small farmer is just the same slowly moving
      dawdling creature that he was before the perfection of steam.
      Never punctual, never ready, never able to give a direct answer
      to a question; a pitchfork at their backs would fail to push some
      of these fellows into prosperity. They seem wholly lost to that
      emulative spirit which actuates the trader to endeavour to make
      each succeeding year leave him better than the last. A farmer
      will be forty years on a farm without having benefited himself,
      his family, his landlord, or any human being whatever. The last
      year’s tenancy will find him as poor as the first, with, in all
      probability, his land a great deal poorer. In dealing, a small
      farmer is never happy without a haggle. Even if he gets his own
      price he reproaches hiself when he returns home with not having
      asked a little more, and so got a wrangle. Very often, however,
      they outwit themselves entirely by asking so much more than a
      thing is really worth, that a man who knows what he is about, and
      has no hopes of being able to get the sun to stand still,
      declines entering upon an apparently endless negotiation.

      See lawyer Hindmarch coming up the High Street at Halterley fair,
      leading his great grey colt, with his landlord Sir Moses hailing
      him with his usual “Well my man, how d’ye do? I hope you’re well,
      how much for the colt?”

      The lawyer’s keen intellect—seeing that it is his landlord, with
      whom he is well over the left—springs a few pounds upon an
      already exorbitant price, and Sir Moses, who can as he says,
      measure the horse out to ninepence, turns round on his heel with
      a chuck of his chin, as much as to say, “you may go on.” Then the
      lawyer relenting says, “w—h—o—y, but there’ll be summit to return
      upon that, you know, Sir Moses, Sir.”

      “I should think so,” replies the Baronet, walking away, to “Well
      my man—how d’ye do? I hope you’re well,” somebody else.

      A sale by auction of agricultural stock illustrates our position
      still further, and one remarkable feature is that the smaller the
      sale the more unpunctual people are. They seldom get begun under
      a couple of hours after the advertised time, and then the
      dwelling, the coaxing, the wrangling, the “puttings-up” again,
      the ponderous attempts at wit are painful and oppressive to any
      one accustomed to the easy gliding celerity of town auctioneers.
      A conference with a farmer is worse, especially if the party is
      indiscreet enough to let the farmer come to him instead of his
      going to the farmer.

      The chances, then, are, that he is saddled with a sort of old man
      of the sea; as a certain ambassador once was with a gowk of an
      Englishman, who gained an audience under a mistaken notion, and
      kept sitting and sitting long after his business was discussed,
      in spite of his Excellency’s repeated bows and intimations that
      he might retire.

      Gowk seemed quite insensible to a hint. In vain his Excellency
      stood bowing and bowing—hoping to see him rise. No such luck. At
      length his Excellency asked him if there was anything else he
      could do for him?

      “Why, noa.” replied Gowk drily; adding after a pause, “but you
      haven’t asked me to dine.”

      “Oh, I beg your pardon!” replied his Excellency, “I wasn’t aware
      that it was in my instructions, but I’ll refer to them and see,”
      added he, backing out of the room.

      Let us fancy old Heavyheels approaching his landlord, to ask if
      he thinks they are gannin to get a new barrun, or anything else
      he may happen to want, for these worthies have not discovered the
      use of the penny-post, and will trudge any distance to deliver
      their own messages. Having got rolled into the room, the first
      thing Heels does is to look out for a seat, upon which he squats
      like one of Major Yammerton’s hares, and from which he is about
      as difficult to raise. Instead of coming out with his question as
      a trader would, “What’s rum? what’s sugar? what’s indigo?” he
      fixes his unmeaning eyes on his landlord, and with a heavy
      aspiration, and propping his chin up with a baggy umbrella,
      ejaculates—“_N-o-o_,” just as if his landlord had sent for him
      instead of his having come of his own accord.

      “Well!” says the landlord briskly, in hopes of getting him on.

      “It’s a foine day,” observes Heavyheels, as if he had nothing
      whatever on his mind, and so he goes maundering and sauntering
      on, wasting his own and his landlord’s time, most likely ending
      with some such preposterous proposition as would stamp any man
      for a fool if it wasn’t so decidedly in old Heavyheel’s own
      favour.

      To give them their due, they are never shy about asking, and have
      always a host of grievances to bait a landlord with who gives
      them an opportunity. Some of the women—we beg their pardon—ladies
      of the establishments, seem to think that a landlord rides out
      for the sake of being worried, and rush at him as he passes like
      a cur dog at a beggar.

      Altogether they are a wonderful breed! It will hardly be credited
      hereafter, when the last of these grubbing old earthworms is
      extinct, that in this anxious, commercial, money-striving
      country, where every man is treading on his neighbour’s heels for
      cash, that there should ever have been a race of men who required
      all the coaxing and urging and patting on the back to induce them
      to benefit themselves that these slugs of small tenant farmers
      have done. And the bulk of them not a bit better for it. They say
      “y-e-a-s,” and go and do the reverse directly.

      Fancy our friend Goodbeer, the brewer, assembling his tied
      Bonnifaces at a banquet consisting of all the delicacies of the
      season—beef, mutton, and cheese, as the sailor said—and after
      giving the usual loyal and patriotic toasts, introducing his
      calling in the urgent way some landlords do theirs—pointing out
      that the more swipes they sell the greater will be their profit,
      recommending them to water judiciously, keeping the capsicum out
      of sight, and, in lieu of some new implement of husbandry,
      telling them that a good, strong, salt Dutch cheese, is found to
      be a great promoter of thirst, and recommending each man to try a
      cheese on himself—perhaps ending by bowling one at each of them
      by way of a start.

      But some will, perhaps, say that the interests of the landlord
      and tenant-farmer are identical, and that you cannot injure the
      latter without hurting the former.

      Not more identical, we submit, than the interests of Goodbeer
      with the Bonnifaces; the land is let upon a calculation what each
      acre will produce, just as Goodbeer lets a public-house on a
      calculation founded on its then consumption of malt liquor; and
      whatever either party makes beyond that amount, either through
      the aid of guano, Dutch cheese, or what not, is the tenant’s. The
      only difference we know between them is, that Goodbeer, being a
      trader, will have his money to the day; while in course of time
      the too easy landlord’s rent has become postponed to every other
      person’s claim. It is, “O, it will make ne matter to you, Sir
      Moses,” with too many of them.

      Then, if that convenient view is acquiesced in, the party
      submitting is called a “good landlord” (which in too many
      instances only means a great fool), until some other favour is
      refused, when the hundredth one denied obliterates the
      recollection of the ninety-nine conferred, and he sinks into a
      “rank bad un.” The best landlord, we imagine, is he who lets his
      land on fair terms, and keeps his tenants well up to the mark
      both with their farming and their payments. At present the
      landlords are too often a sort of sleeping partners with their
      tenants, sharing with them the losses of the bad years without
      partaking with them in the advantages of the good ones.

      “Ah, it’s all dom’d well,” we fancy we hear Sir Moses Mainchance
      exclaim, “saying, ‘keep them up to the mark,’ but how d’ye do it?
      how d’ye do it? can you bind a weasel? No man’s tried harder than
      I have!”

      We grant that it is difficult, but agriculture never had such
      opportunities as it has now. The thing is to get rid of the
      weasels, and with public companies framed for draining, building,
      doing everything that is required without that terrible
      investigation of title, no one is justified in keeping his
      property in an unproductive state. The fact is that no man of
      capital will live in a cottage, the thing therefore is to lay a
      certain number of these small holdings together, making one good
      farm of them all, with suitable buildings, and, as the saying is,
      let the weasels go to the wall. They will be far happier and more
      at home with spades or hoes in their hands, than in acting a part
      for which they have neither capital, courage, nor capacity.
      Fellows take a hundred acres who should only have five, and
      haven’t the wit to find out that it is cheaper to buy manure than
      to rent land.

      This is not a question of crinoline or taste that might be
      advantageously left to Mrs. Pringle; but is one that concerns the
      very food and well being of the people, and landlords ought not
      to require coaxing and patting on the back to induce them to
      partake of the cheese that the commercial world offers them. Even
      if they are indifferent about benefiting themselves they should
      not be regardless of the interests for their country. But there
      are very few people who cannot spend a little more money than
      they have. Let them “up then and at” the drainage companies, and
      see what wonders they’ll accomplish with their aid!

      We really believe the productive powers of the country might be
      quadrupled.



      CHAPTER XXXI. SIR MOSES’S MENAGE.—DEPARTURE OF FINE BILLY.

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      SIR MOSES, being now a magnate of the land, associating with Lord
      Oilcake, Lord Repartee, Sir Harry Fuzball and other great dons,
      of course had to live up to the mark, an inconvenient arrangement
      for those who do not like paying for it, and the consequence was
      that he had to put up with an inferior article.—take first-class
      servants who had fallen into second-class circumstances. He had a
      ticket-of-leave butler, a _delirium tremens_ footman, and our old
      friend pheasant-feathers, now calling herself Mrs. Margerum, for
      cook and house-keeper. And first, of the butler. He was indeed a
      magnificent man, standing six feet two and faultlessly
      proportioned, with a commanding presence of sufficient age to awe
      those under him, and to inspire confidence in an establishment
      with such a respectable looking man at the head. Though so
      majestic, he moved noiselessly, spoke in a whisper, and seemed to
      spirit the things off the table without sound or effort. Pity
      that the exigencies of gambling should have caused such an
      elegant man to melt his master’s plate, still greater that he
      should have been found out and compelled to change the faultless
      white vest of upper service for the unbecoming costume of prison
      life. Yet so it was: and the man who was convicted as Henry
      Stopper, and sentenced to fourteen years’ transportation, emerged
      at the end of four with a ticket-of-leave, under the assumed name
      of Demetrius Bankhead. Mr. Bankhead, knowing the sweets of
      office, again aspired to high places, but found great difficulty
      in suiting himself, indeed in getting into service at all.

      People who keep fine gentlemen are very chary and scrupulous whom
      they select, and extremely inquisitive and searching in their
      inquiries.

      In vain Mr. Bankhead asserted that he had been out of health and
      living on the Continent, or that he had been a partner in a
      brewery which hadn’t succeeded, or that his last master was
      abroad he didn’t know where, and made a variety of similar
      excuses.

      Though many fine ladies and gentlemen were amazingly taken with
      him at first, and thought he would grace their sideboards
      uncommonly, they were afraid to touch for fear “all was not
      right.”

      Then those of a lower grade, thought he wouldn’t apply to them
      after having lived in such high places as he described, and this
      notwithstanding Bankhead’s plausible assertion, that he wished
      for a situation in a quiet regular family in the country, where
      he could get to bed at a reasonable hour, instead of being kept
      up till he didn’t know when. He would even come upon trial, if
      the parties liked, which would obviate all inquiries about
      character; just as if a man couldn’t run off with the plate the
      first day as well as the last.

      Our readers, we dare say, know the condescending sort of
      gentleman “who will accept of their situations,” and who
      deprecate an appeal to their late masters by saying in an
      airified sort of way, with a toss of the head or a wave of the
      hand, that they told his Grace or Sir George they wouldn’t
      trouble to ask them for characters. Just as if the Duke or Sir
      George were infinitely beneath their notice or consideration.

      And again the sort of men who flourish a bunch of testimonials,
      skilfully selecting the imposing passages and evading the want of
      that connecting link upon which the whole character depends, and
      who talk in a patronising way of “poor lord this,” or “poor Sir
      Thomas that,” and what they would have done for them if they had
      been alive, poor men!

      Mr. Demetrius Bankhead tried all the tricks of the trade—we beg
      pardon—profession—wherever he heard of a chance, until hope
      deferred almost made his noble heart sick. The “puts off” and
      excuses he got were curiously ingenious. However, he was pretty
      adroit himself, for when he saw the parties were not likely to
      bite, he anticipated a refusal by respectfully declining the
      situation, and then saying that he might have had so and so’s
      place, only he wanted one where he should be in town half the
      year, or that he couldn’t do with only one footman under him.

      It was under stress of circumstances that Sir Moses Mainchance
      became possessed of Mr. Bankhead’s services. He had kicked his
      last butler (one of the fine characterless sort) out of the house
      for coming in drunk to wait at dinner, and insisting upon putting
      on the cheese first with the soup, then with the meat, then with
      the sweets, and lastly with the dessert; and as Sir Moses was
      going to give one of his large hunt dinners shortly after, it
      behoved him to fill up the place—we beg pardon—office—as quickly
      as possible. To this end he applied to Mrs. Listener, the
      gossiping Register Office-keeper of Hinton, a woman well
      calculated to write the history of every family in the county,
      for behind her screen every particular was related, and Mrs.
      Listener, having paraded all the wretched glazey-clothed,
      misshapen creatures that always turn up on such occasions, Sir
      Moses was leaving after his last visit in disgust, when Mr.
      Bankhead walked in—“quite promiscuous,” as the saying is, but by
      previous arrangement with Mrs. Listener. Sir Moses was struck
      with Bankhead’s air and demeanour, so quiet, so respectful,
      raising his hat as he met Sir Moses at the door, that he jumped
      to the conclusion that he would do for him, and returning shortly
      after to Mrs. Listener, he asked all the usual questions, which
      Mrs. Listener cleverly evaded, merely saying that he professed to
      be a perfect butler, and had several most excellent testimonials,
      but that it would be much better for Sir Moses to judge for
      himself, for really Mrs. Listener had the comfort of Sir Moses so
      truly at heart that she could not think of recommending any one
      with whom she was not perfectly conversant, and altogether she
      palavered him so neatly, always taking care to extol Bankhead’s
      personal appearance as evidence of his respectability, that the
      baronet was fairly talked into him, almost without his knowing
      it, while Mrs. Listener salved her own conscience with the
      reflection that it was Sir Moses’s own doing, and that the bulk
      of his plate was “Brummagem” ware—and not silver. So the
      oft-disappointed ticket-of-leaver was again installed in a
      butlers pantry. And having now introduced him, we will pass over
      the delirium tremens footman and arrive at that next important
      personage in an establishment, the housekeeper, in this case our
      old friend pheasant’s-feathers. Mrs. Margerum, late Sarey Grimes,
      the early coach companion and confidante of our fair friend Mrs.
      Pringle—had undergone the world’s “ungenerous scorn,” as well for
      having set up an adopted son, as for having been turned away from
      many places for various domestic peculations. Mrs. Margerum,
      however, was too good a judge to play upon anything that anybody
      could identify, consequently though she was often caught, she
      always had an answer, and would not unfrequently turn the tables
      on her accusers—lawyer Hindmarch like—and make them pay for
      having been robbed. No one knew better than Mrs. Margerum how
      many feathers could be extracted from a bed without detection,
      what reduction a horse-hair mattress would stand, or how to make
      two hams disappear under the process of frying one. Indeed she
      was quite an adept in housekeeping, always however preferring to
      live with single gentlemen, for whom she would save a world of
      trouble by hiring all the servants, thus of course having them
      well under her thumb.

      Sir Moses having suffered severely from waste, drunkenness and
      incapacity, had taken Mrs. Margerum on that worst of all
      recommendations, the recommendation of another servant—viz., Lord
      Oilcake’s cook, for whom Mrs. Margerum had done the out-door
      carrying when in another situation. Mrs. Margerum’s long career,
      coupled with her now having a son equal to the out-door
      department, established a claim that was not to be resisted when
      his lordship’s cook had a chance, on the application of Sir
      Moses, of placing her.

      Mrs. Margerum entered upon her duties at Pangburn Park, with the
      greatest plausibility, for not content with the usual finding
      fault with all the acts of her predecessors, she absolutely
      “reformed the butcher’s bills,” reducing them nearly a pound
      a-week below what they had previously been, and showed great
      assiduity in sending in all the little odds and ends of good
      things that went out. To be sure the hams disappeared rather
      quickly, but then they _do_ cut so to waste in frying, and the
      cows went off in their milk, but cows are capricious things, and
      Mrs. Hindmarch and she had a running account in the butter and
      egg line, Mrs. Hindmarch accommodating her with a few pounds of
      butter and a few score of eggs when Sir Moses had company, Mrs.
      Margerum repaying her at her utmost convenience, receiving the
      difference in cash, the repayment being always greatly in excess
      of the advance. Still as Mrs. Margerum permitted no waste, and
      allowed no one to rob but herself, the house appeared to be
      economically kept, and if Sir Moses didn’t think that she was a
      “charming woman,” he at all events considered he was a most
      fortunate man, and felt greatly indebted to Lord Oilcake’s cook
      for recommending her—“dom’d if he didn’t.”

      But though Mrs. Margerum kept the servants well up to their tea
      and sugar allowances, she granted them every indulgence in the
      way of gadding about, and also in having their followers,
      provided the followers didn’t eat, by which means she kept the
      house quiet, and made her reign happy and prosperous.

      Being in full power when Mr. Bankhead came, she received him with
      the greatest cordiality, and her polite offer of having his
      clothes washed in Sir Moses’s laundry being accepted, of course
      she had nothing to fear from Mr. Bankhead. And so they became as
      they ought to be, very good friends—greatly to Sir Moses’s
      advantage.

      Now for the out-door department of Sir Moses’s ménage. The
      hunting establishment was of the rough and ready order, but still
      the hounds showed uncommon sport, and if the horses were not
      quite up to the mark, that perhaps was all in favour of the
      hounds. The horses indeed were of a very miscellaneous order—all
      sorts, all sizes, all better in their wind than on their
      legs—which were desperately scored and iron-marked. Still the
      cripples could go when they were warm, and being ridden by men
      whose necks were at a discount, they did as well as the best.
      There is nothing like a cheap horse for work.

      Sir Moses’s huntsman was the noted Tom Findlater, a man famous
      for everything in his line except sobriety, in which little item
      he was sadly deficient. Tom would have been quite at the top of
      the tree if it hadn’t been for this unfortunate infirmity. “The
      crittur,” as a Scotch huntsman told Sir Moses at Tattersall’s,
      “could no keep itself sober.” To show the necessities to which
      this degrading propensity reduces a man, we will quote Tom’s
      description of himself when he applied to be discharged under the
      Insolvent Debtors’ Act before coming to Sir Moses. Thus it
      ran—“John Thomas Findlater known also as Tom Find’ater, formerly
      huntsman to His Grace the Duke of Streamaway, of Streamaway
      Castle, in Streamaway-shire, then of No. 6, Back Row,
      Broomsfield, in the county of Tansey, helper in a livery stable,
      then huntsman to Sampson Cobbyford, Esq., of Bluntfield Park,
      master of the Hugger Mugger hounds in the county of
      Scramblington, then huntsman to Sir Giles Gatherthrong, Baronet,
      of Clipperley Park, in the county of Scurry, then huntsman to the
      Right Honourable Lord Lovedale, of Gayhurst Court, in the county
      of Tipperley, then of No. 11, Tan Yard Lane, Barrenbin, in the
      county of Thistleford, assistant to a ratcatcher, then huntsman
      to Captain Rattlinghope, of Killbriton Castle, in the County
      Steepleford, then whipper-in to the Towrowdeshire hounds in
      Derrydownshire, then helper at the Lion and the Lamb public-house
      at Screwford, in the County of Mucklethrift, then of 6 1/2 Union
      Street, in Screwford, aforesaid, moulder to a clay-pipe maker,
      then and now out of business and employ, and whose wife is a
      charwoman.”

      Such were the varied occupations of a man, who might have lived
      like a gentleman, if he had only had conduct. There is no finer
      place than that of a huntsman, for as Beckford truly says, his
      office is pleasing and at the same time flattering, he is paid
      for that which diverts him, nor is a general after a victory more
      proud, than is a huntsman who returns with his fox’s head.

      When Sir Moses fell in with Tom Findlater down Tattersall’s
      entry, Tom was fresh from being whitewashed in the Insolvent
      Debtors’ Court, and having only ninepence in the world, and what
      he stood up in, he was uncommonly good to deal with. Moreover,
      Sir Moses had the vanity to think that he could reclaim even the
      most vicious; and, provided they were cheap enough, he didn’t
      care to try. So, having lectured Tom well on the importance of
      sobriety, pointing out to him the lamentable consequences of
      drunkenness—of which no one was more sensible than Tom—Sir Moses
      chucked him a shilling, and told him if he had a mind to find his
      way down to Pangburn Park, in Hit-im-and-Hold-im shire, he would
      employ him, and give him what he was worth; with which vague
      invitation Tom came in the summer of the season in which we now
      find him.

      And now having sketched the ménage, let us introduce our friend
      Billy thereto. But first we must get him out of the dangerous
      premises in which he is at present located—a visit that has
      caused our handsome friend Mrs. Pringle no little uneasiness.

      It was fortunate for Sir Moses Mainchance, and unfortunate for
      our friend Fine Billy, that the Baronet was a bachelor, or Sir
      Moses would have fared very differently at the hands of the
      ladies who seldom see much harm in a man so long as he is single,
      and, of course, refrains from showing a decided preference for
      any young lady. It is the married men who monopolise all the vice
      and improprieties of life. The Major, too, having sold Billy a
      horse, and got paid for him, was not very urgent about his
      further society at present, nor indisposed for a little quiet,
      especially as Mrs. Yammerton represented that the napkins and
      table-linen generally were running rather short. Mamma, too,
      knowing that there would be nothing but men-parties at Pangburn
      Park, had no uneasiness on that score, indeed rather thought a
      little absence might be favourable, in enabling Billy to modify
      his general attentions in favour of a single daughter, for as yet
      he had been extremely dutiful in obeying his Mamma’s injunctions
      not to be more agreeable to one sister than to another. Indeed,
      our estimable young friend did not want to be caught, and had
      been a good deal alarmed at the contents of his Mamma’s last
      letter.

      One thing, however, was settled, namely, that Billy was to go to
      the Park, and how to get there was the next consideration; for,
      though the Baronet had offered to convey him in the first
      instance, he had modified the offer into the loan of the gig at
      the last, and there would be more trouble in sending a horse to
      fetch it, than there would be in starting fair in a hired horse
      and vehicle from Yammerton Grange. The ready-witted Major,
      however, soon put matters right.

      “I’ll te te tell you wot,” said he, “you can do. You can have old
      Tommy P-p-plumberg, the registrar of b-b-births, deaths, and
      marriages, t-t-trap for a trifle—s-s-say, s-s-seven and
      sixpence—only you must give him the money as a p-p-present, you
      know, not as it were for the hire, or the Excise would be down
      upon him for the du-du-duty, and p-p-p’raps fine him into the
      b-b-bargain.”

      Well, that seemed all right and feasible enough, and most likely
      would have been all right if Monsieur had proposed it; but,
      coming from master, of course Monsieur felt bound to object.

      “It vouldn’t hold alf a quarter their things,” he said; “besides,
      how de deuce were they to manage with de horse?”

      The Major essayed to settle that, too. There would be no occasion
      for Mr. Pringle to take all his things with him, as he hoped he
      would return to them from Sir Moses’s and have another turn with
      the haryers—try if they couldn’t circumvent the old hare that had
      beat them the other day, and the thing would be for Mr. Pringle
      to ride his horse quietly over, Monsieur going in advance with
      the gig, and having all things ready against Mr. Pringle arrived;
      for the Major well knew that the Baronet’s promises were not to
      be depended upon, and would require some little manouvering to
      get carried out, especially in the stable department.

      Still there was a difficulty—Monsieur couldn’t drive. No, by his
      vord, he couldn’t drive. He was _valet-de-chambre_, not coachman
      or grum, and could make nothing of horses. Might know his ear
      from his tail, but dat was all. Should be sure to opset, and
      p’raps damage his crown. (Jack wanted to go in a carriage and
      pair.) Well, the Major would accommodate that too. Tom Cowlick,
      the hind’s lad at the farm, should act the part of charioteer,
      and drive Monsieur, bag, baggage and all. And so matters were
      ultimately settled, it never occurring to Billy to make the
      attempt on the Major’s stud that the Baronet proposed, in the
      shape of borrowing a second horse, our friend doubtless thinking
      he carried persecution enough in his own nag. The knotty point of
      transit being settled, Billy relapsed into his usual easy languor
      among the girls, while Monsieur made a judicious draft of clothes
      to take with them, leaving him a very smart suit to appear in at
      church on Sunday, and afterwards ride through the county in. We
      will now suppose the dread hour of departure arrived.

      It was just as Mrs. Pringle predicted! There were the red
      eye-lids and laced kerchiefs, and all the paraphernalia of
      leave-taking, mingled with the hopes of Major and Mrs. Yammerton,
      that Billy would soon return (after the washing, of course); for,
      in the language of the turf, Billy was anybody’s game, and one
      sister had just as good a right to red eye-lids as another.

      Having seen Billy through the ceremony of leave-taking, the Major
      then accompanied him to the stable, thinking to say a word for
      himself and his late horse ‘ere they parted. After admiring
      Napoleon the Great’s condition, as he stood turned round in the
      stall ready for mounting, the Major observed casually, “that he
      should not be surprised if Sir Moses found fault with that ‘oss.”

      “Why?” asked Billy, who expected perfection for a hundred
      guineas.

      “D-d-don’t know,” replied the Major, with a Jack Rogers’ shrug of
      the shoulders. “D-d-don’t know, ‘cept that Sir Moses seldom says
      a good word for anybody’s ‘oss but his own.”

      The clothes being then swept over the horse’s long tail into the
      manger, he stepped gaily out, followed by our friend and his
      host.

      “I thought it b-b-better to send your servant on,” observed the
      Major confidentially, as he stood eyeing the gay deceiver of a
      horse: “for, between ourselves, the Baronet’s stables are none of
      the best, and it will give you the opportunity of getting the
      pick of them.”

      “Yarse,” replied Billy, who did not enter into the delicacies of
      condition.

      “That ho-ho-horse requires w-w-warmth,” stuttered the Major, “and
      Sir Moses’s stables are both d-d-damp and d-d-dirty;” saying
      which, he tendered his ungloved hand, and with repeated hopes
      that Billy would soon return, and wishes for good sport, not
      forgetting compliments to the Baronet, our hero and his host at
      length parted for the present.

      And the Major breathed more freely as he saw the cock-horse
      capering round the turn into the Helmington road.



      CHAPTER XXXII. THE BAD STABLE; OR, “IT’S ONLY FOR ONE NIGHT.”


      FROM Yammerton Grange to Pangburn Park is twelve miles as the
      crow flies, or sixteen by the road. The Major, who knows every
      nick and gap in the country, could ride it in ten or eleven; but
      this species of knowledge is not to be imparted to even the most
      intelligent head. Not but what the Major tried to put it into
      Billy’s, and what with directions to keep the Helmington road
      till he came to the blacksmith’s shop, then to turn up the
      crooked lane on the left, leaving Wanley windmill on the right,
      and Altringham spire on the left, avoiding the village of
      Rothley, then to turn short at Samerside Hill, keeping Missleton
      Plantations full before him, with repeated assurances that he
      couldn’t miss his way, he so completely bewildered our friend,
      that he was lost before he had gone a couple of miles. Then came
      the provoking ignorance of country life,—the counter-questions
      instead of answers,—the stupid stare and tedious drawl, ending,
      perhaps, with “ars a stranger,” or may be the utter negation of a
      place within, perhaps, a few miles of where the parties live.
      Billy blundered and blundered; took the wrong turning up the
      crooked lane, kept Wanley windmill on the left instead of the
      right, and finally rode right into the village of Rothley, and
      then began asking his way. It being Sunday, he soon attracted
      plenty of starers, such an uncommon swell being rare in the
      country; and one told him one way; another, another; and then the
      two began squabbling as to which was the right one, enlisting of
      course the sympathies of the bystanders, so that Billy’s progress
      was considerably impeded. Indeed, he sometimes seemed to recede
      instead of advance, so contradictory were the statements as to
      distance, and the further be went the further he seemed to have
      to go.

      If Sir Moses hadn’t been pretty notorious as well from hunting
      the country as from his other performances, we doubt whether
      Billy would have reached Pangburn Park that night. As it was, Sir
      Moses’s unpopularity helped Billy along in a growling uncivil
      sort of way, so different to the usual friendly forwarding that
      marks the approach to a gentleman’s house in the country.



      243m


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      “Ay, ay, that’s the way,” said one with a sneer. “What, you’re
      gannin to him—are ye?” asked another, in a tone that as good as
      said, I wouldn’t visit such a chap. “Aye, that’s the way—straight
      on, through Addingham town”—for every countryman likes to have
      his village called a town—“straight on through Addingham town,
      keep the lane on the left, and then when ye come to the beer-shop
      at three road ends, ax for the Kingswood road, and that’ll lead
      ye to the lodges.”

      All roads are long when one has to ask the way—the distance seems
      nearly double in going to a place to what it does in returning,
      and Billy thought he never would get to Pangburn Park. The shades
      of night, too, drew on—Napoleon the Great had long lost his
      freedom and gaiety of action, and hung on the bit in a heavy
      listless sort of way. Billy wished for a policeman to protect and
      direct him. Lights began to be scattered about the country, and
      day quickly declined in favour of night. The darkening mist
      gathered perceptibly. Billy longed for those lodges of which he
      had heard so much, but which seemed ever to elude him. He even
      appeared inclined to compound for the magnificence of two by
      turning in at Mr. Pinkerton’s single one. By the direction of the
      woman at this one, he at length reached the glad haven, and
      passing through the open portals was at length in Pangburn Park.
      The drab-coloured road directed him onward, and Billy being
      relieved from the anxieties of asking his way, pulled up into a
      walk, as well to cool his horse as to try and make out what sort
      of a place he had got to. With the exception, however, of the
      road, it was a confused mass of darkness, that might contain
      trees, hills, houses, hay-stacks, anything. Presently the
      melodious cry of hounds came wafted on the southerly breeze,
      causing our friend to shudder at the temerity of his undertaking.
      “Drat these hounds,” muttered he, wishing he was well out of the
      infliction, and as he proceeded onward the road suddenly divided,
      and both ways inclining towards certain lights, Billy gave his
      horse his choice, and was presently clattering on the pavement of
      the court-yard of Pangburn Park.

      Sir Moses’s hospitality was rather of a spurious order; he would
      float his friends with claret and champagne, and yet grudge their
      horses a feed of corn. Not but that he was always extremely
      liberal and pressing in his offers, begging people would bring
      whatever they liked, and stay as long as they could, but as soon
      as his offers were closed with, he began to back out. Oh, he
      forgot! he feared he could only take in one horse; or if he could
      take in a horse he feared he couldn’t take in the groom. Just as
      he offered to lend Billy his gig and horse and then reduced the
      offer into the loan of the gig only. So it was with the promised
      two-stalled stable. When Monsieur drove, or rather was driven,
      with folded arms into the court-yard, and asked for his “me lors
      stable,” the half-muzzy groom observed with a lurch and a hitch
      of his shorts, that “they didn’t take in (hiccup) osses
      there—leastways to stop all night.”

      “Vell, but you’ll put up me lor Pringle’s,” observed Jack with an
      air of authority, for he considered that he and his master were
      the exceptions to all general rules.

      “Fear we can’t (hiccup) it,” replied the blear-eyed caitiff; “got
      as many (hiccup) osses comin to-night as ever we have room for.
      Shall have to (hiccup) two in a (hiccup) as it is” (hiccup).

      “Oh, you can stow him away somewhere,” now observed Mr. Demetrius
      Bankhead, emerging from his pantry dressed in a pea-green
      wide-awake, a Meg Merrilies tartan shooting-jacket, a
      straw-coloured vest, and drab pantaloons.

      “You’ll be Mr. Pringle’s gentleman, I presume,” observed
      Bankhead, now turning and bowing to Jack, who still retained his
      seat in the gig.

      “I be, sare,” replied Jack, accepting the proffered hand of his
      friend.

      “Oh, yes, you’ll put him up somewhere, Fred,” observed Bankhead,
      appealing again to the groom, “he’ll take no harm anywhere,”
      looking at the hairy, heated animal, “put ‘im in the empty
      cow-house,” adding “it’s only for one night—only for one night.”

      “O dis is not the quadruped,” observed Monsieur, nodding at the
      cart mare before him, “dis is a job beggar vot ve can kick out at
      our pleasure, but me lor is a cornin’ on his own proper cheval,
      and he vill vant space and conciliation.”

      “Oh, we’ll manage him somehow,” observed Bankhead confidently,
      “only we’ve a large party to-night, and want all the spare stalls
      we can raise, but they’ll put ‘im up somewhere,” added he,
      “they’ll put ‘im up somewhere,” observing as before, “it’s only
      for one night—only for one night. Now won’t you alight and walk
      in,” continued he, motioning Monsieur to descend, and Jack having
      intimated that his lor vould compliment their politeness if they
      took vell care of his ‘orse, conceived he had done all that a
      faithful domestic could under the circumstances, and leaving the
      issue in the hands of fate, alighted from his vehicle, and
      entering by the back way, proceeded to exchange family
      “particulars” with Mr. Bankhead in the pantry.

      Now the Pangburn Park stables were originally very good, forming
      a crescent at the back of the house, with coach-houses and
      servants’ rooms intervening, but owing to the trifling
      circumstance of allowing the drains to get choked, they had
      fallen into disrepute. At the back of the crescent were some
      auxiliary stables, worse of course than the principal range, into
      which they put night-visitors’ horses, and those whose owners
      were rash enough to insist upon Sir Moses fulfilling his offers
      of hospitality to them. At either end of these latter were loose
      boxes, capable of being made into two-stalled stables, only these
      partitions were always disappearing, and the roofs had long
      declined turning the weather; but still they were better than
      nothing, and often formed receptacles for sly cabby’s, or
      postboys who preferred the chance of eleemosynary fare at Sir
      Moses’s to the hand in the pocket hospitality of the Red Lion, at
      Fillerton Hill, or the Mainchance Arms, at Duckworth Bridge. Into
      the best of these bad boxes the gig mare was put, and as there
      was nothing to get in the house, Tom Cowlick took his departure
      as soon as she had eaten her surreptitious feed of oats. The
      pampered Napoleon the Great, the horse that required all the
      warmth and coddling in the world, was next introduced, fine Billy
      alighting from his back in the yard with all the unconcern that
      he would from one of Mr. Splint’s or Mr. Spavins’s week day or
      hour jobs. Indeed, one of the distinguishing features between the
      new generation of sportsmen and the old, is the marked
      indifference of the former to the comforts of their horses
      compared to that shown by the old school, who always looked to
      their horses before themselves, and not unfrequently selected
      their inns with reference to the stables. Now-a-days, if a youth
      gives himself any concern about the matter, it will often only be
      with reference to the bill, and he will frequently ride away
      without ever having been into the stable. If, however, fine Billy
      had seen his, he would most likely have been satisfied with the
      comfortable assurance that it was “only for one night,” the old
      saying, “enough to kill a horse,” leading the uninitiated to
      suppose that they are very difficult to kill.

      “Ah, my dear Pringle!” exclaimed Sir Moses, rising from the
      depths of a rather inadequately stuffed chair (for Mrs. Margerum
      had been at it). “Ah, my dear Pringle, I’m delighted to see you!”
      continued the Baronet, getting Billy by both hands, as the
      noiseless Mr. Bankhead, having opened the library door, piloted
      him through the intricacies of the company. Our host really was
      glad of a new arrival, for a long winter’s evening had exhausted
      the gossip of parties who in a general way saw quite enough, if
      not too much, of each other. And this is the worst of country
      visiting in winter; people are so long together that they get
      exhausted before they should begin.

      They have let off the steam of their small talk, and have nothing
      left to fall back upon but repetition. One man has told what
      there is in the “Post,” another in “Punch,” a third in the “Mark
      Lane Express,” and then they are about high-and-dry for the rest
      of the evening. From criticising Billy, they had taken to
      speculating upon whether he would come or not, the odds—without
      which an Englishmen can do nothing—being rather in favour of Mrs.
      Yammerton’s detaining him. It was not known that Monsieur Rougier
      had arrived. The mighty problem was at length solved by the
      Richest Commoner in England appearing among them, and making the
      usual gyrations peculiar to an introduction. He was then at
      liberty for ever after to nod or speak or shake hands with or bow
      to Mr. George and Mr. Henry Waggett, of Kitteridge Green, both
      five-and-twenty pound subscribers to the Hit-im and Hold-im-shire
      hounds, to Mr. Stephen Booty, of Verbena Lodge, who gave ten
      pounds and a cover, to Mr. Silverthorn, of Dryfield, who didn’t
      give anything, but who had two very good covers which he had been
      hinting he should require to be paid for,—a hint that had
      procured him the present invitation, to Mr. Strongstubble, of
      Buckup Hill, and Mr. Tupman, of Cowslip Cottage, both very good
      friends to the sport but not “hand in the pocket-ites,” to Mr.
      Tom Dribbler, Jun., of Hardacres, and his friend Captain
      Hurricane, of Her Majesty’s ship Thunderer, and to Mr. Cuthbert
      Flintoff, commonly called Cuddy Flintoff, an “all about”
      sportsman, who professed to be of all hunts but blindly went to
      none. Cuddy’s sporting was in the past tense, indeed he seemed to
      exist altogether upon the recollections of the chace, which must
      have made a lively impression upon him, for he was continually
      interlarding his conversation with view holloas, yoicks wind
      ‘ims! yoick’s push ‘im ups! Indeed, in walking about he seemed to
      help himself along with the aid of for-rardson! for-rards on! so
      that a person out of sight, but within hearing, would think he
      was hunting a pack of hounds.

      He dressed the sportsman, too, most assiduously, bird’s-eye
      cravats, step-collared striped vests, green or Oxford-grey
      cutaways, with the neatest fitting trousers on the best bow-legs
      that ever were seen. To see him at Tattersall’s sucking his cane,
      his cheesy hat well down on his nose, with his stout,
      well-cleaned doe-skin gloves, standing criticising each horse, a
      stranger would suppose that he lived entirely on the saddle,
      instead of scarcely ever being in one. On the present occasion,
      as soon as he got his “bob” made to our Billy, and our hero’s
      back was restored to tranquillity, he at him about the
      weather,—how the moon looked, whether there were any symptoms of
      frost, and altogether seemed desperately anxious about the
      atmosphere. This inquiry giving the conversation a start in the
      out-of-doors line, was quickly followed by Sir Moses asking our
      Billy how he left the Major, how he found his way there, with
      hopes that everything was comfortable, and oh! agonising promise!
      that he would do his best to show him sport.

      The assembled guests then took up the subject of their
      “magnificent country” generally, one man lauding its bottomless
      brooks, another its enormous bullfinches, a third its terrific
      stone walls, a fourth its stupendous on-and-offs, a fifth its
      flying foxes, and they unanimously resolved that the man who
      could ride over Hit-im and Hold-im-shire could ride over any
      country in the world. “_Any country in the world!_” vociferated
      Cuddy, slowly and deliberately, with a hearty crack of his fat
      thigh. And Billy, as he sat listening to their dreadful recitals,
      thought that he _had_ got into the lion’s den with a vengeance.
      Most sincerely he wished himself back at the peaceful pursuits of
      Yammerton Grange. Then, as they were in full cry with their
      boasting eulogiums, the joyful dressing-bell rang, and Cuddy
      Flintoff putting his finger in his ear, as if to avoid deafening
      himself, shrieked, “_hoick halloa! hoick!_” in a tone that almost
      drowned the sound of the clapper. Then when the “ticket of
      leaver” and the _delirium tremens_ footman appeared at the door
      with the blaze of bedroom candles, Cuddy suddenly turned
      whipper-in, and working his right arm as if he were cracking a
      whip, kept holloaing, “_get away hoick! get away hoick!_” until
      he drove Billy and Baronet and all before him.

      ****


      “Rum fellow that,” observed the Baronet, now showing Billy up to
      his room, as soon as he had got sufficient space put between them
      to prevent Cuddy hearing, “Rum fellow that,” repeated he, not
      getting a reply from our friend, who didn’t know exactly how to
      interpret the word “rum.”

      “That fellow’s up to everything,—cleverest fellow under the sun,”
      continued Sir Moses, now throwing open the door of an evident
      bachelor’s bed-room. Not but that it was one of the best in the
      house, only it was wretchedly furnished, and wanted all the
      little neatnesses and knic-knaceries peculiar to a lady-kept
      house. The towels were few and flimsy, the soap hard and dry,
      there was a pincushion without pins, a portfolio without paper, a
      grate with a smoky fire, while the feather-bed and mattress had
      been ruthlessly despoiled of their contents. Even the imitation
      maple-wood sofa on which Billy’s dress-clothes were now laid, had
      not been overlooked, and was as lank and as bare as a third-rate
      Margate lodging-house, one—all ribs and hollows.

      “Ah, there you are!” exclaimed Sir Moses, pointing to the
      garments, “There you are!” adding, “You’ll find the bell at the
      back of your bed,” pointing to one of the old smothering order of
      four-posters with its dyed moreen curtains closely drawn, “You’ll
      find the bell at the back of the bed, and when you come down we
      shall be in the same room as we were before.” So saying, the
      Baronet retired, leaving our Billy to commence operations.



      CHAPTER XXXIII. SIR MOSES’S SPREAD.

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      WE dare pay it has struck such of our readers as have followed
      the chace for more than the usual average allowance of three
      seasons, that hunts flourish most vigorously where there is a
      fair share of hospitality, and Sir Moses Mainchance was quite of
      that opinion. He found it answered a very good purpose as well to
      give occasional dinners at home as to attend the club meetings at
      Hinton. To the former he invited all the elite of his field, and
      such people as he was likely to get anything out of while the
      latter included the farmers and yeomen, the Flying Hatters, the
      Dampers, and so on, whereby, or by reason or means whereof, as
      the lawyers say, the spirit of the thing was well sustained. His
      home parties were always a great source of annoyance to our
      friend Mrs. Margerum, who did not like to be intruded upon by the
      job cook (Mrs. Pomfret, of Hinton), Mrs. Margerum being in fact
      more of a housekeeper than a cook, though quite cook enough for
      Sir Moses in a general way, and perhaps rather too much of a
      housekeeper for him—had he but known it. Mrs. Pomfret, however,
      being mistress of Mrs. Margerum’s secret (viz., who got the
      dripping), the latter was obliged to “put up” with her, and
      taking her revenge by hiding her things, and locking up whatever
      she was likely to want. Still, despite of all difficulties, Mrs.
      Pomfret, when sober, could cook a very good dinner, and as Sir
      Moses allowed her a pint of rum for supper, she had no great
      temptation to exceed till then. She was thought on this occasion,
      if possible, to surpass herself, and certainly Sir Moses’s dinner
      contrasted very favourably with what Billy Pringle had been
      partaking of at our friend Major Yammerton’s, whose cook had more
      energy than execution. In addition to this, Mr. Bankhead plied
      the fluids most liberally, as the feast progressed, so that what
      with invitations to drink, and the regular course of the tide,
      the party were very happy and hilarious.

      Then, after dinner, the hot chestnuts and filberts and anchovy
      toasts mingling with an otherwise excellent desert flavoured the
      wine and brought out no end of “yoicks wind ‘ims” and aspirations
      for the morrow. They all felt as if they could ride—Billy and
      all!

      “Not any more, thank you,” being at length the order of the day,
      a move was made back to the library, a drawing-room being a
      superfluous luxury where there is no lady, and tea and coffee
      were rung for. A new subject of conversation was wanted, and
      Monsieur presently supplied the deficiency.

      “That’s a Frenchman, that servant of yours, isn’t he, Pringle?”
      asked Sir Moses, when Monsieur retired with the tray.

      “Yarse,” replied Billy, feeling his trifling moustache after its
      dip in the cup.

      “Thought so,” rejoined Sir Moses, who prided himself upon his
      penetration. “I’ll have a word with him when he comes in again,”
      continued he.

      Tea followed quickly on the heels of coffee, Monsieur coming in
      after Bankhead. Monsieur now consequentially drank, and dressed
      much in the manner that he is in the picture of the glove scene
      at Yammerton Grange.

      “_Ah, Monsieur! comment vous portez-vous?_” exclaimed the
      Baronet, which was about as much French as he could raise.

      “Pretty middlin’, tenk you, sare,” replied Jack, bowing and
      grinning at the compliment.

      “What, you speak English, do you?” asked the Baronet, thinking he
      might as well change the language.

      “I spake it, sare, some small matter, sare,” replied Jack, with a
      shrug of his shoulders—“Not nothing like my modder’s tongue, you
      knows.”

      “Ah! you speak it domd well,” replied Sir Moses. “Let you and I
      have a talk together. Tell me, now, were you ever out hunting?”

      _Jean Rougier_. “Oh, yes, sare, I have been at the chasse of de
      small dicky-bird—tom-tit—cock-robin—vot you call.”

      _Sir Moses_ (laughing). “No, no, that is not the sort of chace I
      mean; I mean, have you ever been out fox-hunting?”

      _Jean Rougier_ (confidentially). “Nevare, sare—nevare.”

      Sir Moses. “Ah, my friend, then you’ve a great pleasure to come
      to—a great pleasure to come to, indeed. Well, you’re a domd good
      feller, and I’ll tell you what I’ll do—I’ll tell you what I’ll
      do—I’ll mount you to-morrow—domd if I won’t—you shall ride my old
      horse, Cockatoo—carry you beautifully. What d’ye ride? Thirteen
      stun, I should say,” looking Jack over, “quite up to that—quite
      up to that—stun above it, for that matter. You’ll go streaming
      away like a bushel of beans.”

      “Oh, sare, I tenk you, sare,” replied Jack, “but I have not got
      my hunting apparatus—my mosquet—my gun, my—no, not notin at all.”

      “Gun!” exclaimed Sir Moses, amidst the laughter of the company.
      “Why, you wouldn’t shoot the fox, would ye?”

      “_Certainement_” replied Jack. “I should pop him over.”

      “Oh, the devil!” exclaimed Sir Moses, throwing up his hands in
      astonishment. “Why, man, we keep the hounds on purpose to hunt
      him.”

      “Silly fellers,” replied Jack, “you should pepper his jacket.”

      “Ah, Monsieur, I see you have a deal to learn,” rejoined Sir
      Moses, laughing. “However, it’s never too late to begin—never too
      late to begin, and you shall take your first lesson to-morrow.
      I’ll mount you on old Cockatoo, and you shall see how we manage
      these matters in England.”

      “Oh, sare, I tenk you moch,” replied Jack, again excusing
      himself. “But I have not got no breeches, no boot-jacks—no notin,
      _comme il faut_.”

      “I’ll lend you everything you want,—a boot-jack and all,” replied
      Sir Moses, now quite in the generous mood.

      “Ah, sare, you are vare beautiful, and I moch appreciate your
      benevolence; bot I sud not like to risk my neck and crop outside
      an unqualified, contradictory quadruped.”

      “Nothing of the sort!” exclaimed Sir Moses, “nothing of the sort!
      He’s the quietest, gentlest crittur alive—a child might ride him,
      mightn’t it, Cuddy?”

      “Safest horse under the sun,” replied Cuddy Flintoff,
      confidently. “Don’t know such another. Have nothing to do but sit
      on his back, and give him his head, and he’ll take far better
      care of you than you can of him. He’s the nag to carry you close
      up to their stems. _Ho-o-i-ck, forrard, ho-o-i-ck!_ Dash my
      buttons, Monsieur, but I think I see you sailing away. Shouldn’t
      be surprised if you were to bring home the brush, only you’ve got
      one under your nose as it is,” alluding to his moustache.

      Jack at this looked rather sour, for somehow people don’t like to
      be laughed at; so he proceeded to push his tray about under the
      guests’ noses, by way of getting rid of the subject. He had no
      objection to a hunt, and to try and do what Cuddy Flintoff
      predicted, only he didn’t want to spoil his own clothes, or be
      made a butt of. So, having had his say, he retired as soon as he
      could, inquiring of Bankhead, when he got out, who that porky old
      fellow with the round, close-shaven face was.

      When the second flight of tea-cups came in, Sir Moses was seated
      on a hardish chaise longue, beside our friend Mr. Pringle, to
      whom he was doing the agreeable attentive host, and a little of
      the inquisitive stranger; trying to find out as well about the
      Major and his family, as about Billy himself, his friends and
      belongings. The Baronet had rather cooled on the subject of
      mounting Monsieur, and thought to pave the way for a back-out.

      “That’s a stout-built feller of yours,” observed he to Billy,
      kicking up his toe at Jack as he passed before them with the
      supplementary tray of cakes and cream, and so on.

      “Yarse,” drawled Billy, wondering what matter it made to Sir
      Moses.

      “Stouter than I took him for,” continued the Baronet, eyeing
      Jack’s broad back and strong undersettings. “That man’ll ride
      fourteen stun, I dessay.”

      Billy had no opinion on the point so began admiring his pretty
      foot; comparing it with Sir Moses’s, which was rather thick and
      clumsy.

      The Baronet conned the mount matter over in his mind; the man was
      heavy; the promised horse was old and weak; the country deep, and
      he didn’t know that Monsieur could ride,—altogether he thought it
      wouldn’t do. Let his master mount him if he liked, or let him
      stay at home and help Bankhead with the plate, or Peter with the
      shoes. So Sir Moses settled it in his own mind, as far as he was
      concerned, at least, and resumed his enquiries of our Billy.
      Which of the Miss Yammertons he thought the prettiest, which sang
      the best, who played the harp, if the Major indulged him with
      much hare-soup, and then glanced incidentally at his stud, and
      Bo-Peep.

      He then asked him about Lord Ladythorne; if it was true that Mrs.
      Moffatt and he quarrelled; if his lordship wasn’t getting rather
      slack; and whether Billy didn’t think Dicky Boggledale an old
      woman, to which latter interrogatory he replied, “Yarse,”—he
      thought he was, and ought to be drafted.

      While the _tête-à-tête_ was going on, a desultory conversation
      ensued among the other guests in various parts of the room, Mr.
      Booty button-holeing Captain Hurricane, to tell him a capital
      thing out of “Punch,” and receiving in return an exclamation
      of—“Why, man, I told you that myself before dinner.” Tom Dribbler
      going about touching people up in the ribs with his thumb,
      inquiring with a knowing wink of his eye, or a jerk of his head,
      “Aye, old feller, how goes it;” which was about the extent of
      Tom’s conversational powers. Henry Waggett talking “wool” to Mr.
      Tupman; while Cuddy Flintoff kept popping out every now and then
      to look at the moon, returning with a “hoick wind ‘im; ho-ick!”
      or—


“A southerly wind and a cloudy sky, Proclaimeth a hunting morning.”

      Very cheering the assurance was to our friend Billy Pringle, as
      the reader may suppose; but he had the sense to keep his feelings
      to himself.

      At length the last act of the entertainment approached, by the
      door flying open through an invisible agency, and the _delirium
      tremens_ footman appearing with a spacious tray, followed by
      Bankhead and Monsieur, with “Cardigans” and other the materials
      of “night-caps,” which they placed on the mirth-promoting circle
      of a round table. All hands drew to it like blue-bottle-flies to
      a sugar-cask, as well to escape from themselves and each other,
      as to partake of the broiled bones, and other the good things
      with which the tray was stored.

      “Hie, worry! worry! worry!” cried Cuddy Flintoff, darting at the
      black bottles, for he dearly loved a drink, and presently had a
      beaker of brandy, so strong, that as Silverthorn said, the spoon
      almost stood upright in it.

      “Let’s get chairs!” exclaimed he, turning short round on his
      heel: “let’s get chairs, and be snug; it’s as cheap sitting as
      standing,” so saying, he wheeled a smoking chair up to the table,
      and was speedily followed by the rest of the party, with various
      shaped seats. Then such of the guests as wanted to shirk drinking
      took whiskey or gin, which they could dilute as much as they
      chose; while those who didn’t care for showing their predilection
      for drink, followed Cuddy’s example, and made it as strong as
      they liked. This is the time that the sot comes out
      undisguisedly. The form of wine-drinking after dinner is mere
      child’s play in their proceedings: the spirit is what they go
      for.

      At length sots and sober ones were equally helped to their
      liking; and, the approving sips being taken, the other great want
      of life—tobacco—then became apparent.

      “Smoking allowed here,” observed Cuddy Flintoff, diving into his
      side-pocket for a cigar, adding, as he looked at the wretched old
      red chintz-covered furniture, which, not even the friendly light
      of the _moderateur_ lamps could convert into anything
      respectable: “No fear of doing any harm here, I think?”

      So the rest of the company seemed to think, for there was
      presently a great kissing of cigar-ends and rising of clouds, and
      then the party seeming to be lost in deep reveries. Thus they sat
      for some minutes, some eyeing their cocked-up toes, some the
      dirty ceiling, others smoking and nursing their beakers of spirit
      on their knees.

      At length Tom Dribbler gave tongue—“What time will the hounds
      leave the kennel in the morning, Sir Moses?” asked he.

      “Hoick to Dribbler! Hoick!” immediately cheered Cuddy—as if
      capping the pack to a find.

      “Oh, why, let me see,” replied Sir Moses, filliping the ashes off
      the end of his cigar—“Let me see,” repeated he—“Oh—ah—tomorrow’s
      Monday; Monday, the Crooked Billet—Crooked Billet—nine
      miles—eight through Applecross Park; leave here at nine—ten to
      nine, say—nothing like giving them plenty of time on the road.”

      “Nothing,” assented Cuddy Flintoff, taking a deep drain at his
      glass, adding, as soon as he could get his nose persuaded to come
      out of it again, “I _do_ hate to see men hurrying hounds to cover
      in a morning.”

      “No fear of mine doing that,” observed Sir Moses, “for I always
      go with them myself when I can.”

      “Capital dodge, too,” assented Cuddy, “gets the fellers past the
      public houses—that drink’s the ruin of half the huntsmen in
      England;” whereupon he took another good swig.

      “Then, Monsieur, and you’ll all go together, I suppose,”
      interrupted Dribbler, who wanted to see the fun.

      “Monsieur, Monsieur—oh, ah, that’s my friend Pringle’s valet,”
      observed Sir Moses, drily; “what about him?”

      “Why he’s going, isn’t he?” replied Dribbler.

      “Oh, poor fellow, no,” rejoined Sir Moses; “he doesn’t want to
      go—it’s no use persecuting a poor devil because a Frenchman.”

      “But I dare say he’d enjoy it very much,” observed Dribbler.

      “Well, then, will you mount him?” asked Sir Moses.

      “Why I thought _you_ were going to do it,” replied Dribbler.

      “_Me_ mount him!” exclaimed Sir Moses, throwing out his ringed
      hands in well-feigned astonishment, as if he had never made such
      an offer—“_Me_ mount him! why, my dear fellow, do you know how
      many people I have to mount as it is? Let me tell you,” continued
      he, counting them off on his fingers, “there’s Tom, and there’s
      Harry, and there’s Joe, and there’s the pad-groom and myself,
      five horses out every day—generally six, when I’ve a hack—six
      horses a day, four days a week—if that isn’t enough, I don’t know
      what is—dom’d if I do,” added he, with a snort and a determined
      jerk of his head.

      “Well, but we can manage him a mount among us, somehow, I dare
      say,” persevered Dribbler, looking round upon the now partially
      smoke-obscured company.

      “Oh no, let him alone, poor fellow; let him alone,” replied Sir
      Moses, coaxingly, adding, “he evidently doesn’t wish to
      go—evidently doesn’t wish to go.”

      “I don’t know that,” exclaimed Cuddy Flintoff, with a knowing
      jerk of his head; “I don’t know that—I should say he’s rather a
      y-o-o-i-cks wind ‘im! y-o-i-eks push ‘im up! sort of chap.” So
      saying, Cuddy drained his glass to the dregs.

      “I should say you’re rather a y-o-i-eks wind ‘im—y-o-i-cks drink
      ‘im up sort of chap,” replied Sir Moses, at which they all
      laughed heartily.

      Cuddy availed himself of the _divertissement_ to make another
      equally strong brew—saying, “It was put there to drink, wasn’t
      it?” at which they all laughed again.

      Still there was a disposition to harp upon the hunt—Dribbler tied
      on the scent, and felt disposed to lend Jack a horse if nobody
      else would. So he threw out a general observation, that he
      thought they could manage a mount for Monsieur among them.

      “Well, but perhaps his master mayn’t, like it,” suggested Sir
      Moses, in hopes that Billy would come to the rescue.

      “O, I don’t care about it,” replied Billy, with an air of
      indifference, who would have been glad to hunt by deputy if he
      could, and so that chance fell to the ground.

      “_Hoick to Governor! Hoick to Governor!_” cheered Cuddy at the
      declaration. “Now who’ll lend him a horse?” asked he, taking up
      the question. “What say you, Stub?” appealing to Mr.
      Strongstubble, who generally had more than he could ride.

      “He’s such a beefey beggar,” replied Strongstubble, between the
      whiffs of a cigar.

      “Oh, ah, and a Frenchman too!” interposed Sir Moses, “he’ll have
      no idea of saving a horse, or holding a horse together, or making
      the most of a horse.”

      “Put him on one that ‘ll take care of himself,” suggested Cuddy;
      “there’s your old Nutcracker horse, for instance,” added he,
      addressing himself to Harry Waggett.

      “Got six drachms of aloes,” replied Waggett, drily.

      “Or your Te-to-tum, Booty,” continued Cuddy, nothing baffled by
      the failure.

      “Lame all round,” replied Booty, following suit.

      “Hut you and your lames,” rejoined Cuddy, who knew better—“I’ll
      tell you what you must do then, Tommy,” continued he, addressing
      himself familiarly to Dribbler, “you must lend him your old
      kicking chestnut—the very horse for a Frenchman,” added Cutty,
      slapping his own tight-trousered leg—“you send the Shaver to the
      Billet in the morning along with your own horse, and old Johnny
      Crapaud will manage to get there somehow or other—walk if he
      can’t ride: shoemaker’s pony’s very safe.”

      “Oh, I’ll send him in my dog-cart if that’s all,” exclaimed Sir
      Moses, again waxing generous.

      “That ‘ll do! That ‘ll do!” replied Cuddy, appealing triumphantly
      to the brandy. Then as the out-door guests began to depart, and
      the in-door ones to wind up their watches and ask about
      breakfast, Cuddy took advantage of one of Sir Moses’ momentary
      absences in the entrance hall to walk off to bed with the
      remainder of the bottle of brandy, observing, as he hurried away,
      that he was “apt to have spasms in the night”; and Sir Moses,
      thinking he was well rid of him at the price, went through the
      ceremony of asking the “remanets” if they would take any more,
      and being unanimously answered in the negative, he lit the
      bedroom candles, turned off the _modérateurs_, and left the room
      to darkness and to Bankhead.



      CHAPTER XXXIV. GOING TO COVER WITH THE HOUNDS.


      HOW different a place generally proves to what we anticipate, and
      how difficult it is to recall our expectations after we have once
      seen it, unless we have made a memorandum beforehand. How
      different again a place looks in the morning to what we have
      conjectured over-night. What we have taken for towers perhaps
      have proved to be trees, and the large lake in front a mere
      floating mist.

      Pangbum Park had that loose rakish air peculiar to rented places,
      which carry a sort of visible contest between landlord and tenant
      on the face of everything. A sort of “it’s you to do it, not me”
      look. It showed a sad want of paint and maintenance generally.
      Sir Moses wasn’t the man to do anything that wasn’t absolutely
      necessary, “Dom’d if he was,” so inside and outside were pretty
      much alike.

      Our friend Billy Pringle was not a man of much observation in
      rural matters, though he understood the cut of a coat, the tie of
      a watch-ribbon cravat, or the fit of a collar thoroughly. We are
      sorry to say he had not slept very well, having taken too much
      brandy for conformity’s sake, added to which his bed was hard and
      knotty, and the finely drawn bolsters and pillows all piled
      together, were hardly sufficient to raise his throbbing temples.
      As he lay tossing and turning about, thinking now of Clara
      Yammerton’s beautiful blue eyes and exquisitely rounded figure,
      now of Flora’s bright hair, or Harriet’s graceful form, the dread
      Monsieur entered his shabbily furnished bed-room, with, “Sare, I
      have de pleasure to bring you your pink to-day,” at once
      banishing the beauties and recalling the over-night’s
      conversation, the frightful fences, the yawning ditches, the
      bottomless brooks, with the unanimous declaration that the man
      who could ride over Hit-im and Hold-im-shire could ride over any
      country in the world. And Billy really thought if he could get
      over the horrors of that day he would retire from the purgatorial
      pleasures of the chace altogether.



      259m


      _Original Size_


      With this wise resolution he jumped out of bed with the vigorous
      determination of a man about to take a shower-bath, and proceeded
      to invest himself in the only mitigating features of the chace,
      the red coat and leathers. He was hardly well in them before a
      clamorous bell rang for breakfast, quickly followed by a knock at
      the door, announcing that it was on the table.

      Sir Moses was always in a deuce of a hurry on a hunting morning.
      Our hero was then presently performing the coming downstairs feat
      he is represented doing at page 147. and on reaching the lower
      regions he jumped in with a dish of fried ham which led him
      straight to the breakfast room.

      Here Sir Moses was doing all things at once, reading the “Post,”
      blowing his beak, making the tea, stirring the fire, crumpling
      his envelopes, cussing the toast, and doming the footman, to
      which numerous avocations he now added the pleasing one of
      welcoming our Billv.

      “Well done you! First down, I do declare!” exclaimed he,
      tendering him his left hand, his right one being occupied with
      his kerchief. “Sit down, and let’s be at it,” continued he,
      kicking a rush-bottomed chair under Billy as it were, adding
      “never wait for any man on a hunting morning.” So saying, he
      proceeded to snatch an egg, in doing which he upset the
      cream-jug. “Dom the thing,” growled he, “what the deuce do they
      set it there for. D’ye take tea?” now asked he, pointing to the
      tea-pot with his knife—“or coffee?” continued he, pointing to the
      coffee-pot with his fork, “or both praps,” added he, without
      waiting for an answer to either question, but pushing both pots
      towards his guest, following up the advance with ham, eggs,
      honey, buns, butter, bread, toast, jelly, everything within
      reach, until he got Billy fairly blocked with good things, when
      he again set-to on his own account, munching and crunching, and
      ended by nearly dragging all the contents of the table on to the
      floor by catching the cloth with his spur as he got up to go
      away.

      He then went doming and scuttling out of the room, charging Billy
      if he meant to go with the hounds to “look sharp.”

      During his absence Stephen Booty and Mr. Silverthorn came
      dawdling into the room, taking it as easy as men generally do who
      have their horses on and don’t care much about hunting.

      Indeed Silverthorn never disguised that he would rather have his
      covers under plough than under gorse, and was always talking
      about the rent he lost, which he estimated at two pounds an acre,
      and Sir Moses at ten shillings.

      Finding the coast clear, they now rang for fresh ham, fresh eggs,
      fresh tea, fresh everything, and then took to pumping Billy as to
      his connection with the house, Sir Moses having made him out over
      night to be a son of Sir Jonathan Pringle’s, with whom he
      sometimes claimed cousinship, and they wanted to get a peep at
      the baronetage if they could. In the midst of their subtle
      examination, Sir Moses came hurrying back, whip in one hand, hat
      in the other, throwing open the door, with, “Now, are you ready?”
      to Billy, and “morning, gentlemen,” to Booty and Silverthorn.

      Then Billy rose with the desperate energy of a man going to a
      dentist’s, and seizing his cap and whip off the entrance table,
      followed Sir Moses through the intricacies of the back passages
      leading to the stables, nearly falling over a coal-scuttle as he
      went. They presently changed the tunnel-like darkness of the
      passage into the garish light of day, by the opening of the dirty
      back door.

      Descending the little flight of stone steps, they then entered
      the stable-yard, now enlivened with red coats and the usual
      concomitants of hounds leaving home. There was then an increased
      commotion, stable-doors flying open, from which arch-necked
      horses emerged, pottering and feeling for their legs as they
      went. Off the cobble-stone pavement, and on to the grass grown
      soft of the centre, they stood more firm and unflinching. Then
      Sir Moses took one horse, Tom Findlater another, Harry the first
      whip a third, Joe the second whip a fourth, while the blue-coated
      pad groom came trotting round on foot from the back stables,
      between Sir Moses’s second horse and Napoleon the Great.

      Billy dived at his horse without look or observation, and the
      clang of departure being now at its height, the sash of a
      second-floor window flew up, and a white cotton night-capped head
      appeared bellowing out, “_Y-o-i-cks wind ‘im! y-o-i-cks push ‘im
      up!_” adding, “_Didn’t I tell ye_ it was going to be a hunting
      morning?”

      “Ay, ay, Cuddy you did,” replied Sir Moses laughing, muttering as
      he went: “That’s about the extent of your doings.”

      “He’ll be late, won’t he?” asked Billy, spurring up alongside of
      the Baronet.

      “Oh, he’s only an afternoon sportsman that,” replied Sir Moses;
      adding, “he’s greatest after dinner.”

      “Indeed!” mused Billy, who had looked upon him with the respect
      due to a regular flyer, a man who could ride over Hit-im and
      Hold-im-shire itself.

      The reverie was presently interrupted by the throwing open of the
      kennel door, and the clamorous rush of the glad pack to the
      advancing red coats, making the green sward look quite gay and
      joyful.

      “Gently, there! gently!” cried Tom Findlater, and first and
      second whips falling into places, Tom gathered his horse together
      and trotted briskly along the side of the ill-kept carriage road,
      and on through the dilapidated lodges: a tattered hat protruding
      through the window of one, and two brown paper panes supplying
      the place of glass in the other. They then got upon the high
      road, and the firy edge being taken off both hounds and horses,
      Tom relaxed into the old post-boy pace, while Sir Moses proceeded
      to interrogate him as to the state of the kennel generally, how
      Rachael’s feet were, whether Prosperous was any better, if
      Abelard had found his way home, and when Sultan would be fit to
      come out again.

      They then got upon other topics connected with the chace, such
      as, who the man was that Harry saw shooting in Tinklerfield
      cover; if Mrs Swan had said anything more about her confounded
      poultry; and whether Ned Smith the rat-catcher would take half a
      sovereign for his terrier or not.

      Having at length got all he could out of Tom, Sir Moses then let
      the hounds flow past him, while he held back for our Billy to
      come up. They were presently trotting along together a little in
      the rear of Joe, the second whip.

      “I’ve surely seen that horse before,” at length observed Sir
      Moses, after a prolonged stare at our friend’s steed.

      “Very likely,” replied Billy, “I bought him of the Major.”

      “The deuce you did!” exclaimed Sir Moses, “then that’s the horse
      young Tabberton had.”

      “What, you know him, do you?” asked Billy.

      “Know him! I should think so,” rejoined Moses; “everybody knows
      him.”

      “Indeed!” observed Billy, wondering whether for good or evil.

      “I dare say, now, the Major would make you give thirty, or
      five-and-thirty pounds for that horse,” observed Sir Moses, after
      another good stare.

      “Far more!” replied Billy, gaily, who was rather proud of having
      given a hundred guineas.

      “Far more!” exclaimed Sir Moses with energy; “far more! Ah!”
      added he, with a significant shake of the head, “he’s an
      excellent man, the Major—an excellent man,—but a _leet_le too
      keen in the matter of horses.”

      Just at this critical moment Tommy Heslop of Hawthorndean, who
      had been holding back in Crow-Tree Lane to let the hounds pass,
      now emerged from his halting-place with a “Good morning, Sir
      Moses, here’s a fine hunting morning?”

      “Good morning, Tommy, good morning,” replied Sir Moses, extending
      his right hand; for Tommy was a five-and-twenty pounder besides
      giving a cover, and of course was deserving of every
      encouragement.

      The salute over, Sir Moses then introduced our friend Billy,—“Mr.
      Pringle, a Featherbedfordshire gentleman, Mr. Heslop,” which
      immediately excited Tommy’s curiosity—not to say jealousy—for the
      “Billet” was very “contagious,” for several of the Peer’s men,
      who always brought their best horses, and did as much mischief as
      they could, and after ever so good a run, declared it was nothing
      to talk of. Tommy thought Billy’s horse would not take much
      cutting down, whatever the rider might do. Indeed, the good steed
      looked anything but formidable, showing that a bad stable, though
      “only for one night,” may have a considerable effect upon a
      horse. His coat was dull and henfeathered; his eye was watery,
      and after several premonitory sneezes, he at length mastered a
      cough. Even Billy thought he felt rather less of a horse under
      him than he liked. Still he didn’t think much of a cough. “Only a
      slight cold,” as a young lady says when she wants to go to a
      ball.

      Three horsemen in front, two black coats and a red, and two reds
      joining the turnpike from the Witch berry road, increased the
      cavalcade and exercised Sir Moses’ ingenuity in appropriating
      backs and boots and horses. “That’s Simon Smith,” said he to
      himself, eyeing a pair of desperately black tops dangling below a
      very plumb-coloured, long-backed, short-lapped jacket. “Ah! and
      Tristram Wood,” added he, now recognising his companion. He then
      drew gradually upon them and returned their salutes with an
      extended wave of the hand that didn’t look at all like money. Sir
      Moses then commenced speculating on the foremost group. There was
      Peter Linch and Charley Drew; but who was the fellow in black? He
      couldn’t make out.

      “Who’s the man in black, Tommy?” at length asked he of Tommy
      Heslop.

      “Don’t know,” replied Tommy, after scanning the stranger
      attentively.

      “It can’t be that nasty young Rowley Abingdon; and yet I believe
      it is,” continued Sir Moses, eyeing him attentively, and seeing
      that he did not belong to the red couple, who evidently kept
      aloof from him. “It is that nasty young Abingdon,” added he.
      “Wonder at his impittance in coming out with me. It’s only the
      other day that ugly old Owl of a father of his killed me young
      Cherisher, the best hound in my pack,” whereupon the Baronet
      began grinding his teeth, and brewing a little politeness
      wherewith to bespatter the young Owl as he passed. The foremost
      horses hanging back to let their friends the hounds overtake
      them, Sir Moses was presently alongside the black coat, and
      finding he was right in his conjecture as to who it contained, he
      returned the youth’s awkward salute with, “Well, my man, how d’ye
      do? hope you’re well. How’s your father? hope he’s well,” adding,
      “dom ‘im, he should be hung, and you may tell ‘im I said so.” Sir
      Moses then felt his horse gently with his heel, and trotted on to
      salute the red couple. And thus he passed from singles to
      doubles, and from doubles to triples, and from triples to
      quartets, and back to singles again, including the untold
      occupants of various vehicles, until the ninth milestone on the
      Bushmead road, announced their approach to the Crooked Billet.
      Tom Findlater then pulled up from the postboy jog into a wallk,
      at which pace he turned into the little green field on the left
      of the blue and gold swinging sign. Here he was received by the
      earthstopper, the antediluvian ostler, and other great officers
      of state. But for Sir Moses’ presence the question would then
      have been “What will you have to drink?” That however being
      interdicted, they raised a discussion about the weather, one
      insisting that it was going to be a frost; another, that it was
      going to be nothing of the sort.



      CHAPTER XXXV. THE MEET.


      THE Crooked Billet Hotel and Posting house, on the Bushmead road
      had been severed from society by the Crumpletin Railway. It had
      indeed been cut off in the prime of life: for Joe Cherriper, the
      velvet-collared doeskin-gloved Jehu of the fast Regulator Coach,
      had backed his opinion of the preference of the public for horse
      transit over steam, by laying out several hundred pounds of his
      accumulated fees upon the premises, just as the surveyors were
      setting out the line.

      “A rally might be andy enough for goods and eavy marchandise,”
      Joe said; “but as to gents ever travellin’ by sich contraband
      means, that was utterly and entirely out of the question. Never
      would appen so long as there was a well-appointed coach like the
      Regulator to be ad.” So Joe laid on the green paint and the white
      paint, and furbished up the sign until it glittered resplendent
      in the rays of the mid-day sun. But greater prophets than Joe
      have been mistaken.

      One fine summer’s afternoon a snorting steam-engine came puffing
      and panting through the country upon a private road of its own,
      drawing after it the accumulated rank, beauty, and fashion of a
      wide district to open the railway, which presently sucked up all
      the trade and traffic of the country. The Crooked Billet fell
      from a first-class way-side house at which eight coaches changed
      horses twice a-day, into a very seedy unfrequented place—a very
      different one to what it was when our hero’s mother, then Miss
      Willing, changed horses on travelling up in the Old True Blue
      Independent, on the auspicious day that she captured Mr. Pringle.
      Still it was visited with occasional glimpses of its former
      greatness in the way of the meets of the hounds, when the stables
      were filled, and the long-deserted rooms rang with the revelry of
      visitors. This was its first gala-day of the season, and several
      of the Featherbedfordshire gentlemen availed themselves of the
      fineness of the weather to see Sir Moses’ hounds, and try whether
      they, too, could ride over Hit-im and Hold-im shire.

      The hounds had scarcely had their roll on the greensward, and old
      black Challenger proclaimed their arrival with his usual
      deep-toned vehemence, ere all the converging roads and lanes
      began pouring in their tributaries, and the space before the
      bay-windowed red brick-built “Billet” was soon blocked with
      gentlemen on horseback, gentlemen in Malvern dog-carts, gentlemen
      in Newport Pagnells, gentlemen in Croydon clothesbaskets, some
      divesting themselves of their wraps, some stretching themselves
      after their drive, some calling for brandy, some for baccy, some
      for both brandy and baccy.

      Then followed the usual inquiries, “Is Dobbinson coming?”

      “Where’s the Damper?”

      “Has anybody seen anything of Gameboy Green?” Next, the heavily
      laden family vehicles began to arrive, containing old fat
      _paterfamilias_ in the red coat of his youth, with his “missis”
      by his side, and a couple of buxom daughters behind, one of whom
      will be installed in the driving seat when papa resigns. Thus we
      have the Mellows of Mawdsley Hill, the Chalkers of Streetley, and
      the Richleys of Jollyduck Park, and the cry is still, “They come!
      they come!” It is going to be a bumper meet, for the foxes are
      famous, and the sight of a good “get away” is worth a dozen
      Legers put together.

      See here comes a nice quiet-looking little old gentleman in a
      well-brushed, flat-brimmed hat, a bird’s-eye cravat, a dark grey
      coat buttoned over a step-collared toilanette vest, nearly
      matching in line his delicate cream-coloured leathers, who
      everybody stares at and then salutes, as he lifts first one
      rose-tinted top and then the other, working his way through the
      crowd, on a thorough-bred snaffle-bridled bay. He now makes up to
      Sir Moses, who exclaims as the raised hat shows the familiar
      blue-eyed face, “Ah! Dicky my man! how d’ye do? glad to see you?”
      and taking off his glove the Baronet gives our old friend
      Boggledike a hearty shake of the hand. Dicky acknowledges the
      honour with becoming reverence, and then begins talking of sport
      and the splendid runs they have been having, while Sir Moses,
      instead of listening, cons over some to give him in return.

      But who have we here sitting so square in the tandem-like
      dogcart, drawn by the high-stepping, white-legged bay with
      sky-blue rosettes, and long streamers, doing the pride that apes
      humility in a white Macintosh, that shows the pink collar to
      great advantage? Imperial John, we do believe?

      Imperial John, it is! He has come all the way from Barley Hill
      Hall, leaving the people on the farm and the plate in the
      drawing-room to take care of themselves, starting before
      daylight, while his footman groom has lain out over night to the
      serious detriment of a half sovereign. As John now pulls up, with
      a trace-rattling ring, he cocks his Imperial chin and looks round
      for applause—a “Well done, you!” or something of that sort, for
      coming such a distance. Instead of that, a line of winks, and
      nods, and nudges, follow his course, one man whispering another,
      “I say, here’s old Imperial John,” or “I say, look at Miss de
      Glancey’s boy;” while the young ladies turn their eyes languidly
      upon him to see what sort of a hero the would-be Benedict is. His
      Highness, however, has quite got over his de Glancey failure, and
      having wormed his way after divers “with your leaves,” and “by
      your leaves,” through the intricacies of the crowd, he now pulls
      up at the inn door, and standing erect in his dog-cart, sticks
      his whip in the socket, and looks around with a “This is Mr.
      Hybrid the-friend-of-an-Earl” sort of air.

      “Ah! Hybrid, how d’ye do?” now exclaims Sir Moses familiarly;
      “hope you’re well?—how’s the Peer? hope he’s well. Come all the
      way from Barley Hill?”

      “Barley Hill _Hall_,” replies the great man with an emphasis on
      the Hall, adding in the same breath, “Oi say, ostler, send moy
      fellow!” whereupon there is a renewed nudging and whispering
      among the ladies beside him, of “That’s Mr. Hybrid!”

      “That’s Imperial John, the gentleman who wanted to marry Miss de
      Glancey for though Miss de Glancey was far above having him, she
      was not above proclaiming the other.”

      His Highness then becomes an object of inquisitive scrutiny by
      the fair; one thinking he might do for Lavinia Edwards; another,
      for Sarah Bates; a third, for Rachel Bell; a fourth, perhaps, for
      herself. It must be a poor creature that isn’t booked for
      somebody.

      Still, John stands erect in his vehicle, flourishing his whip,
      hallooing and asking for his fellow.

      “Ring the bell for moy fellow!—Do go for moy fellow!—Has anybody
      seen moy fellow? Have you seen moy fellow?” addressing an old
      smock-frocked countryman with a hoe in his hand.

      “Nor, arm d—d if iver ar i did!” replied the veteran, looking him
      over, a declaration that elicited a burst of laughter from the
      bystanders, and an indignant chuck of the Imperial chin from our
      John.

      “_Tweet, tweet, tweet!_” who have we here? All eyes turn up the
      Cherryburn road; the roused hounds prick their ears, and are with
      difficulty restrained from breaking away. It’s Walker, the cross
      postman’s gig, and he is treating himself to a twang of the horn.
      But who has he with him? Who is the red arm-folded man lolling
      with as much dignity as the contracted nature of the vehicle will
      allow? A man in red, with cap and beard, and all complete. Why
      it’s Monsieur! Monsieur coming _in forma pauperis_, after Sir
      Moses’ liberal offer to send him to cover,—Monsieur in a faded
      old sugar-loaf shaped cap, and a scanty coat that would have been
      black if it hadn’t been red.



      266m


      _Original Size_


      Still Walker trots him up like a man proud of his load amid the
      suppressed titters and “Who’s this?” of the company. Sir Moses
      immediately vouchsafes him protection—by standing erect in his
      stirrups, and exclaiming with a waive of his right hand, “Ah,
      Monsieur! _comment vous portez-vous?_”

      “Pretty bobbish, I tenk you, sare, opes you are vell yourself and
      all de leetle Mainchanees,” replied Monsieur, rising in the gig,
      showing the scrimpness of his coat and the amplitude of his
      cinnamon-coloured peg-top trousers, thrust into green-topped
      opera-boots, much in the style of old Paul Pry. Having put
      something into Walker’s hand, Monsieur alights with due caution
      and Walker whipping on, presently shows the gilt “V. R.” on the
      back of his red gig as he works his way through the separating
      crowd. Walker claims to be one of Her Majesty’s servants; if not
      to rank next to Lord Palmerston, at all events not to be far
      below him. And now Monsieur being left to himself, thrusts his
      Malacca cane whip stick under his arm, and drawing on a pair of
      half-dirty primrose-coloured kid gloves, pokes into the crowd in
      search of his horse, making up to every disengaged one he saw,
      with “Is dee’s for me? Is dee’s for me?”

      Meanwhile Imperial John having emancipated himself from his
      Mackintosh, and had his horse placed becomingly at the step of
      the dog-cart, so as to transfer himself without alighting, and
      let everybody see the magnificence of the establishment, now
      souces himself into the saddle of a fairish young grey, and turns
      round to confront the united field; feeling by no means the
      smallest man in the scene. “Hybrid!” exclaims Sir Moses, seeing
      him approach the still dismounted Monsieur, “Hybrid! let me
      introduce my friend Rougier, Monsieur Rougier, Mr. Hybrid! of
      Barley Hill Hall, a great friend of Lord Ladythorne’s,” whereupon
      off went the faded sugar-loaf-shaped cap, and down came the
      Imperial hat, Sir Moses interlarding the ceremony with, “great
      friend of Louis Nap’s, great friend of Louis Nap’s,” by way of
      balancing the Ladythorne recommendation of John. The two then
      struck up a most energetic conversation, each being uncommonly
      taken with the other. John almost fancied he saw his way to the
      Tuileries, and wondered what Miss “somebody” would say if he got
      there.

      The conversation was at length interrupted by Dribbler’s grinning
      groom touching Jack behind as he came up with a chestnut horse,
      and saying, “Please, Sir, here’s your screw.”

      “Ah, my screw, is it!” replied Jack, turning round, “dat is a
      queer name for a horse—screw—hopes he’s a good ‘un.”

      “A good ‘un, and nothin’ but a good ‘un,” replied the groom,
      giving him a punch in the ribs, to make him form up to Jack, an
      operation that produced an ominous grunt.

      “Vell” said Jack, proceeding to dive at the stirrup with his foot
      without taking hold of the reins; “if Screw is a good ‘un I sall
      make you handsome present—tuppence a penny, p’raps—if he’s a bad
      ‘un, I sall give you good crack on the skoll,” Jack flourishing
      his thick whipstick as he spoke.

      “Will you!” replied the man, leaving go of the rein, whereupon
      down went the horse’s head, up went his heels, and Jack was
      presently on his shoulder.

      “Oh, de devil!” roared Jack, “he vill distribute me! he vill
      distribute me! I vill be killed! Nobody sall save me! here,
      garçon, grum!” roared he amid the mirth of the company. “Lay ‘old
      of his ‘ead! lay ‘old of his ‘ocks! lay ‘old of ‘eels! Oh,
      murder! murder!” continued he in well-feigned dismay, throwing
      out his supplicating arms. Off jumped Imperial John to the rescue
      of his friend, and seizing the dangling rein, chucked up the
      horse’s head with a resolute jerk that restored Jack to his seat.

      “Ah, my friend, I see you are not much used to the saddle,”
      observed His Highness, proceeding to console the friend of an
      Emperor.

      “Vell, sare, I am, and I am not,” replied Jack, mopping his brow,
      and pretending to regain his composure, “I am used to de leetle
      ‘orse at de round-about at de fair, I can carry off de ring ten
      time out of twice, but these great unruly, unmannerly, undutiful
      screws are more than a match for old Harry.”

      “Just so,” assented His Highness, with a chuck of his Imperial
      chin, “just so;” adding in an under-tone, “then I’ll tell you
      what we’ll do—I’ll tell you what we’ll do—we’ll pop into the bar
      at the back of the house, and have a glass of something to
      strengthen our nerves.”

      “By all means, sare,” replied Jack, who was always ready for a
      glass. So they quietly turned the corner, leaving the field to
      settle their risible faculties, while they summoned the pretty
      corkscrew ringletted Miss Tubbs to their behests.

      “What shall it be?” asked Imperial John, as the smiling young
      lady tripped down the steps to where they stood.

      “Brandy,” replied Jack, with a good English accent.

      “Two brandies!” demanded Imperial John, with an air of authority.

      “Cold, _with_?” asked the lady, eyeing Monsieur’s grim visage.

      “_Neat!_” exclaimed Jack in a tone of disdain.

      “Yes, Sir,” assented the lady, bustling away.

      “_Shilling_ glasses!” roared Jack, at the last flounce of her
      blue muslin.

      Presently she returned bearing two glasses of very brown brandy,
      and each having appropriated one, Jack began grinning and bowing
      and complimenting the donor.

      “Sare,” said he, after smelling at the beloved liquor, “I have
      moch pleasure in making your quaintance. I am moch pleased, sare,
      with the expression of your mog. I tink, sare, you are de
      ‘andsomest man I never had de pleasure of lookin’ at. If, sare,
      dey had you in my country, sare, dey vod make you a King—Emperor,
      I mean. I drink, sare, your vare good health,” so saying, Jack
      swigged off the contents of his glass at a draught.

      Imperial John felt constrained to do the same.

      “Better now,” observed Jack, rubbing his stomach as the liquid
      fire began to descend. “Better now,” repeated he, with a jerk of
      his head, “Sare,” continued he, “I sall return the compliment—I
      sall treat you to a glass.”

      Imperial John would rather not. He was a glass of sherry and a
      biscuit sort of man; but Monsieur was not to be balked in his
      liberality. “Oh, yes, sare, make me de pleasure to accept a
      glass,” continued Jack, “Here! Jemima! Matilda! Adelaide! vot the
      doose do they call de young vomans—look sharp,” added he, as she
      now reappeared. “Apportez, dat is to say, bring tout suite,
      directly; two more glasses; dis gentlemans vill be goode enough
      to drink my vare good ‘ealth.”

      “Certainly,” replied the smiling lady, tripping away for them.

      “Ah, sare, it is de stoff to make de air corl,” observed Jack,
      eyeing his new acquaintance. “Ye sall go like old chaff before
      the vind after it. Vill catch de fox myself.”

      The first glass had nearly upset our Imperial friend, and the
      second one appeared perfectly nauseous. He would give anything
      that Jack would drink them both himself. However, Monsieur
      motioned blue muslin to present the tray to John first, so he had
      no alternative but to accept. Jack then took his glass, and
      smacking his lips, said—“I looks, sare, towards you, sare, vith
      all de respect due to your immortal country. De English, sare,
      are de finest nation under de moon; and you, sare, and you are as
      fine a specimens of dat nation as never vas seen. Two such mans
      as you, sare, could have taken Sebastopol. You could vop all de
      ell ound savage Sepoys by yourself. So now, sare,” continued
      Jack, brandishing his glass, “make ready, present, _fire!_” and
      at the word fire, he drained off his glass, and then held it
      upside down to show he had emptied it.

      Poor Imperial John was obliged to follow suit.

      The Imperial head now began to swim. Mr. Hybrid saw two girls in
      blue muslin, two Monsieurs, two old yellow Po-chaises, two
      water-carts with a Cochin-China cock a gollowing a-top of each.

      Jack, on the contrary, was quite comfortable. He had got his
      nerves strung, and was now ready for anything. “S’pose, now,”
      said he, addressing his staring, half-bewildered friend, “you
      ascend your gallant grey, and let us look after dese mighty
      chasseurs. But stop,” added he, “I vill first pay for de tipple,”
      pretending to dive into his peg-top trousers pocket for his
      purse. “_Ah! malheureusement_,” exclaimed he, after feeling them
      both. “I have left my blont, my tin, in my oder trousers pockets.
      Navare mind! navare mind,” continued he, gaily, “ve vill square
      it op some other day. Here,” added he to the damsel, “dis
      gentlemens vill pay, and I vill settle vid him some oder day—some
      oder day.” So saying, Jack gathered his horse boldly together,
      and spurred out of the inn-yard in a masterly way, singing
      _Partant pour la Syrie_ as he went.



      CHAPTER XXXVI. A BIRD’S EYE VIEW.



      273m _Original Size_



      HE friends reappeared at the front of the Crooked Billet Hotel
      when the whole cavalcade had swept away, leaving only the return
      ladies, and such of the grooms as meant to have a drink, now that
      “master was safe.” Sir Moses had not paid either Louis Napoleon’s
      or Lord Ladythorne’s friend the compliment of waiting for them.
      On the contrary, having hailed the last heavy subscriber who was
      in the habit of using the Crooked Billet meet, he hallooed the
      huntsman to trot briskly away down Rickleton Lane, and across
      Beecham pastures, as well to shake off the foot-people, as to
      prevent any attempted attendance on the part of the carriage
      company. Sir Moses, though very gallant, was not always in the
      chattering mood; and, assuredly, if ever a master of hounds may
      be excused for a little abruptness, it is when he is tormented by
      the rival spirits of the adjoining hunt, people who always see
      things so differently to the men of the country, so differently
      to what they are meant to do.

      It was evident however by the lingering looks and position of
      parties that the hunt had not been long gone—indeed, the last red
      coat might still be seen bobbing up and down past the weak and
      low parts of the Rickleton Lane fence. So Monsieur, having
      effected a satisfactory rounding, sot his horse’s head that way,
      much in the old threepence a-mile and hopes for something over,
      style of his youth. Jack hadn’t forgotten how to ride, though he
      might occasionally find it convenient to pretend to be a tailor.
      Indeed, his horse seemed to have ascertained the fact, and
      instead of playing any more monkey-tricks, he began to apply
      himself sedulously to the road. Imperial John was now a fitter
      subject for solicitude than Monsieur, His Highness’s usual
      bumptious bolt-upright seat being exchanged for a very slouchy,
      vulgar roll. His saucy eyes too seemed dim and dazzled, like an
      owl’s flying against the sun. Some of the toiling pedestrians,
      who in spite of Sir Moses’s intention to leave them in the lurch,
      had started for the hunt, were the first overtaken, next two
      grinning boys riding a barebacked donkey, one with his face to
      the tail, doing the flagellation with an old hearth-brush, then a
      brandy-nosed horse-breaker, with a badly-grown black colt that
      didn’t promise to be good for anything, next Dr. Linton on his
      dun pony, working his arms and legs most energetically, riding
      far faster than his nag; next Noggin, the exciseman, stealing
      quietly along on his mule as though he were bent on his business
      and had no idea of a hunt; and at length a more legitimate
      representative of the chace in the shape of young Mr. Hadaway, of
      Oakharrow Hill, in a pair of very baggy white cords, on but
      indifferent terms about the knees with his badly cleaned tops.
      They did not, however, overtake the hounds, and the great body of
      scarlet, till just as they turned off the Summersham road into an
      old pasture-field, some five acres of the low end of which had
      been cut off for a gorse to lay to the adjoining range of rocky
      hills whose rugged juniper and broom-dotted sides afforded very
      comfortable and popular lying for the foxes. It being, if a find,
      a quick “get away,” all hands were too busy thinking of
      themselves and their horses, and looking for their usual
      opponents to take heed of anything else, and Jack and his friends
      entered without so much as an observation from any one.

      Just at that moment up went Joe’s cap on the top of the craig,
      and the scene changed to one of universal excitement. Then,
      indeed, had come the tug of war! Sir Moses, all hilarity, views
      the fox! Now Stephen Booty sees him, now Peter Lynch, and now a
      whole cluster of hats are off in his honour.

      ****


      And now his honour’s off himself—


“Shrill horns proclaim his flight.” Oh dear! oh dear! where’s Billy
Pringle? Oh dear! oh dear! where’s Imperial John? Oh dear! where’s Jack
Rogers?



      Jack’s all right! There he is grinning with enthusiasm, quite
      forgetting that he’s a Frenchman, and hoisting his brown cap with
      the best of them. Another glass would have made him give a
      stunning view-halloa.

      Imperial John stares like a man just awoke from a dream. Is he in
      bed, or is he out hunting, or how! he even thinks he hears Miss
      de Glancey’s “_Si-r-r!_ do you mean to insult me?” ringing in his
      ears.

      Billy Pringle! poor Billy! he’s not so unhappy as usual. His
      horse is very docile. His tail has lost all its elegant gaiety,
      and altogether he has a very drooping, weedy look: he coughs,
      too, occasionally. Billy, however, doesn’t care about the coughs,
      and gives him a dig with his spur to stop it.

      “Come along, Mr. Pringle, come along!” now shrieks Sir Moses,
      hurrying past, hands down, head too, hugging and spurring his
      horse as he goes. He is presently through the separating throng,
      leaving Billy far in the rear. “_Quick’s_” the word, or the
      chance is lost. There are no reserved places at a hunt. A flying
      fox admits of no delay. It is either go or stay.

      And now, Monsieur Jean Rougier having stuck his berry-brown
      conical cap tight on his bristly black head, crams his chestnut
      horse through the crowd, hallooing to his transfixed brandy
      friend, “Come along, old cock-a-doodle! come along, old Blink
      Bonny!”

      Imperial John, who has been holding a mental conference with
      himself, poising himself in the saddle, and making a general
      estimate of his condition, thinking he is not so drunk as “all
      that,” accepts the familiar challenge, and urges his horse on
      with the now flying crowd. He presently makes a bad shot at a
      gate on the swing, which catching him on the kneecap, contributes
      very materially to restore his sobriety, the pain making him
      first look back for his leg, which he thinks must be off, and
      then forward at the field. It is very large; two bustling
      Baronets, two Monsieurs, two huntsmen, two flying
      hatters—everybody in duplicate, in short.

      Away they scud up Thorneycroft Valley at a pace that looks very
      like killing. The foremost rise the hill, hugging and holding on
      by the manes.

      “I’ll go!” says his Highness to himself, giving up rubbing his
      kneecap, and settling himself in his saddle, he hustles his
      horse, and pushing past the undecided ones, is presently in the
      thick of the fray. There is Jack going, elbows and legs, elbows
      and legs, at a very galloping, dreary, done sort of pace, the
      roaring animal he bestrides contracting its short, leg-tied
      efforts every movement. Jack presently begins to objurgate the
      ass who lent it him; first wishes he was on himself, then
      declares the tanner ought to have him. He now sits sideways, and
      proceeds to give him a good rib-roasting in the old post-boy
      style.

      And now there’s a bobbing up and down of hats, caps, and horses’
      heads in front, with the usual deviation under the “hounds
      clauses consolidation act,” where the dangerous fencing begins. A
      pair of white breeches are summersaulting in the air, and a bay
      horse is seen careering in a wild head in the air sort of way,
      back to the rear instead of following the hounds.

      “That’s lucky,” said Jack Rogers to himself, as soon as he saw
      him coming towards him, and circumventing him adroitly at the
      corner of a turnip-field, he quits his own pumped-out animal and
      catches him. “That’s good,” said he, looking him over, seeing
      that he was a lively young animal in fairish condition, with a
      good saddle and bridle.

      “Stirrups just my length, too, I do believe,” continued he,
      preparing to mount. “All right, by Jove!” added he, settling
      himself into the saddle, feet well home, and gathering his horse
      together, he shot forward with the easy elasticity of breeding.
      It was a delightful change from the rolling cow-like action of
      the other.

      “Let us see vot he as in his monkey,” said Jack to himself, now
      drawing the flask from the saddle-case.

      “Sherry, I fear,” said he, uncorking it.

      “Brandy, I declare,” added he with delight, after smelling it. He
      then took a long pull at the contents.

      “Good it is, too!” exclaimed he, smacking his lips; “better nor
      ve ad at de poblic;” so saying, he took another long suck of it.

      “May as vell finish it,” continued he, shaking it at his ear to
      ascertain what was left; and having secured the remainder, he
      returned the monkey to the saddle-case, and put on his horse with
      great glee, taking a most independent line of his own.

      Jack’s triumph, however, was destined to be but of short
      duration. The fox being hard pressed, abandoned his original
      point for Collington Woods, and swerving to the left over
      Stanbury Hundred, was headed by a cur, and compelled to seek
      safety in a drain in the middle of a fallow field. The hounds
      were presently feathering over the mouth in the usual wild,
      disappointed sort of way, that as good as says, “No fault of
      ours, you know; if he won’t stay above ground, we can’t catch him
      for you.”

      Such of the field as had not ridden straight for Collington
      Woods, were soon down at the spot; and while the usual enquiries,
      “Where’s Pepper?” “Where’s Viper?” “Where can we get a spade?”
      “Does anybody know anything about the direction of this drain?”
      were going on, a fat, fair, red-coated, flushed-faced
      pedestrian—to wit, young Mr. Threadcroft, the woolstapler’s son
      of Harden Grange and Hinton, dived into the thick of the throng,
      and making up to Monsieur, exclaimed in an anger-choked voice,
      “This (puff) is my (gasp) horse! What the (gasp, puff) devil do
      you mean by riding away with him in this (puff-, gasp) way?” the
      youth mopping his brow with a yellow bandanna as he spoke.



      277m


      _Original Size_


      “Your oss!” exclaimed Jack with the greatest effrontery, “on de
      loose can he be your os: I catched him fair! and I’ve a right to
      ride him to de end of de run;” a claim that elicited the
      uproarious mirth of the field, who all looked upon the young
      wool-pack, as they called him, as a muff.

      “_Nonsense!_” retorted the youth, half frantic with rage. “How
      can that be?”

      “Ow can dat be,” repeated Jack, turning sideways in his saddle,
      and preparing to argue the case, “Ow can dat be? Dis hont, sare,
      I presume, sare, is condocted on de principle of de grand hont de
      Epping, vere every mans vot cotched anoder’s oss, is entitled to
      ride him to the end of de ron,” replied Jack gravely.

      “Nonsense!” again retorted the youth, amidst the renewed laughter
      of the field. “We know nothing of Epping hunts here!”

      “Nothin’ of Epping onts here?” exclaimed Jack, throwing out his
      hands with well feigned astonishment. “Nothin’ of Epping honts
      here! Vy, de grand hont de Epping rules all the oder honts, jost
      as the grand Clob de Jockey at Newmarket rules all oder Jockey
      Clubs in de kingdom.”

      “Hoot, toot,” sneered the fat youth, “let’s have none of yonr
      jaw. Give me my horse, I say, how can he be yours?”

      “Because, sare,” replied Jack, “I tells you I cotched ‘im fairly
      in de field. Bot for me he vod have been lost to society—to de
      vorld at large—eat up by de loup—by de volf—saddle, bridle, and
      all.”

      “Nothing of the sort!” retorted Mr. Treadcroft, indignantly, “you
      had no business to touch him.”

      Monsieur (with energy). I appeal to you, Sare Moses Baronet, de
      grand maître de chien, de master of all de dogs and all de dogs’
      vives, if I have not a right to ride ‘im.

      “Ah, I’m afraid, Monsieur, it’s not the law of this country,”
      replied Sir Moses, laughing. “It may be so in France, perhaps;
      but tell me, where’s your own horse?”

      Monsieur. Pomped out de beggar; had no go in ‘im; left him in a
      ditch.

      Sir Moses. That’s a pity!—if you’d allowed me, I’d have sent you
      a good ‘un.

      Mr. Treadcroft, thus reinforced by Sir Moses’s decision, returned
      to the charge with redoubled vigour. “If you don’t give me up my
      horse, sir,” says he, with firmness, “I’ll give you in charge of
      the police for stealing him.” Then


“Conscience, which makes cowards of us all,”

      caused Jack to shrink at the recollection of his early
      indiscretion in the horse-stealing line, and instantly resolving
      not to give Jack Ketch a chance of taking any liberties with his
      neck, he thus addresses Mr. Treadcroft:—

      “Sare, if Sare Moses Baronet, de grand maître de chien, do
      grandmodder of all de dogs and all de dogs’ vives, says it is not
      a case of catch ‘im and keep ‘im ‘cordin’ to de rules of de grand
      hont de Epping, I must surrender de quadruped, but I most say it
      is dem un’andsome treatment, after I ‘ave been at de trouble of
      catching ‘im.” So saying, Jack dropped off on the wrong side of
      the saddle, and giving the horse a slap on his side left his
      owner to take him.

      “_Tally-ho! there he goes!_” now exclaimed a dozen voices, as out
      bounced the fox with a flourish of his well tagged brush that
      looked uncommonly defiant. What a commotion he caused! Every man
      lent a shout that seemed to be answered by a fresh effort from
      the flyer: but still, with twenty couple of overpowering animals
      after him, what chance did there seem for his life, especially
      when they could hunt him by his scent after they had lost sight.
      Every moment, however, improved his opportunity, and a friendly
      turn of the land shutting him out of view, the late darting,
      half-frantic pack were brought to their noses.

      “Hold hard for _one_, minute!” is the order of the day.

      “Now, catch ’em if you can!” is the cry.

      Away they go in the settled determined way of a second start. The
      bolt taking place on the lower range of the gently swelling
      Culmington hills, that stretch across the north-east side of
      Hit-im and Hold-im shire, and the fox making for the vale below,
      Monsieur has a good bird’s eye view of the scramble, without the
      danger and trouble of partaking of the struggle. Getting astride
      a newly stubbed ash-tree near the vacated drain mouth, he thus
      sits and soliloquises—“He’s a pretty flyer, dat fox—if dey catch
      ‘im afore he gets to the hills,” eyeing a gray range uudulating
      in the distance, “they’ll do well. That Moff of a man,” alluding
      to Treadcroft, “‘ill never get there. At all events,” chuckled
      Jack, “his brandy vont. Dats ‘im! I do believe,” exclaimed Jack,
      “off again!” as a loose horse is now seen careering across a
      grass field. “No; dat is a black coat,” continued Jack, as the
      owner now appeared crossing the field in pursuit of his horse.
      “Bot dat vill be ‘im! dat vill be friend Moll’,” as a red rider
      now measures his length on the greensward of a field in the rear
      of the other one; and Jack, taking off his faded cap, waives it
      triumphantly as he distinctly recognises the wild, staring
      running of his late steed. “Dash my buttons!” exclaims he,
      working his arms as if he was riding, “bot if it hadn’t been for
      dat unwarrantable, unchristian-like cheek I’d ha’ shown those red
      coats de vay on dat oss, for I do think he has de go in him and
      only vants shovin’ along.—Ah Moff—my friend Moff!” laughed he,
      eyeing Treadcroft’s vain endeavour to catch his horse, “you may
      as vell leave ‘im where he is—you’ll only fatigue yourself to no
      purpose. If you ‘ad ‘im you’d be off him again de next minute.”

      The telescope of the chace is now drawn out to the last joint,
      and Jack, as he sits, has a fine bird’s eye view of the scene. If
      the hounds go rather more like a flock of wild geese than like
      the horses in the chariot of the sun, so do the field, until the
      diminutive dots, dribbling through the vale, look like the line
      of a projected railway.

      “If I mistake not,” continued Jack, “dat leetle shiny eel-like
      ting,” eyeing a tortuous silvery thread meandering through the
      vale, “is vater, and dere vill be some fon by de time dey get
      there.”

      Jack is right in his conjecture. It is Long Brawlingford brook,
      with its rotten banks and deep eddying pools, describing all
      sorts of geographical singularities in its course through the
      country, too often inviting aspiring strangers to astonish the
      natives by riding at it, while the cautious countrymen rein in as
      they approach, and, eyeing the hounds, ride for a ford at the
      first splash.

      Jack’s friend, Blink Bonny, has ridden not amiss, considering his
      condition—at all events pretty forward, as may be inferred from
      his having twice crossed the Flying Hatter and come in for the
      spray of his censure. But for the fact of his Highness getting
      his hats of the flyer, he would most likely have received the
      abuse in the bulk. As it was, the hatter kept letting it go as he
      went.

      And now as the hounds speed over the rich alluvial pastures by
      the brook, occasionally one throwing its tongue, occasionally
      another, for the scent is first-rate and the pace severe, there
      is a turning of heads, a checking of horses, and an evident
      inclination to diverge. Water is in no request.

      “Who knows the ford?” cries Harry Waggett, who always declined
      extra risk.—“You know the ford, Smith?” continued he, addressing
      himself to black tops.

      “Not when I’m in a hur-hur-hurry,” ejaculates Smith, now fighting
      with his five-year-old bay.

      “O’ill show ye the ford!” cries Imperial John, gathering his grey
      together and sending him at a stiff flight of outside slab-made
      rails which separate the field from the pack. This lands His
      Highness right among the tail hounds.

      “Hold hard, Mr. Hybrid!” now bellows Sir Moses, indignant at the
      idea of a Featherbedfordshire farmer thinking to cut down his
      gallant field.

      “One minuit! and you may go as hard as iver you like!” cries Tom
      Findlater, who now sees the crows hovering over his fox as he
      scuttles away on the opposite side of the brook.

      There is then a great yawing of mouths and hauling of heads and
      renewed inquiries for fords.—You know the ford, Brown? You know
      the ford, Green? _Who_ knows the ford?

      His Highness, thus snubbed and rebuked on all sides, is put on
      his mettle, and inwardly resolves not to be bullied by these low
      Hit-im and Hold-im shire chaps. “If they don’t know what is due
      to the friend of an Earl, he will let them see that he does.” So,
      regardless of their shouts, he shoves along with his Imperial
      chin well in the air, determined to ride at the brook—let those
      follow who will. He soon has a chance. The fox has taken it right
      in his line, without deviating a yard either way, and Wolds-man,
      and Bluecap, and Ringwood, and Hazard, and Sparkler are soon
      swimming on his track, followed by the body of the screeching,
      vociferating pack.

      Old Blink Bonny now takes a confused, wish-I-was-well-over, sort
      of look at the brook, shuddering when he thought how far he was
      from dry clothes. It is however, too late to retreat. At it he
      goes in a half resolute sort of way, and in an instant the
      Imperial hat and the Imperial horse’s head are all that appear
      above water.

      “_Hoo-ray!_” cheer some of the unfeeling Hit-im and Hold-im
      shireites, dropping down into the ford a little below.

      “_Hoo-ray!_” respond others on the bank, as the Red Otter, as
      Silverthorne calls His Highness, rises hatless to the top.

      “Come here, and I’ll help you out!” shouts Peter Linch, eyeing
      Mr. Hybrid’s vain darts first at the hat and then at the horse.

      “Featherbedfordshire for ever!” cries Charley Drew, who doesn’t
      at all like Imperial John.

      And John, who finds the brook not only a great deal wider, but
      also a great deal deeper and colder than he expected, is in such
      a state of confusion that he lands on one side and his horse on
      the other, so that his chance of further distinction is out for
      the day. And as he stands shivering and shaking and emptying his
      hat, he meditates on the vicissitudes of life, the virtues of
      sobriety, and the rashness of coping with a friend of His
      Imperial brother, Louis Nap. His horse meanwhile regales upon
      grass, regardless of the fast receding field. Thus John is left
      alone in his glory, and we must be indebted to other sources for
      an account of the finish of this day’s sport.



      CHAPTER XXXVII. TWO ACCOUNTS OF A RUN; OR, LOOK ON THIS PICTURE.


      MONSIEUR Jean Rougier having seen the field get small by degrees,
      if not beautifully less, and having viewed the quivering at the
      brook, thinking the entertainment over, now dismounted from his
      wooden steed, and, giving it a crack with his stick, saying it
      was about as good as his first one, proceeded to perform that
      sorry exploit of retracing his steps through the country on foot.
      Thanks to the influence of civilisation, there is never much
      difficulty now in finding a road; and, Monsieur was soon in one
      whose grassy hoof-marked sides showed it had been ridden down in
      chase. Walking in scarlet is never a very becoming proceeding;
      but, walking in such a scarlet as Jack had on, coupled with such
      a cap, procured him but little respect from the country people,
      who took him for one of those scarlet runners now so common with
      hounds. One man (a hedger) in answer to his question, “If he had
      seen his horse?” replied, after a good stare—“Nor—nor nobody
      else;” thinking that the steed was all imaginary, and Jack was
      wanting to show off: another said, “Coom, coom, that ill not de;
      you’ve ne horse.” Altogether, Monsieur did not get much
      politeness from anyone; so he stumped moodily along, venting his
      spleen as he went.

      The first thing that attracted his attention was his own
      pumped-out steed, standing with its snaffle-rein thrown over a
      gate-post; and Jack, having had about enough pedestrian exercise,
      especially considering that he was walking in his own boots, now
      gladly availed himself of the lately discarded mount.

      “Wooay, ye great grunting brute!” exclaimed he, going up with an
      air of ownership, taking the rein off the post, and climbing on.

      He had scarcely got well under way, ere a clattering of horses’
      hoofs behind him, attracted his attention; and, looking back, he
      saw the Collington Woods detachment careering along in the usual
      wild, staring, _which-way? which-way?_ sort of style of men, who
      have been riding to points, and have lost the hounds. In the
      midst of the flight was his master, on the now woe-begone bay;
      who came coughing, and cutting, and hammer and pincering along,
      in a very ominous sort of way. Billy, on the other hand,
      flattered himself that they were having a very tremendous run,
      with very little risk, and he was disposed to take every
      advantage of his horse, by way of increasing its apparent
      severity, thinking it would be a fine thing to tell his Mamma how
      he had got through his horse. Monsieur having replied to their
      _which ways?_ with the comfortable assurance “that they need not
      trouble themselves any further, the hounds being miles and miles
      away,” there was visible satisfaction on the faces of some; while
      others, more knowing, attempted to conceal their delight by
      lip-curling exclamations of “What a bore!”

      “Thought _you_ knew the country, Brown.” “Never follow you again,
      Smith,” and so on. They then began asking for the publics.
      “Where’s the Red Lion?”

      “Does anybody know the way to the Barley Mow?”

      “How far is it to the Dog and Duck at Westpool?”

      “Dat oss of yours sall not be quite vell, I tink, sare,” observed
      Jack to his master, after listening to one of its ominous coughs.

      “Oh, yes he is, only a little lazy,” replied Billy, giving him a
      refresher, as well with the whip on his shoulder, as with the
      spur on his side.

      “He is feeble, I should say, sare,” continued Jack, eyeing him
      pottering along.

      “What should I give him, then?” asked Billy, thinking there might
      be something in what Jack said.

      “I sud say a leetle gin vod be de best ting for im,” replied
      Jack.

      “Gin! but where can I get gin here?” asked Billy.

      “Dese gentlemens is asking their vays to de Poblic ouses,”
      replied Jack; “and if you follows dem, you vill laud at some tap
      before long.”

      Jack was right. Balmey Zephyr, as they call Billy West, the
      surgeon of Hackthorn, who had joined the hunt quite promiscuous,
      is leading the way to the Red Lion, and the cavalcade is
      presently before the well-frequented door; one man calling for
      Purl, another Ale, a third for Porter; while others hank their
      horses on to the crook at the door, while they go in to make
      themselves comfortable. Jack dismounting, and giving his horse in
      charge of his master, entered the little way-side hostelry; and,
      asking for a measure of gin, and a bottle of water, he drinks off
      the gin, and then proceeds to rinse Billy’s horse’s mouth out
      with the water, just as a training-groom rinses a horse’s after a
      race.

      “Dat vill do,” at length said Jack, chucking the horse’s head up
      in the air, as if he gets him to swallow the last drop of the
      precious beverage. “Dat vill do,” repeated he, adding, “he vill
      now carry you ome like a larkspur.” So saying, Jack handed the
      bottle back through the window, and, paying the charge, remounted
      his steed, kissing his hand, and _bon-jouring_ the party, as he
      set off with his master in search of Pangburn Park.

      Neither of them being great hands at finding their way about a
      country, they made sundry bad hits, and superfluous deviations,
      and just reached Pangburn Park as Sir Moses and Co. came
      triumphantly down Rossington hill, flourishing the brush that had
      given them a splendid fifty minutes (ten off for exaggeration)
      without a check, over the cream of their country, bringing
      Imperial John, Gameboy Green, and the flower of the
      Featherbedfordshire hunt, to the most abject and unmitigated
      grief.

      “Oh, such a run!” exclaimed Sir Moses, throwing out his paws.
      “Oh, such a run! Finest run that ever was seen! Sort of run, that
      if old Thorne (meaning Lord Ladythorne) had had, he’d have talked
      about it for a year.” Sir Moses then descended to particulars,
      describing the heads up and sterns down work to the brook, the
      Imperial catastrophe which he dwelt upon with great _goût_, dom’d
      if he didn’t; and how, leaving John in the water, they went away
      over Rillington Marsh, at a pace that was perfectly appalling,
      every field choking off some of those Featherbedfordshireites,
      who came out thinking to cut them all down; then up Tewey Hill,
      nearly to the crow trees, swinging down again into the vale by
      Billy Mill, skirting Laureston Plantations, and over those
      splendid pastures of Arlingford, where there was a momentary
      check, owing to some coursers, who ought to be hung, dom’d if
      they shouldn’t. “This,” continued Sir Moses, “let in some of the
      laggers, Dickey among the number; but we were speedily away
      again; and, passing a little to the west of Pickering Park,
      through the decoy, and away over Larkington Rise, shot down to
      the Farthing-pie House, where that great Owl, Gameboy Green,
      thinking to show off, rode at an impracticable fence, and got a
      cropper for his pains, nearly knocking the poor little Damper
      into the middle of the week after next by crossing him. Well,
      from there he made for the main earths in Purdoe Banks, where, of
      course, there was no shelter for him; and, breaking at the east
      end of the dene, he set his head straight for Brace well Woods,
      good two miles off (one and a quarter, say); but his strength
      failing him over Winterflood Heath, we ran from scent to view, in
      the finest, openest manner imaginable,—dom’d if we didn’t,”
      concluded Sir Moses, having talked himself out of breath.

      The same evening, just as Oliver Armstrong was shutting up day by
      trimming and lighting the oil-lamp at the Lockingford toll-bar,
      which stands within a few yards from where the apparently
      well-behaved little stream of Long Brawlingford brook divides the
      far-famed Hit-im and Hold-im shire from Featherbedfordshire, a
      pair of desperately mud-stained cords below a black coat and
      vest, reined up behind a well wrapped and buttoned-up gentleman
      in a buggy, who chanced to be passing, and drew forth the usual
      inquiry of “What sport?”

      The questioner was no less a personage than Mr. Easylease, Lord
      Ladythorne’s agent—we beg pardon, Commissioner—and Mr. Gameboy
      Green, the tenant in possession of the soiled cords, recognising
      the voice in spite of the wraps, thus replied—

      “Oh, Mr. Easylease it’s you, sir, is it? Hope you’re well, sir,”
      with a sort of move of his hat—not a take off, nor yet a keep
      on—“hope Mrs. Easylease is quite well, and the young ladies.”

      “Quite well, thank you; hope Mrs. G.‘s the same. What sport have
      you had?” added the Commissioner, without waiting for an answer
      to the inquiry about the ladies.

      “Sport!” repeated Gameboy, drawing his breath, as he conned the
      matter hastily over. “Sport!” recollecting he was as good as
      addressing the Earl himself—master of hounds—favours past—hopes
      for future, and so on. “Well,” said he, seeing his line; “We’ve
      had a nice-ish run—a fair-ish day—five and twenty minutes, or
      so.”

      “Fast?” asked Mr. Easylease, twirling his gig-whip about, for he
      was going to Tantivy Castle in the morning, and thought he might
      as well have something to talk about beside the weather.

      “Middlin’—nothin’ partieklar,” replied Green, with a chuck of the
      chin.

      “Kill?” asked the Commissioner, continuing the laconics.

      “Don’t know,” replied the naughty Green, who knew full well they
      had; for he had seen them run into their fox as he stood on
      Dinglebank Hill; and, moreover, had ridden part of the way home
      with Tommy Heslop, who had a pad.

      “Why, you’ve been down!” exclaimed the Commissioner, starting
      round at the unwonted announcement of Gameboy Green, the best man
      of their hunt, not knowing if they had killed.

      “Down, aye,” repeated Gameboy, looking at his soiled side, which
      looked as if he had been at a sculptor’s, having a mud cast taken
      of himself. “I’m indebted to the nasty little jealous Damper for
      that.”

      “The Damper!” exclaimed the Commissioner, knowing how the Earl
      hated him. “The Damper! that little rascally draper’s always
      doing something wrong. How did he manage it?”

      “Just charged me as I was taking a fence,” replied Green, “and
      knocked me clean over.”

      “What a shame!” exclaimed the Commissioner, driving on. “What a
      shame,” repeated he, whipping his horse into a trot.

      And as he proceeded, he presently fell in with Dr. Pillerton, to
      whom he related how infamously the Hit-im and Hold-im shire chaps
      had used poor Green, breaking three of his ribs, and nearly
      knocking his eye out. And Dr. Pillerton, ever anxious, &c., told
      D’Orsay Davis, the great we of the Featherbedfordshire Gazette,
      who forthwith penned such an article on fox-hunting Jealousy,
      generally, and Hit-im and Hold-im shire Jealousy in particular,
      as caused Sir Moses to declare he’d horsewhip him the first time
      he caught him,—“dom’d if he wouldn’t.”



      CHAPTER XXXVIII. THE SICK HORSE AND THE SICK MASTER.

      288m


      _Original Size_


      YOUR oss sall be seek—down in de mouth dis mornin’, sare,”
      observed Monsieur to Billy, as the latter lay tossing about in
      his uncomfortable bed, thinking how he could shirk that day’s
      hunting penance; Sir Moses, with his usual dexterity, having
      evaded the offer of lending him a horse, by saying that Billy’s
      having nothing to do the day before would be quite fresh for the
      morrow.

      “Shall be w-h-a-w-t?” drawled our hero, dreading the reply.

      “Down in de mouth—seek—onvell,” replied Jack, depositing the
      top-boots by the sofa, and placing the shaving-water on the
      toilette table.

      “Oh, is he!” said Billy, perking up, thinking he saw his way out
      of the dilemma. “What’s the matter with him?”

      “He coughs, sare—he does not feed, sare—and altogether he is not
      right.”

      “So-o-o,” said Billy, conning the matter over—“then, p’raps I’d
      better not ride him?”

      “Vot you think right, sare,” replied Jack. “He is your quadruped,
      not mine; but I should not say he is vot dey call, op to
      snoff—fit to go.”

      “Ah,” replied Billy. “I’ll not ride ‘im! hate a horse that’s not
      up to the mark.”

      “Sare Moses Baronet vod perhaps lend you von, sare,” suggested
      Jack.

      “Oh, by no means!” replied Billy in a fright. “By no means! I’d
      just as soon not hunt to-day, in fact, for I’ve got a good many
      letters to write and things to do; so just take the water away
      for the present and bring it back when Sir Moses is gone.” So
      saying, Billy turned over on his thin pillow, and again sought
      the solace of his couch. He presently fell into a delightful
      dreamy sort of sleep, in which he fancied that after dancing the
      Yammerton girls all round, he had at length settled into an
      interminable “Ask Mamma Polka,” with Clara, from which he was
      disagreeably aroused by Jack Rogers’ hirsute face again
      protruding between the partially-drawn curtains, announcing,
      “Sare Moses Baronet, sare, has cot his stick—is off.”

      “Sir Moses, _what!_” started Billy, dreading to hear about the
      hunt.

      “Sare Moses Baronet, sare, is gone, and I’ve brought you your
      _l’eau chaude_, as you said.”

      “All right!” exclaimed Billy, rubbing his eyes and recollecting
      himself, “all right;” and, banishing the beauty, he jumped out of
      bed and resigned himself to Rogers, who forthwith commenced the
      elaborate duties of his office. As it progressed he informed
      Billy how the land lay. “Sare Moses was gone, bot Coddy was left,
      and Mrs. Margerum said there should be no _déjeuner_ for Cod”
      (who was a bad tip), till Billy came down. And Jack didn’t put
      himself at all out of his way to expedite matters to accommodate
      Cuddy.

      At length Billy descended in a suit of those tigerish tweeds into
      which he had lapsed since he got away from Mamma, and was
      received with a round of tallihos and view-holloas by Cuddy, who
      had been studying _Bell’s Life_ with exemplary patience in the
      little bookless library, reading through all the meets of the
      hounds as if he was going to send a horse to each of them. Then
      Cuddy took his revenge on the servants by ringing for everything
      he could think of, demanding them all in the name of Mr. Pringle;
      just as an old parish constable used to run frantically about a
      fair demanding assistance from everybody in the name of the
      Queen. Mr. Pringle wanted devilled turkey, Mr. Pringle wanted
      partridge pie, Mr. Pringle wanted sausages, Mr. Pringle wanted
      chocolate, Mr. Pringle wanted honey, jelly and preserve. Why the
      deuce, didn’t they send Mr. Pringle his breakfast in properly?
      And if the servants didn’t think Billy a very great man, it
      wasn’t for want of Cuddy trying to make them.

      And so, what with Cuddy’s exertions and the natural course of
      events, Billy obtained a very good breakfast. The last cup being
      at length drained, Cuddy clutched _Bell’s Life_, and wheeling his
      semicircular chair round to the fire, dived into his side pocket,
      and, producing a cigar-case, tendered Billy a weed. And Cuddy did
      it in such a matter-of-course way, that much as Billy disliked
      smoking, he felt constrained to accept one, thinking to get rid
      of it by a sidewind, just as he had got rid of old Wotherspoon’s
      snuff, by throwing it away. So, taking his choice, he lit it, and
      prepared to beat a retreat, but was interrupted by Cuddy asking
      where “he was going?”

      “Only into the open air,” replied Billy, with the manner of a
      professed smoker.

      “Open air, be hanged!” retorted Cuddy. “Open airs well enough in
      summer-time when the roses are out, and the strawberries ripe,
      but this is not the season for that kind of sport. No, no, come
      and sit here, man,” continued he, drawing a chair alongside of
      him for Billy, “and let’s have a chat about hunting.”

      “But Sir Moses won’t like his room smoked in,” observed Billy,
      making a last effort to be off.

      “Oh, Sir Moses don’t care!” rejoined Cuddy, with a jerk of his
      head; “Sir Moses don’t care! can’t hurt such rubbish as this,”
      added he, tapping the arm of an old imitation rose-wood painted
      chair that stood on his left. “No old furniture broker in the
      Cut, would give ten puns for the whole lot, curtains, cushions,
      and all,” looking at the faded red hangings around.

      So Billy was obliged to sit down and proceed with his cigar.
      Meanwhile Cuddy having established a good light to his own, took
      up his left leg to nurse, and proceeded with his sporting
      speculations.

      “Ah, hunting wasn’t what it used to be (whiff), nor racing either
      (puff). Never was a truer letter (puff), than that of Lord
      Derby’s (whiff), in which he said racing had got into the (puff)
      hands of (whiff) persons of an inferior (puff) position, who keep
      (puff) horses as mere instruments of (puff) gambling, instead of
      for (whiff) sport.” Then, having pruned the end of his cigar, he
      lowered his left leg and gave his right one a turn, while he
      indulged in some hunting recollections. “Hunting wasn’t what it
      used to be (puff) in the days of old (whiff) Warde and (puff)
      Villebois and (whiff) Masters. Ah no!” continued he, taking his
      cigar out of his month, and casting his eye up at the dirty
      fly-dotted ceiling. “Few such sportsmen as poor Sutton or Ralph
      Lambton, or that fine old fire-brick, Assheton Smith. People want
      to be all in the ring now, instead of sticking to one sport, and
      enjoying it thoroughly—yachts, manors, moors, race-horses,
      cricket, coaches, coursing, cooks—and the consequence is, they
      get blown before they are thirty, and have to live upon air the
      rest of their lives. Wasn’t one man in fifty that hunted who
      really enjoyed it. See how glad they were to tail off as soon as
      they could. A good knock on the nose, or a crack on the crown
      settled half of them. Another thing was, there was no money to be
      made by it. Nothing an Englishman liked so much as making money,
      or trying to make it.” So saying, Cuddy gave his cigar another
      fillip, and replacing it in his mouth, proceeded to blow a series
      of long revolving clouds, as he lapsed into a heaven of hunting
      contemplations.

      From these he was suddenly aroused by the violent retching of
      Billy. Our friend, after experiencing the gradual growth of
      seasickness mingled with a stupifying headache, was at length
      fairly overcome, and Cuddy had just time to bring the slop-basin
      to the rescue. Oh, how green Billy looked!

      ****


      “Too soon after breakfast—too soon after breakfast,” muttered
      Cuddy, disgusted at the interruption. “Lie down for half an hour,
      lie down for half an hour,” continued he ringing the bell
      violently for assistance.

      “Send Mr. Pringle’s valet here! send Mr. Pringle’s valet here!”
      exclaimed he, as the half-davered footman came staring in,
      followed by the ticket-of-leave butler, “Here, Monsieur!”
      continued he, as Rougier’s hairy face now peeped past the door,
      “your master wants you—eat something that’s disagreed with
      him—that partridge-pie, I think, for I feel rather squeamish
      myself; and you, Bankhead,” added he, addressing the butler,
      “just bring us each a drop of brandy, not that nasty brown stuff
      Mother Margermn puts into the puddings, but some of the white,
      you know—the best, you know,” saying which, with a “now old boy!”
      he gave Billy a hoist from his seat by the arm, and sent him away
      with his servant. The brandy, however, never came, Bankhead
      declaring they had drunk all he had out, the other night. So
      Cuddy was obliged to console himself with his cigars and _Bell’s
      Life_, which latter he read, marked, learned, and inwardly
      digested, pausing every now and then at the speculative passages,
      wondering whether Wilkinson and Kidd, or Messrs. Wilkinson and
      Co. were the parties who had the honour of having his name on
      their books, where Henry Just, the backer of horses, got the
      Latin for his advertisement from, and considering whether Nairn
      Sahib, the Indian fiend, should be roasted alive or carried round
      the world in a cage. He also went through the column and a
      quarter of the meets of hounds again, studied the doings at
      Copenhagen Grounds, Salford Borough Gardens, and Hornsea Wood,
      and finally finished off with the time of high-water at London
      Bridge, and the list of pedestrian matches to come. He then
      folded the paper carefully up and replaced it in his pocket,
      feeling equal to a dialogue with anybody. Having examined the day
      through the window, he next strolled to his old friend the
      weather-glass at the bottom of the stairs, and then constituting
      himself huntsman to a pack of hounds, proceeded to draw the house
      for our Billy; “_Y-o-o-icks_, wind him! _y-o-o-icks_, push him
      up!” holloaed he, going leisurely up-stairs, “_E’leu in there!
      E’leu in!_” continued he, on arriving at a partially closed door
      on the first landing.

      “_There’s nobody here! There’s nobody here!_” exclaimed Mrs.
      Margerum, hurrying out. “There’s nobody here, sir!” repeated she,
      holding steadily on by the door, to prevent any one entering
      where she was busy packing her weekly basket of perquisites, or
      what the Americans more properly call “stealings.”

      “Nobody here! bitch-fox, at all events!” retorted Cuddy, eyeing
      her confusion—“where’s Mr. Pringle’s room?” asked he.

      “I’ll show you, sir; I’ll show you,” replied she, closing the
      room-door, and hurrying on to another one further along. “This is
      Mr. Pringle’s room, sir,” said she, stopping before it.

      “All right!” exclaimed Cuddy, knocking at the door.

      “Come in,” replied a feeble voice from within; and in Cuddy went.

      There was Billy in bed, with much such a disconsolate face as he
      had when Jack Rogers appeared with his hunting things. As,
      however, nobody ever admits being sick with smoking, Billy
      readily adopted Cuddy’s suggestion, and laid the blame on the
      pie. Cuddy, indeed, was good enough to say he had been sick
      himself, and of course Billy had a right to be so, too.
      “Shouldn’t have been so,” said Cuddy, “if that beggar Bankhead
      had brought the brandy; but there’s no getting anything out of
      that fellow.” And Caddy and Billy being then placed upon terms of
      equality, the interesting invalids agreed to have a walk
      together. To this end Billy turned out of bed and re-established
      himself in his recently-discarded coat and vest; feeling much
      like a man after a bad passage from Dover to Calais. The two then
      toddled down-stairs together, Cuddy stopping at the bottom of the
      flight to consult his old friend the glass, and speculate upon
      the Weather.

      “Dash it! but it’s falling,” said he, with a shake of the head
      after tapping it. “Didn’t like the looks of the sky this
      morning—wish there mayn’t be a storm brewing. Had one just about
      this time last year. Would be a horrid bore if hunting was
      stopped just in its prime,” and talked like a man with
      half-a-dozen horses fit to jump out of their skins, instead of
      not owning one. And Billy thought it would be the very thing for
      him if hunting was stopped. With a somewhat light heart, he
      followed Cuddy through the back slums to the stables.

      “Sir Moses doesn’t sacrifice much to appearances, does he?” asked
      Cuddy, pointing to the wretched rough-cast peeling off the back
      walls of the house, which were greened with the drippings of the
      broken spouts.

      “No,” replied Billy, staring about, thinking how different things
      looked there to what they did at the Carstle.

      “Desperately afraid of paint,” continued Cuddy, looking about.
      “Don’t think there has been a lick of paint laid upon any place
      since he got it. Always tell him he’s like a bad tenant at the
      end of a long lease,” which observation brought them to the first
      stable-door. “Who’s here?” cried Cuddy, kicking at the locked
      entrance.

      “Who’s there?” demanded a voice from within.

      “Me! _Mr. Flintoff_’!” replied Cuddy, in a tone of authority;
      “_open the door_” added he, imperiously.

      The dirty-shirted helper had seen them coming; but the servants
      generally looking upon Cuddy as a spy, the man had locked the
      door upon him.

      “Beg pardon, sir,” now said the Catiff, pulling at his cowlick as
      he opened it; “beg pardon, sir, didn’t know it was you.”

      “Didn’t you,” replied Cuddy, adding, “you might have known by my
      knock,” saying which Cuddy stuck his cheesey hat down on his
      nose, and pocketing his hands, proceeded to scrutinise the stud.

      “What’s this ‘orse got a bandage on for?” asked he about one.
      “Why don’t ye let that ‘orse’s ‘ead down?” demanded he of
      another. “Strip this ’orse,” ordered he of a third. Then Cuddy
      stood criticising his points, his legs, his loins, his hocks, his
      head, his steep shoulder, as he called it, and then ordered the
      clothes to be put on again. So he went from stable to stable,
      just as he does at Tattersall’s on a Sunday, Cuddy being as true
      to the “corner” as the needle to the pole, though, like the
      children, he looks, but _never_ touches, that is to say, “bids,”
      at least not for himself. Our Billy, soon tiring of this
      amusement—if, indeed, amusement it can be called—availed himself
      of the interregnum caused by the outside passage from one set of
      stables to another, to slip away to look after his own horse, of
      whose health he suddenly remembered Rougier had spoken
      disparagingly in the morning. After some little trouble he found
      the Juniper-smelling head groom, snoring asleep among a heap of
      horse-cloths before the fire in the saddle-room.

      It is said that a man who is never exactly sober is never quite
      drunk, and Jack Wetun was one of this order, he was always
      running to the “unsophisticated gin-bottle,” keeping up the steam
      of excitement, but seldom overtopping it, and could shake himself
      into apparent sobriety in an instant. Like most of Sir Moses’s
      people, he was one of the fallen angels of servitude, having
      lived in high places, from which his intemperate habits had
      ejected him; and he was now gradually descending to that last
      refuge of the destitute, the Ostlership of a farmer’s inn.
      Starting out of his nest at the rousing shake of the helper, who
      holloaed in his ear that “Mr. Pringle wanted to see his ‘orse,”
      Wetun stretched his brawny arms, and, rubbing his eyes, at length
      comprehended Billy, when he exclaimed with a start, “Oss, sir?
      Oh, by all means, sir;” and, bundling on his greasy-collared,
      iron-grey coat, he reeled and rolled out of the room, followed by
      our friend. “That (hiccup) oss of (hiccup) yours is (hiccup)
      amiss, I think (hiccup), sir,” said he, leading, or rather
      lurching the way. “A w-h-a-w-t?” drawled Billy, watching Weton’s
      tack and half-tack gait.

      “Amiss (hiccup)—unwell—don’t like his (hiccup) looks,” replied
      the groom, rolling past the stable-door where he was. “Oh, beg
      pardon,” exclaimed he, bumping against Billy on turning short
      back, as he suddenly recollected himself; “Beg pardon, he’s in
      here,” added he, fumbling at the door. It was locked. Then, oh
      dear, he hadn’t got the (hiccup) key, then (hiccup); yes, he had
      got the (hiccup) key, as he recollected he had his coat on, and
      dived into the pocket for it. Then he produced it; and, after
      making several unsuccessful pokes at the key-hole, at length
      accomplished an entry, and Billy again saw Napoleon the Great,
      now standing in the promised two-stalled stable along with Sir
      Moses’s gig mare.

      To a man with any knowledge of horses, Napoleon certainly did
      look very much amiss—more like a wooden horse at a
      harness-maker’s, than an animal meant to go,—stiff, with his
      fore-logs abroad, and an anxious care-worn countenance
      continually cast back at its bearing flanks.

      “Humph!” said Billy, looking him over, as he thought, very
      knowingly. “Not so much amiss, either, is he?”

      “Well, sir, what you think,” replied Wetun, glad to find that
      Billy didn’t blame him for his bad night’s lodgings.

      “Oh, I dare say he’ll be all right in a day or two,” observed

      Billy, half inclined to recommend his having his feet put into
      warm water.

      “Ope so,” replied Wetun, looking up the horse’s red nostrils,
      adding, “but he’s not (hiccup) now, somehow.”

      Just then a long reverberating crack sounded through the
      courtyard, followed by the clattering of horses’ hoofs, and Wetun
      exclaiming, “_Here be Sir Moses!_” dropped the poor horse’s head,
      and hurried ont to meet his master, accompanied by Billy.

      “Ah, Pringle!” exclaimed Sir Moses, gaily throwing his leg over
      his horse’s head as he alighted. “Ah, Pringle, my dear fellow,
      what, got you?”

      “Well, what sport?” demanded Cuddy Flintoff, rushing up with
      eager anxiety depicted on his face.

      “Very good,” replied Sir Moses, stamping the mud off his boots,
      and then giving himself a general shake; “very good,” repeated
      he; “found at Lobjolt Corse—-ran up the banks and down the banks,
      and across to Beatie’s Bog, then over to Deep-well Rocks, and
      back again to the banks.”

      “_Did you kill?_” demanded Cuddy, not wanting to hear any more
      about the banks—up the banks or down the banks either.

      “Why, no,” replied Sir Moses, moodily; “if that dom’d old Daddy
      Nevins hadn’t stuck his ugly old mug right in the way, we should
      have forced him over Willowsike Pastures, and doubled him up in
      no time, for we were close upon him; whereas the old infidel
      brought us to a check, aud we never could get upon terms with him
      again; but, come,” continued Sir Moses, wishing to cut short this
      part of the narrative, “let’s go into the house and get ourselves
      warmed, for the air’s cold, and I haven’t had a bite since
      breakfast.”

      “Ay, come in!” cried Cuddy, leading the way; “come in, and get
      Mr. Pringle a drop of brandy, for he’s eat something that’s
      disagreed with him.”

      “Eat something that’s disagreed with him. Sorry to hear that;
      what could it be?—what could it be?” asked Sir Moses, as the
      party now groped their way along the back passages.

      “Why, I blame the partridge-pie,” replied Cuddy, demurely.

      “Not a bit of it!” rejoined Sir Moses—“not a bit of it! eat some
      myself—eat some myself—will finish it now—will finish it now.”

      “We’ve saved you that trouble,” replied Cuddy, “for we finished
      it ourselves.”

      “The deuce you did!” exclaimed Sir Moses, adding, “and were _you_
      sick?”

      “Squeamish,” replied Cuddy—“Squeamish; not so bad as Mr.
      Pringle.”

      “But bad enough to want some brandy, I suppose,” observed the
      Baronet, now entering the library.

      “Quite so,” said Cuddy—“quite.”

      “Why didn’t you get some?—why didn’t you get some?” asked the
      Baronet, moving towards the bell.

      “Because Bankhead has none out,” replied Mr. Cuddy, before Sir
      Moses rang.

      “None out!” retorted Sir Moses—“none out!—what! have you finished
      that too!”

      “Somebody has, it seems,” replied Cuddy, quite innocently.

      “Well, then, I’ll tell you what you must do—I’ll tell you what
      you must do,” continued the Baronet, lighting a little red taper,
      and feeling in his pocket for the keys—“you must go into the
      cellar yourself and get some—go into the cellar yourself and get
      some;” so saying, Sir Moses handed Cuddy the candle and keys,
      saying, “shelf above the left hand bin behind the door,” adding,
      “you know it—you know it.”

      “Better bring two when I’m there, hadn’t I?” asked Cuddy.

      “Well,” said Sir Moses, dryly, “I s’pose there’ll be no great
      harm if you do;” and away Cuddy went.

      “D-e-e-a-vil of a fellow to drink—d-e-e-a-vil of a fellow to
      drink,” drawled Sir Moses, listening to his receding footsteps
      along the passage. He then directed his blarney to Billy. “Oh
      dear, he was sorry to hear he’d been ill; what could it be? Lost
      a nice gallop, too—dom’d if he hadn’t. Couldn’t be the pie!
      Wondered he wasn’t down in the morning.” Then Billy explained
      that his horse was ill, and that prevented him.

      “Horse ill!” exclaimed Sir Moses, throwing out his hands, and
      raising his brows with astonishment—“horse ill! O dear, but that
      shouldn’t have stopped you, if I’d known—should have been most
      welcome to any of mine—dom’d if you shouldn’t! There’s Pegasus,
      or Atalanta, or Will-o’-the-Wisp, or any of them, fit to go. O
      dear, it was a sad mistake not sending word. Wonder what Wetun
      was about not to tell me—would row him for not doing so,” and as
      Sir Moses went on protesting and professing and proposing, Cuddy
      Flintoff’s footstep and “_for-rard on! for-rard on!_” were heard
      returning along the passage, and he presently entered with a
      bottle in each hand.

      “There are a brace of beauties!” exclaimed he, placing them on
      the round table, with the dew of the cellar fresh on their
      sides—“there are a brace of blood-like beauties!” repeated he,
      eyeing their neat tapering necks, “the very race-horse of
      bottles—perfect pictures, I declare; so different to those great
      lumbering roundshouldered English things, that look like black
      beer or porter, or something of that sort.” Then Cuddy ran off
      for glasses and tumblers and water; and Sir Moses, having taken a
      thimble-full of brandy, retired to change his clothes, declaring
      he felt chilly; and Cuddy, reigning in his stead, made Billy two
      such uncommonly strong brews, that we are sorry to say he had to
      be put to bed shortly after.

      And when Mr. Bankhead heard that Cuddy Flintoff had been sent to
      the cellar instead of him, he declared it was the greatest insult
      that had ever been offered to a gentleman of his “order,” and
      vowed that he would turn his master off the first thing in the
      morning.



      CHAPTER XXXIX. MR. PRINGLE SUDDENLY BECOMES A MEMBER OF THE H. H.
      H.


      NEXT day being a “dies non” in the hunting way, Sir Moses
      Mainchance lay at earth to receive his steward, Mr. Mordecai
      Nathan, and hear what sport he had had as well in hunting up
      arrears of rent as in the management of the Pangburn Park estate
      generally. Very sorry the accounts were, many of the apparent
      dullard farmers being far more than a match for the sharp London
      Jew. Mr. Mordecai Nathan indeed, declared that it would require a
      detective policeman to watch each farm, so tricky and subtile
      were the occupants. And as Sir Moses listened to the sad
      recitals, how Henery Brown & Co. had been leading off their straw
      by night, and Mrs. Turnbull selling her hay by day, and Jacky
      Hindmarch sowing his fallows without ever taking out a single
      weed, he vowed that they were a set of the biggest rogues under
      the sun, and deserved to be hung all in a row,—dom’d if they
      didn’t! And he moved and seconded and carried a resolution in his
      own mind, that the man who meddled with land as a source of
      revenue was a very great goose. So, charging Mr. Mordecai Nathan
      to stick to them for the money, promising him one per cent. more
      (making him eleven) on what he recovered, he at length dissolved
      the meeting, most heartily wishing he had Pangburn Park in his
      pocket again. Meanwhile Messrs. Flintoff and Pringle had yawned
      away the morning in the usual dreamy loungy style of guests in
      country-houses, where the meals are the chief incidents of the
      day. Mr. Pringle not choosing to be tempted with any more “pie,”
      had slipped away to the stable as soon as Cuddy produced the
      dread cigar-case after breakfast, and there had a conference with
      Mr. Wetun, the stud-groom, about his horse Napoleon the Great.
      The drunkard half laughed when Billy asked “if he thought the
      horse would be fit to come out in the morning, observing that he
      thought it would be a good many mornins fust, adding that Mr.
      Fleams the farrier had bled him, but he didn’t seem any better,
      and that he was coming back at two o’clock, when p’raps Mr.
      Pringle had better see him himself.” Whereupon our friend Billy,
      recollecting Sir Moses’s earnest deprecation of his having stayed
      at home for want of a horse the day before, and the liberal way
      he had talked of Atalanta and Pegasus, and he didn’t know what
      else, now charged Mr. Wetun not to mention his being without a
      horse, lest Sir Moses might think it necessary to mount him;
      which promise being duly accorded, Billy, still shirking Cuddy,
      sought the retirement of his chamber, where he indited an epistle
      to his anxious Mamma, telling her all, how he had left Major
      Yammerton’s and the dangerous eyes, and had taken up his quarters
      with Sir Moses Mainchance, a great fox-hunting Hit-im and Hold-im
      shire Baronet at Pangburn Park, expecting she would be very much
      pleased and struck with the increased consequence. Instead of
      which, however, though Mrs. Pringle felt that he had perhaps hit
      upon the lesser evil, she wrote him a very loving letter by
      return of post, saying she was glad to hear he was enjoying
      himself, but cautioning him against “Moses Mainchance” (omitting
      the Sir), adding that every man’s character was ticketed in
      London, and the letters “D. D.” for “Dirty Dog” were appended to
      his. She also told him that uncle Jerry had been inquiring about
      him, and begging she would call upon him at an early day on
      matters of business, all of which will hereafter “more full and
      at large appear,” as the lawyers say; meanwhile, we must back the
      train of ideas a little to our hero. Just as he was affixing the
      great seal of state to the letter, Cuddy Flintoff’s “for-rard on!
      for-rard on!” was heard progressing along the passage, followed
      by a noisy knock, with an exclamation of “Pringle” at our
      friend’s door.

      “Come in!” cried he; and in obedience to the invitation, Flintoff
      stood in the doorway. “Don’t forget,” said he, “that we dine at
      Hinton to-day, and the Baronet’s ordered the trap at four,”
      adding, “I’m going to dress, and you’d better do the same.” So
      saying, Cuddy closed the door, and hunted himself along to his
      own room at the end of the passage—“_E’leu in there! E’leu in!_”
      oried he as he got to the door.

      Hinton, once the second town in Hit-im and Hold-im shire, stands
      at the confluence of the Long Brawlinerford and Riplinton brooks,
      whose united efforts here succeed in making a pretty respectable
      stream. It is an old-fashioned country place, whose component
      parts may be described as consisting of an extensive
      market-place, with a massive church of the florid Gothic, or
      gingerbread order of architecture at one end, a quaint
      stone-roofed, stone-pillared market cross at the other, the Fox
      and Hounds hotel and posting-house on the north side, with
      alternating shops and public houses on the south.

      Its population, according to a certain “sore subject”
      topographical dictionary, was 23,500, whilst its principal trade
      might have been described as “fleecing the foxhunters.” That was
      in its golden days, when Lord Martingal hunted the country,
      holding his court at the Fox and Hounds hotel, where gentlemen
      stayed with their studs for months and months together, instead
      of whisking about with their horses by steam. Then every stable
      in the town was occupied at very remunerative rents, and the
      inhabitants seemed to think they could never build enough.

      Like the natives of most isolated places, the Hintonites were
      very self-sufficient, firmly believing that there were no such
      conjurors as themselves; and, when the Grumpletin railway was
      projected, they resolved that it would ruin their town, and so
      they opposed it to a man, and succeeded in driving it several
      miles off, thus scattering their trade among other places along
      the line. Year by year the bonnet and mantle shops grew less gay,
      the ribbons less attractive, until shop after shop lapsed into a
      sort of store, hardware on one side, and millinery, perhaps, on
      the other. But the greatest fall of all was that of the Fox and
      Hounds hotel and posting-house. This spacious hostelry had
      apparently been built with a view of accommodating everybody;
      and, at the time of our story, it loomed in deserted grandeur in
      the great grass-grown market-place. In structure it was more like
      a continental inn than an English one; quadrangular, entered by a
      spacious archway, from whose lofty ceiling hung the crooks, from
      whence used to dangle the glorious legs and loins of
      four-year-old mutton, the home-fed hams, the geese, the ducks,
      the game, with not unfrequently a haunch or two of presentation
      venison. With the building, however, the similarity ended, the
      cobble-stoned courtyard displaying only a few water-casks and a
      basket-caged jay, in lieu of the statues, and vases, and
      fountains, and flower-stands that grace the flagged courts of the
      continent. But in former days it boasted that which in the eye of
      our innkeeper passes show, namely, a goodly line of two-horse
      carriages drawn across its ample width. In those days county
      families moved like county families, in great, caravan-like
      carriages, with plenty of servants, who, having drunk the “Park
      or Hall” allowance, uphold their characters and the honour of
      their houses, by topping up the measure of intemperance with
      their own money. Their masters and mistresses, too, considered
      the claims of the innkeepers, and ate and drank for the good of
      the house, instead of sneaking away to pastry-cooks for their
      lunches at a third of the price of the inn ones. Not that any
      landlord had ever made money at the Fox and Hounds hotel. Oh, no!
      it would never do to admit that. Indeed, Mr. Binny used to
      declare, if it wasn’t “the great regard he had for Lord Martingal
      and the gents of his hunt, he’d just as soon be without their
      custom;” just as all Binnys decry, whatever they have—military
      messes, hunt messes, bar messes, any sort of messes. They never
      make anything by them—not they.

      Now, however, that the hunt was irrevocably gone, words were
      inadequate to convey old Peter the waiter’s lamentations at its
      loss. “Oh dear, sir!” he would say, as he showed a stranger the
      club-room, once the eighth wonder of the world, “Oh dear, sir! I
      never thought to see things come to this pass. This room, sir,
      used to be occupied night after night, and every Wednesday we had
      more company than it could possibly hold. Now we have nothing but
      a miserable three-and-sixpence a head once a month, with Sir
      Moses in the chair, and a shilling a bottle for corkage. Formerly
      we had six shillings a bottle for port and five for sherry,
      which, as our decanters didn’t hold three parts, was pretty good
      pay.” Then Peter would open the shutters and show the proportions
      of the room, with the unrivalled pictures on the walls: Lord
      Martingal on his horse, Lord Martingal off his horse; Mr.
      Customer on his horse, Mr. Customer off his horse, Mr. Customer
      getting drunk; Mr. Crasher on his horse, Mr. Crasher with a
      hound, &c., all in the old woodeny style that prevailed before
      the gallant Grant struck out a fresh light in his inimitable
      “Breakfast,” and “Meet of the Stag-hounds.” But the reader will
      perhaps accompany us to one of Sir Moses’s “Wednesday evenings;”
      for which purpose they will have the goodness to suppose the
      Baronet and Mr. Flintoff arrayed in the dress uniform of the
      hunt—viz., scarlet coats with yellow collars and facings, and Mr.
      Pringle attired in the height of the fashion, bundling into one
      of those extraordinary-shaped vehicles that modern times have
      introduced. “_Right!_” cries the footman from the steps of the
      door, as Bankhead and Monsieur mount the box of the carriage, and
      away the well-muffled party drive to the scene of action.

      The great drawback to the Hit-im and Hold-im shire hunt club-room
      at the Fox and Hounds hotel and posting-house at Hinton,
      undoubtedly was, that there was no ante or reception room. The
      guests on alighting from their vehicles, after ascending the
      broad straight flight of stairs, found themselves suddenly
      precipitated into the dazzling dining-room, with such dismantling
      accommodation only as a low screen before the door at the low-end
      of the room afforded. The effect therefore was much the or same
      as if an actor dressed for his part on the stage before the
      audience; a fox-hunter in his wraps, and a fox-hunter in his red,
      being very distinct and different beings. It was quite
      destructive of anything like imposing flourish or effect.
      Moreover the accumulation of steaming things on a wet night,
      which it generally was on a club dinner, added but little to the
      fragrance of the room. So much for generalities; we will now
      proceed to our particular dinner.



      301m


      _Original Size_


      Sir Moses being the great gun of the evening, of course timed
      himself to arrive becomingly late—indeed the venerable post-boy
      who drove him, knew to a moment when to arrive; and as the party
      ascended the straight flight of stairs they met a general buzz of
      conversation coming down, high above which rose the discordant
      notes of the Laughing Hyæna. It was the first hunt-dinner of the
      season, and being the one at which Sir Moses generally broached
      his sporting requirements, parties thought it prudent to be
      present, as well as to hear the prospects of the season as to
      protect their own pockets. To this end some twenty or
      five-and-twenty variegated guests were assembled, the majority
      dressed in the red coat and yellow facings of the hunt,
      exhibiting every variety of cut, from the tight short-waisted
      swallow-tails of Mr. Crasher’s (the contemporary of George the
      Fourth) reign, down to the sack-like garment of the present day.
      Many of them looked as if, having got into their coats, they were
      never to get out of them again, but as pride feels no pain, if
      asked about them, they would have declared they were quite
      comfortable. The dark-coated gentry were principally farmers, and
      tradespeople, or the representatives of great men in the
      neighbourhood. Mr. Buckwheat, Mr. Doubledrill, Mr. James
      Corduroys, Mr. Stephen Broadfurrow; Mr. Pica, of the “Hit-im and
      Hold-im shire Herald;” Hicks, the Flying Hatter, and his shadow
      Tom Snowdon the draper or Damper, Manford the corn-merchant,
      Smith the saddler. Then there was Mr. Mossman, Lord Polkaton’s
      Scotch factor, Mr. Squeezeley, Sir Morgan Wildair’s agent, Mr.
      Lute, on behalf of Lord Harpsichord, Mr. Stiff representing Sir
      George Persiflage, &c., &c. These latter were watching the
      proceedings for their employers, Sir Moses having declared that
      Mr. Mossman, on a former occasion (see page 188, ante), had
      volunteered to subscribe fifty pounds to the hounds, on behalf of
      Lord Polkaton, and Sir Moses had made his lordship pay it
      too—“dom’d if he hadn’t.” With this sketch of the company, let us
      now proceed to the entry.

      Though the current of conversation had been anything but
      flattering to our master before his arrival, yet the reception
      they now gave him, as he emerged from behind the screen, might
      have made a less self-sufficient man than Sir Moses think he was
      extremely popular. Indeed, they rushed at him in a way that none
      but Briareus himself could have satisfied. They all wanted to hug
      him at once. Sir Moses having at length appeased their
      enthusiasm, and given his beak a good blow, proceeded to turn
      part of their politeness upon Billy, by introducing him to those
      around. Mr. Pringle, Mr. Jarperson—Mr. Pringle, Mr. Paul
      Straddler—Mr. Pringle, Mr. John Bullrush, and so on.

      Meanwhile Cuddy Flintoff kept up a series of view halloas and
      hunting noises, as guest after guest claimed the loan of his hand
      for a shake. So they were all very hearty and joyful as members
      of a fox-hunting club ought to be.



      303m


      _Original Size_


      The rules of the Hit-im and Hold-im-shire hunt, like those of
      many other hunts and institutions, were sometimes very stringent,
      and sometimes very lax—very stringent when an objectionable
      candidate presented himself—very lax when a good one was to be
      obtained. On the present occasion Sir Moses Mainchance had little
      difficulty in persuading the meeting to suspend the salutary rule
      (No. 5) requiring each new candidate to be proposed and seconded
      at one meeting, and his name placed above the mantelpiece in the
      club-room, until he was ballotted for at another meeting, in
      favour of the nephew of his old friend and brother Baronet, Sir
      Jonathan Pringle; whom he described as a most promising young
      sportsman, and likely to make a most valuable addition to their
      hunt. And the members all seeing matters in that light, Cuddy
      Flintoff was despatched for the ballot-box, so that there might
      be no interruption to the advancement of dinner by summoning
      Peter. Meanwhile Sir Moses resumed the introductory process, Mr.
      Heslop Mr. Pringle, Mr. Pringle Mr. Smoothley, Mr. Drew Mr.
      Pringle, helping Billy to the names of such faces as he could not
      identity for want of their hunting caps. Cleverer fellows than
      Billy are puzzled to do that sometimes.

      Presently Mr. Flintoff returned with the rat-trap-like ballot-box
      under his arm, and a willow-pattern soup-plate with some beans in
      the bottom of it, in his hand.

      “Make way!” cried he, “make way!” advancing up the room with all
      the dignity of a mace-bearer. “Where will you have it, Sir
      Moses?” asked he, “where will you have it, Sir Moses?”

      “Here!” replied the Baronet, seizing a card-table from below the
      portrait of Mr. Customer getting drunk, and setting it out a
      little on the left of the fire. The ballot-box was then duly
      deposited on the centre of the green baize with a composite
      candle on each side of it.

      Sir Moses, then thinking to make up in dignity what he had
      sacrificed to expediency, now called upon the meeting to appoint
      a Scrutineer on behalf of the club, and parties caring little who
      they named so long as they were not kept waiting for dinner,
      holloaed out “Mr. Flintoff!” whereupon Sir Moses put it to them
      if they were all content to have Mr. Flintoff appointed to the
      important and responsible office of Scrutineer, and receiving a
      shower of “yes-es!” in reply, he declared Mr. Flintoff was duly
      elected, and requested him to enter upon the duties of his
      office.

      Cuddy, then turning up his red coat wrists, so that there might
      be no suspicion of concealed beans, proceeded to open and turn
      the drawers of the ballot-box upside down, in order to show that
      they were equally clear, and then restoring them below their
      “Yes” and “No” holes, he took his station behind the table with
      the soup-plate in his hand ready to drop a bean into each
      member’s hand, as he advanced to receive it. Mr. Heslop presently
      led the way at a dead-march-in-Saul sort of pace, and other
      members falling in behind like railway passengers at a pay place,
      there was a continuous dropping of beans for some minutes, a
      solemn silence being preserved as if the parties expected to hear
      on which side they fell.

      At length the constituency was exhausted, and Mr. Flintoff having
      assumed the sand-glass, and duly proclaimed that he should close
      the ballot, if no member appeared before the first glass was out,
      speedily declared it was run, when, laying it aside, he emptied
      the soup-plate of the remaining beans, and after turning it
      upside down to show the perfect fairness of the transaction,
      handed it to Sir Moses to hold for the result. Drawing out the
      “Yes” drawer first, he proceeded with great gravity to count the
      beans out into the soup-plate—one, two, three, four, five, six,
      seven, and so on, up to eighteen, when the inverted drawer
      proclaimed they were done.

      “Eighteen Ayes,” announced Sir Moses to the meeting, amid a
      murmur of applause.

      Mr. Flintoff then produced the dread “No,” or black-ball drawer,
      whereof one to ten white excluded, and turning it upside down,
      announced, in a tone of triumph, “_none!_”

      “Hooray!” cried Sir Moses, seizing our hero by both hands, and
      hugging him heartily—“Hooray! give you joy, my boy! you’re a
      member of the first club in the world! The Caledonian’s nothing
      to it;—dom’d if it is.” So saying, he again swung him severely by
      the arms, and then handed him over to the meeting.

      And thus Mr. Pringle was elected a member of the Hit-im and
      Hold-im shire hunt, without an opportunity of asking his Mamma,
      for the best of all reasons, that Sir Moses had not even asked
      him himself.



      CHAPTER XL. THE HUNT DINNER,

      307m _Original Size_

      CARCELY were the congratulations of the company to our hero, on
      his becoming a member of the renowned Hit-im and Hold-im shire
      hunt, over, ere a great rush of dinner poured into the room,
      borne by Peter and the usual miscellaneous attendants at an inn
      banquet; servants in livery, servants out of livery, servants in
      a sort of half-livery, servants in place, servants out of place,
      post-boys converted into footmen, “boots” put into shoes. Then
      the carrot and turnip garnished roasts and boils, and stews were
      crowded down the table, in a profusion that would astonish any
      one who thinks it impossible to dine under a guinea a head.
      Rounds, sirloins middles, sucking-pigs, poultry, &c. (for they
      dispensed with the formalities of soup and fish ), being duly
      distributed. Peter announced the fact deferentially to Sir Moses,
      as he stood monopolizing the best place before the fire,
      whereupon the Baronet, drawing his hands out of his trowser’s
      pockets, let fall his yellow lined gloves and clapping his hands,
      exclaimed. “DINNER GENTLEMAN!” in a stentorian voice, adding,
      “PRINGLE you sit on my right! and CUDDY!” appealing to our friend
      Flintoff’. “will you take the vice-chair?”

      “With all my heart!” replied Cuddy, whereupon making an imaginary
      hunting-horn of his hand, he put it to his mouth, and went
      blowing and hooping down the room, to entice a certain portion of
      the guests after him. All parties being at length suited with
      seats, grace was said, and the assault commenced with the
      vigorous determination of over-due appetites.

      If a hand-in-the-pocket-hunt-dinner possesses few attractions in
      the way of fare, it is nevertheless free from the restraints and
      anxieties that pervade private entertainments, where the host
      cranes at the facetious as he scowls at his butler, or madame
      mingles her pleasantries with prayers for the safe arrival of the
      creams, and those extremely capricious sensitive jellies. People
      eat as if they had come to dine and not to talk, some, on this
      occasion, eating with their knives, some with their forks, some
      with both occasionally. And so, what with one aid and another,
      they made a very great clatter.

      The first qualms of hunger being at length appeased, Sir Moses
      proceeded to select subjects for politeness in the wine-taking
      way—men whom he could not exactly have at his own house, but who
      might be prevented from asking for cover-rent, or damages, by a
      little judicious flattery, or again, men who were only supposed
      to be lukewarmly disposed towards the great Hit-im and Hold-im
      shire hunt.

      Sir Moses would rather put his hand into a chimney-sweep’s pocket
      than into his own, but so long as anything could be got by the
      tongue he never begrudged it. So he “sherried” with Mossman and
      the army of observation generally, also with Pica, who always
      puffed his hunt, cutting at D’Orsay Davis’s efforts on behalf of
      the Earl, and with Buckwheat (whose son he had recently dom’d à
      la Rowley Abingdon), and with Corduroys, and Straddler, and
      Hicks, and Doubledrill—with nearly all the dark coats, in
      short—Cuddy Flintoff, too, kept the game a-going at his end of
      the table, as well to promote conviviality as to get as much wine
      as he could; so altogether there was a pretty brisk consumption,
      and some of the tight-clad gentlemen began to look rather
      apoplectic. Cannon-ball-like plum-puddings, hip-bath-like
      apple-pies, and foaming creams, completed the measure of their
      uneasiness, and left little room for any cheese. Nature being at
      length most abundantly satisfied throughout the assembly, grace
      was again said, and the cloth cleared for action. The regulation
      port and sherry, with light—very light—Bordeaux, being duly
      placed upon the table, with piles of biscuits at intervals, down
      the centre, Sir Moses tapped the well-indented mahogany with his
      presidential hammer, and proceeded to prepare the guests for the
      great toast of the evening, by calling upon them to fill bumpers
      to the usual loyal and patriotic ones. These being duly disposed
      of, he at length rose for the all-important let off, amid the
      nudges and “now then’s,” of such of the party as feared a fresh
      attempt on their pockets—Mossman and Co., in particular, were all
      eyes, ears, and fears.

      “Gentlemen!” cries Sir Moses, rising and diving his hands into
      his trouser’s pockets—“Gentlemen!” repeated he, with an ominous
      cough, that sounded very like cash.

      “_Hark to the Bar owl!—hark_” cheered Cuddy Flintoff from the
      other end of the room, thus cutting short a discussion about
      wool, a bargain for beans, and an inquiry for snuff in his own
      immediate neighbourhood, and causing a tapping of the table
      further up.

      “Gentlemen!” repeated Sir Moses, for the third time, amid cries
      of “hear, hear,” and “order, order,”—“I now have the pleasure of
      introducing to your notice the toast of the evening—a toast
      endeared by a thousand associations, and rendered classical by
      the recollection of the great and good men who have given it in
      times gone by from this very chair—(applause). I need hardly say,
      gentlemen, that that toast is the renowned Hit-im and Hold-im
      shire hunt—(renewed applause)—a hunt second to none in the
      kingdom; a hunt whose name is famous throughout the land, and
      whose members are the very flower and élite of society—(renewed
      applause). Never, he was happy to say, since it was established,
      were its prospects so bright and cheering as they were at the
      present time—(great applause, the announcement being considered
      indicative of a healthy exchequer)—its country was great, its
      covers perfect, and thanks to their truly invaluable allies—the
      farmers—their foxes most abundant—(renewed applause). Of those
      excellent men it was impossible to speak in terms of too great
      admiration and respect—(applause)—whether he looked at those he
      was blessed with upon his own estate—(laughter)—or at the great
      body generally, he was lost for words to express his opinion of
      their patriotism, and the obligations he felt under to them. So
      far from ever hinting at such a thing as damage, he really
      believed a farmer would be hooted from the market-table who
      broached such a subject—(applause, with murmurs of dissent)—or
      who even admitted it was possible that any could be
      done—(laughter and applause). As for a few cocks and hens, he was
      sure they felt a pleasure in presenting them to the foxes. At all
      events, he could safely say he had never paid for any—(renewed
      laughter). Looking, therefore, at the hunt in all its aspects—its
      sport past, present, and to come—he felt that he never addressed
      them under circumstances of greater promise, or with feelings of
      livelier satisfaction. It only remained for them to keep matters
      up to the present mark, to insure great and permanent prosperity.
      He begged, therefore, to propose, with all the honours, Success
      to the Hit-im and Hold-im shire hunt!”—(drunk with three times
      three and one cheer more). Sir Moses and Cuddy Flintoff mounting
      their chairs to mark time. Flintoff finishing off with a round of
      view halloas and other hunting noises.

      When the applause and Sir Moses had both subsided, parties who
      had felt uneasy about their pockets, began to breathe more
      freely, and as the bottles again circulated, Mr. Mossman and
      others, for whom wine was too cold, slipped out to get their
      pipes, and something warm in the bar; Mossman calling for
      whiskey, Buckwheat for brandy, Broadfurrow for gin, and so on.
      Then as they sugared and flavoured their tumblers, they chewed
      the cud of Sir Moses’s eloquence, and at length commenced
      discussing it, as each man got seated with his pipe in his mouth
      and his glass on his knee, in a little glass-fronted bar.

      “What a man he is to talk, that Sir Moses,” observed Buckwheat
      after a long respiration.

      “He’s a greet economist of the truth, I reckon,” replied Mr.
      Mossman, withdrawing his pipe from his mouth, “for I’ve written
      to him till I’m tired, about last year’s damage to Mrs. Anthill’s
      sown grass.”

      “He’s right, though, in saying he never paid for poultry,”
      observed Mr. Broadfurrow, with a humorous shake of his big head,
      “but, my word, his hook-nosed agent has as many letters as would
      paper a room;” and so they sipped, and smoked, and talked the
      Baronet over, each man feeling considerably relieved at there
      being no fresh attempt on the pocket.

      Meanwhile Sir Moses, with the aid of Cuddy Flintoff, trimmed the
      table, and kept the bottles circulating briskly, presently
      calling on Mr. Paul Straddler for a song, who gave them the old
      heroic one, descriptive of a gallant run with the Hit-im and
      Hold-im shire hounds, in the days of Mr. Customer, at which they
      all laughed and applauded as heartily as if they had never heard
      it before. They then drank Mr. Straddler’s health, and thanks to
      him for his excellent song.

      As it proceeded, Sir Moses intimated quietly to our friend Billy
      Pringle that he should propose his health next, which would
      enable Mr. Pringle to return the compliment by proposing Sir
      Moses, an announcement that threw our hero into a very
      considerable state of trepidation, but from which he saw no mode
      of escape. Sir Moses then having allowed a due time to elapse
      after the applause that followed the drinking of Mr. Straddler’s
      health, again arose, and tapping the table with his hammer,
      called upon them to fill bumpers to the health of his young
      friend on his right (applause). “He could not express the
      pleasure it afforded him,” he said, “to see a nephew of his old
      friend and brother Baronet, Sir Jonathan Pringle, become a member
      of their excellent hunt, and he hoped Billy would long live to
      enjoy the glorious diversion of fox-hunting,” which Sir Moses
      said it was the bounden duty of every true-born Briton to support
      to the utmost of his ability, for that it was peculiarly the
      sport of gentlemen, and about the only one that defied the
      insidious arts of the blackleg, adding that Lord Derby was quite
      right in saying that racing had got into the hands of parties who
      kept horses not for sport, but as mere instruments of gambling,
      and if his (Sir Moses’s) young friend, Mr. Pringle, would allow
      him to counsel him, he would say, Never have anything to do with
      the turf (applause). Stick to hunting, and if it didn’t bring him
      in money, it would bring him in health, which was better than
      money, with which declaration Sir Moses most cordially proposed
      Mr. Pringle’s health (drunk with three times three and one cheer
      more).

      Now our friend had never made a speech in his life, but being, as
      we said at the outset, blessed with a great determination of
      words to the mouth, he rose at a hint from Sir Moses, and assured
      the company “how grateful he was for the honour they had done him
      as well in electing him a member of their delightful sociable
      hunt, as in responding to the toast of his health in the
      flattering manner they had, and he could assure them that nothing
      should be wanting on his part to promote the interests of the
      establishment, and to prove himself worthy of their continued
      good opinion,” at which intimation Sir Moses winked knowingly at
      Mr. Smoothley, who hemmed a recognition of his meaning.

      Meanwhile Mr. Pringle stood twirling his trifling moustache,
      wishing to sit down, but feeling there was something to keep him
      up: still he couldn’t hit it off. Even a friendly round of
      applause failed to help him out; at length, Sir Moses, fearing he
      might stop altogether, whispered the words “_My health_,” just
      under his nose; at which Billy perking up, exclaimed, “Oh, aye,
      to be sure!” and seizing a decanter under him, he filled himself
      a bumper of port, calling upon the company to follow his example.
      This favour being duly accorded, our friend then proceeded, in a
      very limping, halting sort of way, to eulogise a man with whom he
      was very little acquainted amid the friendly word-supplying
      cheers and plaudits of the party. At length he stopped again,
      still feeling that he was not due on his seat, but quite unable
      to say why he should not resume it. The company thinking he might
      have something to say to the purpose, how he meant to hunt with
      them, or something of that sort, again supplied the cheers of
      encouragement. It was of no use, however, he couldn’t hit it off.

      ****


      “_All the honors!_” at length whispered Sir Moses as before.

      “O, ah, to be sure! _all the honors!_” replied Billy aloud,
      amidst the mirth of the neighbours. “Gentlemen!” continued he,
      elevating his voice to its former pitch, “This toast I feel
      assured—that is to say, I feel quite certain. I mean,” stammered
      he, stamping with his foot, “I, I, I.”

      “_Aye, two thou’s i’ Watlington goods!_” exclaimed the
      half-drunken Mr. Corduroys, an announcement that drew forth such
      a roar of laughter as enabled Billy to tack the words, “all the
      honors,” to the end, and so with elevated glass to continue the
      noise with cheers. He then sate down perfectly satisfied with
      this his first performance, feeling that he had the germs of
      oratory within him.

      A suitable time having elapsed, Sir Moses rose and returned
      thanks with great vigour, declaring that beyond all comparison
      that was the proudest moment of his life, and that he wouldn’t
      exchange the mastership of the Hit-im and Hold-im shire hounds
      for the highest, the noblest office in the world—Dom’d if he
      would! with which asseveration he drank all their very good
      healths, and resumed his seat amidst loud and long continued
      applause, the timidest then feeling safe against further demands
      on their purses. Another song quickly followed, and then
      according to the usual custom of society, that the more you abuse
      a man in private the more you praise him in public, Sir Moses
      next proposed the health of that excellent and popular nobleman
      the Earl of Ladythorne, whose splendid pack showed such
      unrivalled sport in the adjoining county of Featherbedford; Sir
      Moses, after a great deal of flattery, concluding by declaring
      that he would “go to the world’s end to serve Lord
      Ladythorne—Dom’d if he wouldn’t,” a sort of compliment that the
      noble Earl never reciprocated; on the contrary, indeed, when he
      condescended to admit the existence of such a man as Sir Moses,
      it was generally in that well-known disparaging enquiry, “Who
      _is_ that Sir Aaron Mainchance? or who is that Sir Somebody
      Mainchance, who hunts Hit-im and Hold-im shire?” He never could
      hit off the Baronet’s Christian or rather Jewish name. Now,
      however, it was all the noble Earl, “my noble friend and brother
      master,” the “noble and gallant sportsman,” and so on. Sir Moses
      thus partly revenging himself on his lordship with the freedom.

      When a master of hounds has to borrow a “draw” from an adjoining
      country, it is generally a pretty significant hint that his own
      is exhausted, and when the chairman of a hunt dinner begins
      toasting his natural enemy the adjoining master, it is pretty
      evident that the interest of the evening is over. So it was on
      the present occasion. Broad backs kept bending away at intervals,
      thinking nobody saw them, leaving large gaps unclosed up, while
      the guests that remained merely put a few drops in the bottoms of
      their glasses or passed the bottles altogether.

      Sir Aaron, we beg his pardon—Sir Moses, perceiving this, and
      knowing the value of a good report, called on those who were left
      to “fill a bumper to the health of their excellent and truly
      invaluable friend Mr. Pica, contrasting his quiet habits with the
      swaggering bluster of a certain Brummagem Featherbedfordshire
      D’Orsay.” (Drunk with great applause, D’Orsay Davis having more
      than once sneered at the equestrian prowess of the Hit-im aud
      Hold-im shire-ites.)

      Mr. Pica, who was a fisherman and a very bad one to boot, then
      arose and began dribbling out the old stereotyped formula about
      air we breathe, have it not we die, &c., which was a signal for a
      general rise; not all Sir Moses and Cuddy Flintoff’s united
      efforts being able to restrain the balance of guests from
      breaking away, and a squabble occurring behind the screen about a
      hat, the chance was soon irrevocably gone. Mr. Pica was,
      therefore, left alone in his glory. If any one, however, can
      afford to be indifferent about being heard, it is surely an
      editor who can report himself in his paper, and poor Pica did
      himself ample justice in the “Hit-im and Hold-im shire Herald” on
      the Saturday following.



      CHAPTER XLI. THE HUNT TEA.—BUSHEY HEATH AND BARE ACRES.

      313m


      _Original Size_


      THE 15th rule of the Hit-im and Hold-im shire hunt, provides that
      all members who dine at the club, may have tea and muffins ad
      libitum for 6 d. a head afterwards, and certainly nothing can be
      more refreshing after a brawling riotous dinner than a little
      quiet comfortable Bohea. Sir Moses always had his six-penn’orth,
      as had a good many of his friends and followers. Indeed the rule
      was a proposition of the Baronet’s, such a thing as tea being
      unheard of in the reign of Mr. Customer, or any of Sir Moses’s
      great predecessors. Those were the days of “lift him up and carry
      him to bed.” Thank goodness they are gone! Men can hunt without
      thinking it necessary to go out with a headache. Beating a jug in
      point of capacity is no longer considered the accomplishment of a
      gentleman.

      Mr. Pica’s eloquence having rather prematurely dissolved the
      meeting, Sir Moses and his friends now congregated round the fire
      all very cheery and well pleased with themselves—each flattering
      the other in hopes of getting a compliment in return. “Gone off
      amazingly well!” exclaimed one, rubbing his hands in delight at
      its being over. “Capital party,” observed another. “Excellent
      speech yours, Sir Moses,” interposed a third. “Never heard a
      better,” asserted a fourth. “Ought to ask to have it printed,”
      observed a fifth. “O, never fear! Pica’ll do that,” rejoined a
      sixth, and so they went on warding off the awkward thought, so
      apt to arise of “what a bore these sort of parties are. Wonder if
      they do any good?”

      The good they do was presently shown on this occasion by Mr.
      Smoothley, the Jackall of the hunt, whose pecuniary obligations
      to Sir Moses we have already hinted at, coming bowing and fawning
      obsequiously up to our Billy, revolving his hands as though he
      were washing them, and congratulating him upon becoming one of
      them. Mr. Smoothley was what might be called the head pacificator
      of the hunt, the gentleman who coaxed subscriptions, deprecated
      damage, and tried to make young gentlemen believe they had had
      very good runs, when in fact they had only had very middling
      ones.

      The significant interchange of glances between Sir Moses and him
      during Billy’s speech related to a certain cover called Waverley
      gorse, which the young Woolpack, Mr. Treadcroft, who had
      ascertained his inability to ride, had announced his intention of
      resigning. The custom of the hunt was, first to get as many
      covers as they could for nothing; secondly to quarter as few on
      the club funds as possible; and thirdly to get young gentlemen to
      stand godfathers to covers, in other words to get them to pay the
      rent in return for the compliment of the cover passing by their
      names, as Heslop’s spiny, Linch’s gorse, Benson’s banks, and so
      on.

      This was generally an after-dinner performance, and required a
      skilful practitioner to accomplish, more particularly as the
      trick was rather notorious. Mr. Smoothley was now about to try
      his hand on Mr. Pringle. The bowing and congratulations over, and
      the flexible back straightened, he commenced by observing that,
      he supposed a copy of the rules of the hunt addressed to Pangburn
      Park, would find our friend.

      “Yarse,” drawled Billy, wondering if there would be anything to
      pay. “Dash it, he wished there mightn’t? Shouldn’t be surprised
      if there was?”



      315m


      _Original Size_


      Mr. Smoothley, however, gave him little time for reflection, for
      taking hold of one of his own red-coat buttons, he observed,
      “that as he supposed Mr. Pringle would be sporting the hunt
      uniform, he might take the liberty of mentioning that Garnett the
      silversmith in the market-place had by far the neatest and best
      pattern’d buttons.”

      “Oh, Garnett, oh, yarse,” replied Billy, thinking he would get a
      set for his pink, instead of the plain ones he was wearing.

      “His shop is next the Lion and the Lamb public house,” continued
      Mr. Smoothley, “between it and Mrs. Russelton the milliner’s, and
      by the way that reminds me,” continued he, though we don’t
      exactly see how it could, “and by the way that reminds me that
      there is an excellent opportunity for distinguishing yourself by
      adopting the cover young Mr. Treadcroft has just abandoned.”

      “The w-h-a-at?” drawled Billy, dreading a “do;” his mother having
      cautioned him always to be mindful after dinner.

      “O, merely the gorse,” continued Mr. Smoothley, in the most
      affable matter-of-course way imaginable, “merely the gorse—if
      you’ll step this way, I’ll show you,” continued he, leading the
      way to where a large dirty board was suspended against the wall
      below the portrait of Lord Martingal on his horse.

      “_Now he’s running into him!_” muttered Sir Moses to himself, his
      keen eye supplying the words to the action.

      “This, you see,” explained Mr. Smoothley, hitching the board off
      its brass-headed nail, and holding it to the light—“this, you
      see, is a list of all the covers in the country—Screechley,
      Summer-field, Reddingfield, Bewley, Lanton Hill, Baxterley, and
      so forth. Then you see here,” continned he, pointing to a ruled
      column opposite, “are the names of the owners or patrons—yes”
      (reading), “owners or patrons—Lord Oilcake, Lord Polkaton, Sir
      Harry Fuzball, Mr. Heslop, Lord Harpsichord, Mr. Drew, Mr. Smith.
      Now young Mr. Treadcroft, who has had as many falls as he likes,
      and perhaps more, has just announced his intention of retiring
      and giving up this cover,” pointing to Waverley, with Mr.
      Treadcroft, Jun.‘s name opposite to it, “and it struck me that it
      would be a capital opportunity for you who have just joined us,
      to take it before anybody knows, and then it will go by the name
      of Pringle’s gorse, and you’ll get the credit of all the fine
      runs that take place from it.”

      “Y-a-r-s-e,” drawled Billy, thinking that that would be a sharp
      thing to do, and that it would be fine to rank with the lords.

      “Then,” continued Mr. Smoothley, taking the answer for an assent,
      “I’ll just strike Treadey’s name ont, and put yours in;” so
      saying, he darted at the sideboard, and seizing an old
      ink-clotted stump of a pen, with just enough go in it to make the
      required alteration, and substituted Mr. Pringle’s name for that
      of Mr. Treadcroft. And so, what with his cover, his dinner, and
      his button, poor Billy was eased of above twenty pounds.

      Just as Sir Moses was blowing his beak, stirring the fire, and
      chuckling at the success of the venture, a gingling of cups and
      tinkling of spoons was heard in the distance, and presently a
      great flight of tea-trays emerged from either side of the screen,
      conspicuous among the bearers of which were the tall
      ticket-of-leave butler and the hirsute Monsieur Jean Rougier.
      These worthies, with a few other “gentlemen’s gentlemen,” had
      been regaled to a supper in the “Blenheim,” to which Peter had
      contributed a liberal allowance of hunt wine, the consumption of
      which was checked by the corks, one set, it was said, serving
      Peter the season. That that which is everybody’s business is
      nobody’s, is well exemplified in these sort of transactions, for
      though a member of the hunt went through the form of counting the
      cork-tops every evening, and seeing that they corresponded with
      the number set down in Peter’s book, nobody ever compared the
      book with the cellar, so that in fact Peter was both check-keeper
      and auditor. Public bodies, however, are all considered fair
      game, and the Hit-im and Hold-im shire hunt was no exception to
      the rule. In addition to the wine, there had been a sufficient
      allowance of spirits in the “Blenheim” to set the drunkards to
      work on their own account, and Jack Rogers, who was quite the
      life of the party, was very forward in condition when the
      tea-summons was heard.

      “Hush!” cried Peter, holding up his hand, and listening to an
      ominous bell-peal, “I do believe that’s for tea! So it is,”
      sighed he, as a second summons broke upon the ear. “Tea at this
      hour!” ejaculated he, “who’d ha’ thought it twenty years ago!
      Why, this is just the time they’d ha’ been calling for Magnums,
      and beginnin’ the evening—_Tea!_ They’d as soon ha’ thought of
      callin’ for winegar!” added he, with a bitter sneer. So saying,
      Peter dashed a tear from his aged eye, and rising from his chair,
      craved the assistance of his guests to carry the degrading
      beverage up-stairs, to our degenerate party. “A set of
      weshenvomen!” muttered he, as the great slop-basin-like-cups
      stood ranged on trays along the kitchen-table ready for
      conveyance. “Sarves us right for allowing such a chap to take our
      country,” added he, adopting his load, and leading the tea-van.

      When the soothing, smoking beverage entered, our friend, Cuddy
      Flintoff, was “yoicking” himself about the club-room, stopping
      now at this picture, now that, holloaing at one, view-holloaing
      at another, thus airing his hunting noises generally, as each
      successive subject recalled some lively association in his too
      sensitive hunting imagination. Passing from the contemplation of
      that great work of art, Mr. Customer getting drunk, he suddenly
      confronted the tea-brigade entering, led by Peter, Monsieur, and
      the ticket-of-leave butler.

      “Holloa! old Bushey Heath!” exclaimed Cuddy, dapping his hands,
      as Mousieur’s frizzed face loomed congruously behind a
      muffin-towering tea-tray. “Holloa! old Bushey Heath!” repeated
      he, louder than before, “_What cheer there?_”

      “Vot cheer there, Brother Bareacres?” replied Jack in the same
      familiar tone, to the great consternation of Cuddy, and the
      amusement of the party.

      “Dash the fellow! but he’s getting bumptious,” muttered Cuddy,
      who had no notion of being taken up that way by a servant. “Dash
      the fellow! but he’s getting bumptious,” repeated he, adding
      aloud to Jack, “That’s not the way you talked when you tumbled
      off your horse the other day!”

      “Tombled off my ‘oss, sare!” replied Jack, indignantly—“tombled
      off my ‘oss, sare—nevare, sare!—nevare!”

      “What!” retorted Cuddy, “do you mean to say you didn’t tumble off
      your horse on the Crooked Billet day?” for Cuddy had heard of
      that exploit, but not of Jack’s subsequent performance.

      “No, sare, I jomp off,” replied Jack, thinking Cuddy alluded to
      his change of horses with the Woolpack.

      “_Jo-o-m-p_ off! j-o-omp off!” reiterated Cuddy, “we all jomp
      off, when we can’t keep on. Why didn’t old Imperial John take you
      into the Crooked Billet, and scrape you, and cherish you, and
      comfort you, and treat you as he would his own son?” demanded
      Cuddy.

      “Imperial John, sare, nevare did nothin’ of the sort,” replied
      Jack, confidently. “Imperial John and I retired to ‘ave leetle
      drop drink together to our better ‘quaintance. I met John there,
      _n’est-ce pas?_ Monsieur Sare Moses, Baronet! Vasn’t it as I
      say?” asked Jack, jingling his tea-tray before the Baronet.

      “Oh yes,” replied Sir Moses,—“Oh yes, undoubtedly; I introduced
      you there; but here! let me have some tea,” continued he, taking
      a cup, wishing to stop the conversation, lest Lord Ladythorne
      might hear he had introduced his right-hand man, Imperial John,
      to a servant.

      Cuddy, however, wasn’t to be stopped. He was sure Jack had
      tumbled off, and was bent upon working him in return for his
      Bareacres compliment.

      “Well, but tell us,” said he, addressing Jack again, “did you
      come over his head or his tail, when you jomp off?”

      “Don’t, Cuddy! don’t!” now muttered Sir Moses, taking the entire
      top tier off a pile of muffins, and filling his mouth as full as
      it would hold; “don’t,” repeated he, adding, “it’s no use (munch)
      bullying a poor (crunch) beggar because he’s a (munch) Frenchman”
      (crunch). Sir Moses then took a great draught of tea.

      Monsieur’s monkey, however, was now up, and he felt inclined to
      tackle with Flintoff. “I tell you vot, sare Cuddy,” said he,
      looking him full in the face, “you think yourself vare great man,
      vare great ossmaan, vare great foxer, and so on, bot I vill ride
      you a match for vot monies you please.”

      “Hoo-ray! well done you! go it, Monsieur! Who’d ha’ thought it!
      Now for some fun!” resounded through the room, bringing all
      parties in closer proximity.

      Flintoff was rather taken aback. He didn’t expect anything of
      that sort, and though he fully believed Jack to be a tailor, he
      didn’t want to test the fact himself; indeed he felt safer on
      foot than on horseback, being fonder of the theory than of the
      reality of hunting.

      “Hut you and your matches,” sneered he, thrusting his hands deep
      in his trousers’ pockets, inclining to sheer of, adding, “go and
      get his Imperial Highness to ride you one.”

      “His Imperial Highness, sare, don’t deal in oss matches. He is
      not a jockey, he is a gentlemans—great friend of de great lords
      vot rules de oder noisy dogs,” replied Jack.

      “_Humph_, grunted Sir Moses, not liking the language.

      “In-deed!” exclaimed Cuddy with a frown, “In-deed! Hark to
      Monsieur! Hark!”

      “Oh, make him a match, Cuddy! make him a match!” now interposed
      Paul Straddler, closing up to prevent Cuddy’s retreat. Paul, as
      we said before, was a disengaged gentleman who kept a house of
      call for Bores at Hinton,—a man who was always ready to deal, or
      do anything, or go any where at any body else’s expense. A great
      judge of a horse, a great judge of a groom, a great judge of a
      gig, a gentleman a good deal in Cuddy Flintoff’s own line in
      short, and of course not a great admirer of his. He now thought
      he saw his way to a catch, for the Woolpack had told him how
      shamefully Jack had bucketed his horse, and altogether he thought
      Monsieur might be as good a man across country as Mr. Flintoff.
      At all events he would like to see.

      “Oh, make him a match, Cuddy! make him a match!” now exclaimed
      he, adding in Flintoff’s ear, “never let it be said you were
      afraid of a Frenchman.”

      “Afraid!” sneered Cuddy, “nobody who knows me will think that, I
      guess.”

      “Well then, _make_ him a match!” urged Tommy Heslop, who was no
      great admirer of Cuddy’s either; “_make_ him a match, and I’ll go
      your halves.”

      “And I’ll go Monsieur’s,” said Mr. Straddler, still backing the
      thing up. Thus appealed to, poor Cuddv was obliged to submit, and
      before he knew where he was, the dread pen, ink and paper were
      produced, and things began to assume a tangible form. Mr. Paul
      Straddler, having seated himself on a chair at the opportune
      card-table, began sinking his pen and smoothing out his paper,
      trying to coax his ideas into order.

      “Now, let us see,” said he, “now let us see. Monsieur, what’s his
      name—old Bushey-heath as you call him, agrees to ride Mr.
      Flintoff a match across country—now for distance, time, and
      stake! now for distance, time, and stake!” added he, hitting off
      the scent.

      “Well, but how can you make a match without any horses? how can
      you make a match without any horses?” asked Sir Moses,
      interposing his beak, adding “I’ll not lend any—dom’d if I will.”
      That being the first time Sir Moses was ever known not to
      volunteer one.

      “O, we’ll find horses,” replied Tommy Heslop, “we’ll find
      horses!” thinking Sir Moses’s refusal was all in favor of the
      match. “Catch weights, catch horses, catch every thing.”

      “Now for distance, time, and stake,” reiterated Mr. Straddler.
      “Now for distance, time, and stake, Monsieur!” continued he,
      appealing to Jack. “What distance would you like to have it?”

      “Vot you please, sare,” replied Monsieur, now depositing his tray
      on the sideboard; “vot you please, sare, much or little; ten
      miles, twenty miles, any miles he likes.”

      “O, the fellow’s mad,” muttered Cuddy, with a jerk of his head,
      making a last effort to be off.

      “Don’t be in a hurry, Cuddy, don’t be in a hurry,” interposed
      Heslop, adding, “he doesn’t understand it—he doesn’t understand
      it.”

      “O, I understands it, nicely, vell enough,” replied Jack, with a
      shrug of his shoulders; “put us on to two orses, and see vich
      gets first to de money post.”

      “Aye, yes, exactly, to be sure, that’s all right,” asserted Paul
      Straddler, looking up approvingly at Jack, “and you say you’ll
      beat Mr. Flintoff?”

      “I say I beat Mr. Flintoff,” rejoined Jack—“beat im dem vell
      too—beat his ead off—beat him _stupendous!_” added he.

      “O, dash it all, we can’t stand that, Caddy!” exclaimed Mr.
      Heslop, nudging Mr. Flintoff; “honor of the country, honor of the
      hunt, honor of England, honor of every thing’s involved.” Cuddy’s
      bristles were now up too, and shaking his head and thrusting his
      hands deep into his trousers pockets, “he declared he couldn’t
      stand that sort of language,—shot if he could.”

      “No; nor nobody else,” continued Mr. Heslop, keeping him up to
      the indignity mark; “must be taught better manners,” added he
      with a pout of the lip, as though fully espousing Caddy’s cause.

      “Come along, then! come along!” cried Paul Straddler, flourishing
      his dirty pen; “let’s set up a school for grown sportsmen. Now
      for the good boys. Master Bushey-heath says he’ll ride Master
      Bareacres a match across country—two miles say—for, for, how
      much?” asked he, looking up.

      This caused a pause, as it often does, even after dinner, and not
      the less so in the present instance, inasmuch as the promoters of
      the match had each a share in the risk. What would be hundreds in
      other people’s cases becomes pounds in our own.

      Flintoff and Straddler looked pacifically at each other, as much
      as to say, “There’s no use in cutting each other’s throats, you
      know.”

      “Suppose we say,” (exhibiting four fingers and a thumb, slyly to
      indicate a five pound note), said Heslop demurely, after a
      conference with Cuddy.

      “With all my heart,” asserted Straddler, “glad it was no more.”

      “And call it fifty,” whispered Heslop.

      “Certainly!” assented Straddler, “very proper arrangement.”

      “Two miles for fifty pounds,” announced Straddler, writing it
      down.

      “P. P. I s’pose?” observed he, looking up.

      “P. P.” assented Heslop.

      “Now, what next?” asked Paul, feeling that there was something
      more wanted.

      “An umpire,” suggested Mr. Smoothley.

      “Ah, to be sure, an umpire,” replied Mr. Straddler; “who shall it
      be?”

      “Sir Moses!” suggested several voices.

      “Sir Moses, by all means,” replied Straddler.

      “Content,” nodded Mr. Heslop.

      “It must be on a non-hunting day, then,” observed the Baronet,
      speaking from the bottom of his tea-cup.

      “Non-hunting day!” repeated Cuddy; “non-hunting day; fear that
      ‘ill not do—want to be off to town on Friday to see Tommy White’s
      horses sold. Have been above a week at the Park, as it is.”

      “You’ve been a fortnight to-morrow, sir,” observed the
      ticket-of-leave butler (who had just come to announce the
      carriage) in a very different tone to his usual urbane whisper.

      “Fortnight to-morrow, have I?” rejoined Cuddy sheepishly;
      “greater reason why I should be off.”

      “O, never think about that! O, never think about that! Heartily
      welcome, heartily welcome,” rejoined Sir Moses, stuffing his
      mouth full of muffin, adding “Mr. Pringle will keep you company;
      Mr. Pringle will keep you company.” (Hunch, munch, crunch.)

      “Mr. Pringle _must_ stop,” observed Mr. Straddler, “unless he
      goes without his man.”

      “To besure he must,” assented Sir Moses, “to be sure he must,”
      adding, “stop as long as ever you like. I’ve no engagement till
      Saturday—no engagement till Saturday.”

      Now putting off our friend’s departure till Saturday just gave a
      clear day for the steeple-chase, the next one, Thursday, being
      Woolerton by Heckfield, Saturday the usual make-believe day at
      the kennels; so of course Friday was fixed upon, and Sir Moses
      having named “noon” as the hour, and Timberlake toll-bar as the
      _rendezvous_, commenced a series of adieus as he beat a retreat
      to the screen, where having resumed his wraps, and gathered his
      tail, he shot down-stairs, and was presently re-ensconced in his
      carriage.

      The remanets then of course proceeded to talk him and his friends
      over, some wishing the Baronet mightn’t be too many for Billy,
      others again thinking Cuddy wasn’t altogether the most desirable
      acquaintance a young man could have, though there wasn’t one that
      didn’t think that he himself was.

      That topic being at length exhausted, they then discussed the
      projected steeple-chase, some thinking that Cuddy was a muff,
      others that Jack was, some again thinking they both were. And as
      successive relays of hot brandy and water enabled them to see
      matters more clearly, the Englishman’s argument of betting was
      introduced, and closed towards morning at “evens,” either jockey
      for choice.

      Let us now take a look at the homeward bound party.

      It was lucky for Billy that the night was dark and the road rough
      with newly laid whinstones, for both Sir Moses and Cuddy opened
      upon him most volubly and vehemently as soon as ever they got off
      the uneven pavement, with no end of inquiries about Jack and his
      antecedents. If he could ride? If he had ever seen him ride? If
      he had ever ridden a steeplechase? Where he got him? How long he
      had had him?

      To most of which questions, Billy replied with his usual
      monosyllabic drawling, “yarses,” amid jolts, and grinds, and
      gratings, and doms from Sir Moses, and cusses from Cuddy, easing
      his conscience with regard to Jack’s service, by saying that he
      had had him “some time.” Some time! What a fine elastic period
      that is. We’d back a lawyer to make it cover a century or a
      season. Very little definite information, however, did they
      extract from Billy with regard to Jack for the best of all
      reasons, that Billy didn’t know anything. Both Cuddy and Sir
      Moses interpreted his ignorance differently, and wished he
      mightn’t know more than was good for them. And so in the midst of
      roughs and smooths, and jolts and jumps, and examinings, and
      cross-examinings, and re-examinings, they at length reached
      Pangburn Park Lodges, and were presently at home.

      “Breakfast at eight!” said Sir Moses to Bankhead, as he alighted
      from the carriage.

      “Breakfast at eight, Pringle!” repeated he, and seizing a flat
      candlestick from the half-drunken footman in the passage, he
      hurried up-stairs, blowing his beak with great vigour to drown
      any appeal to him about a horse.

      He little knew how unlikely our young friend was to trouble him
      in that way.



      CHAPTER XLII. MR. GEORDEY GALLON.


      CUDDY Flintoff did not awake at all comfortable the next morning,
      and he distinctly traced the old copyhead of “Familiarity breeds
      contempt,” in the hieroglyphic pattern of his old chintz
      bed-hangings. He couldn’t think how he could ever be so foolish
      as to lay himself open to such a catastrophe; it was just the
      wine being in and the wit being out, coupled with the fact of the
      man being a Frenchman, that led him away—and he most devoutly
      wished he was well out of the scrape. Suppose Monsieur was a top
      sawyer! Suppose he was a regular steeple-chaser! Suppose he was a
      second Beecher in disguise! It didn’t follow because he was a
      Frenchman that he couldn’t ride. Altogether Mr. Flintoff
      repented. It wasn’t nice amusement, steeple-chasing he thought,
      and the quicksilver of youth had departed from him; getting
      called Bareacres, too, was derogatory, and what no English
      servant would have done, if even he had called him Bushy Heath.

      Billy Pringle, on the other hand, was very comfortable, and slept
      soundly, regardless of clubs, cover rents, over-night
      consequences, altogether. Each having desired to be called when
      the other got up, they stood a chance of lying in bed all day,
      had not Mrs. Margerum, fearing they would run their breakfast,
      and the servants’-hall dinner together, despatched Monsieur and
      the footman with their respective hot-water cans, to say the
      other had risen. It was eleven o’clock ere they got dawdled
      down-stairs, and Cuddy again began demanding this and that
      delicacy in the name of Mr. Pringle: Mr. Pringle wanted Yorkshire
      pie; Mr. Pringle wanted potted prawns; Mr. Pringle wanted
      bantams’ eggs; Mr. Pringle wanted honey. Why the deuce didn’t
      they attend to Mr. Pringle?

      The breakfast was presently interrupted by the sound of wheels,
      and almost ere they had ceased to revolve, a brisk pull at the
      doorbell aroused the inmates of both the front and back regions,
      and brought the hurrying footman, settling himself into his
      yellow-edged blue-livery coat as he came.

      It was Mr. Heslop. Heslop in a muffin cap, and so disguised in
      heather-coloured tweed, that Mr. Pringle failed to recognise him
      as he entered. Cuddy did, though; and greeting him with one of
      his best view holloas, he invited him to sit down and partake.

      Heslop was an early bird, and had broke his fast hours before:
      but a little more breakfast being neither here nor there, he did
      as he was requested, though he would much rather have found Cuddy
      alone. He wanted to talk to him about the match, to hear if Sir
      Moses had said anything about the line of country, what sort of a
      horse he would like to ride, and so on.

      Billy went munch, munch, munching on, in the tiresome,
      pertinacious sort of way people do when others are anxiously
      wishing them done,—now taking a sip of tea, now a bit of toast,
      now another egg, now looking as if he didn’t know what he would
      take. Heslop inwardly wished him at Jericho. At length another
      sound of wheels was heard, followed by another peal of the bell;
      and our hero presently had a visitor, too, in the person of Mr.
      Paul Straddler. Paul had come on the same sort of errand as
      Heslop, namely, to arrange matters about Monsieur; and Heslop and
      he, seeing how the land lay, Heslop asked Cuddy if there was any
      one in Sir Moses’s study; whereupon Cuddy arose and led the way
      to the sunless little sanctum, where Sir Moses kept his other
      hat, his other boots, his rows of shoes, his beloved but rather
      empty cash-box, and the plans and papers of the Pangburn Park
      estate.

      Two anxious deliberations then ensued in the study and
      breakfast-room, in the course of which Monsieur was summoned into
      the presence of either party, and retired, leaving them about as
      wise as he found them. He declared he could ride, ride “dem vell
      too,” and told Paul he could “beat Cuddy’s head off;” but he
      accompanied the assertions with such wild, incoherent arguments,
      and talked just as he did to Imperial John before the Crooked
      Billet, that they thought it was all gasconade. If it hadn’t been
      P. P., Paul would have been off. Cuddy, on the other hand, gained
      courage; and as Heslop proposed putting him on his famous horse
      General Havelock, the reported best fencer in the country, Cuddy,
      who wasn’t afraid of pace, hoped to be able to give a good
      account of himself. Indeed, he so far recovered his confidence,
      as to indulge in a few hunting noises—“_For-rard, on! For-rard
      on!_” cheered he, as if he was leading the way with the race well
      in hand.



      323m


      _Original Size_


      Meanwhile Monsieur, who could keep his own counsel, communicated
      by a certain mysterious agency that prevails in most countries,
      and seems to rival the electric telegraph in point of speed, to
      enlist a confederate in his service. This was Mr. Geordey Gallon,
      a genius carrying on the trades of poacher, pugilist, and
      publican, under favour of that mistaken piece of legislation the
      Beer Act. Geordey, like Jack, had begun life as a post-boy, and
      like him had undergone various vicissitudes ere he finally
      settled down to the respectable calling we have named. He now
      occupied the Rose and Crown beershop at the Four Lane-Ends, on
      the Heatherbell Road, some fifteen miles from Pangburn Park,
      where, in addition to his regular or irregular calling, he
      generally kept a racing-like runaway, that whisked a light
      spring-cart through the country by night, freighted with pigeons,
      poultry, game, dripping—which latter item our readers doubtless
      know includes every article of culinary or domestic use. He was
      also a purveyor of lead, lead-stealing being now one of the
      liberal professions.

      Geordey had had a fine time of it, for the Hit-im and Hold-im
      shire constables were stupid and lazy, and when the short-lived
      Superintendent ones were appointed, it was only a trifle in his
      way to suborn them. So he made hay while the sun shone, and
      presently set up a basket-buttoned green cutaway for Sundays, in
      lieu of the baggy pocketed, velveteen shooting-jacket of
      week-days, and replaced the fox-skin cap with a bare shallow
      drab, with a broad brim, and a black band, encasing his
      substantial in cords and mahogany tops, instead of the navvie
      boot that laced his great bulging calves into globes. He then
      called himself a sporting man.

      Not a fair, not a fight, not a fray of any sort, but Geordey’s
      great square bull-headed carcase was there, and he was always
      ready to run his nag, or trot his nag, or match his nag in any
      shape or way—Mr. George Gallon’s Blue Ruin, Mr. George Gallon’s
      Flower of the West, Mr. George Gallon’s Honor Bright, will be
      names familiar to most lovers of leather-plating. * Besides this,
      he did business in a smaller way. Being a pure patriot, he was a
      great promoter of the sports and pastimes of the people, and
      always travelled with a prospectus in his pocket of some raffle
      for a watch, some shooting-match for a fat hog, some dog or some
      horse to be disposed of in a surreptitious way, one of the
      conditions always being, that a certain sum was to be spent by
      the winner at Mr. Gallon’s, of the Hose and Crown, at the Four
      Lane-ends on the Heatherbell Road.

      Such was the worthy selected by Monsieur Rougier to guard his
      interests in the matter. But how the communication was made, or
      what were the instructions given, those who are acquainted with
      the wheels within wheels, and the glorious mystification that
      prevails in all matters relating to racing or robbing, will know
      the impossibility of narrating. Even Sir Moses was infected with
      the prevailing epidemic, and returned from hunting greatly
      subdued in loquacity. He wanted to be on for a £5 or two, but
      couldn’t for the life of him make out which was to be the right
      side. So he was very chary of his wine after dinner, and wouldn’t
      let Cuddy have any brandy at bed-time—“Dom’d if he would.”



      CHAPTER XLIII. SIR MOSES PERPLEXED—THE RENDEZVOUS FOR THE RACE.


      THE great event was ushered in by one of those fine bright
      autumnal days that shame many summer ones, and seem inclined to
      carry the winter months fairly over into the coming year. The sun
      rose with effulgent radiance, gilding the lingering brown and
      yellow tints, and lighting up the landscape with searching,
      inquisitorial scrutiny. Not a nook, not a dell, not a cot, not a
      curl of smoke but was visible, and the whole scene shone with the
      vigour of a newly burnished, newly varnished picture. The cattle
      stood in bold relief against the perennially green fields, and
      the newly dipped lambs dotted the hill-sides like white marbles.
      A clear bright light gleamed through the stems of the Scotch fir
      belt, encircling the brow of High Rays Hill, giving goodly
      promise of continued fineness.


* We append one of Mr. Gallon’s advertisements for a horse, which is
very characteristic of the man:—

“A Flash high-stepping SCREW WANTED. Must be very fast, steady in
single harness, and the price moderate. Blemishes no object. Apply, by
letter, real name and address, with full description, to Mr. George
Gallon, Rose and Crown, Four-Lane-ends. Hit-im and Hold-im shire.”

      Sir Moses, seeing this harbinger of fair from his window as he
      dressed, arrayed himself in his best attire, securing his new
      blue and white satin cravat with a couple of massive blood-stone
      pins, and lacing his broad-striped vest with a multiplicity of
      chains and appendant gew-gaws. He further dared the elements with
      an extensive turning up of velvet. Altogether he was a great
      swell, and extremely well pleased with his appearance.

      The inmates of the Park were all at sixes and sevens that
      morning, Monsieur having left Billy to be valeted by the footman,
      whose services were entirely monopolised by Cuddy Flintoff and
      Sir Moses. When he did at length come, he replied to Billy’s
      enquiry “how his horse was,” that he was “quite well,” which was
      satisfactory to our friend, and confirmed him in his opinion of
      the superiority of his judgment over that of Wetun and the rest.
      Sir Moses, however, who had made the tour of the stables, thought
      otherwise, and telling the Tiger to put the footboard to the back
      of the dog-cart, reserved the other place in front for his guest.
      A tremendous hurry Sir Moses was in to be off, rushing in every
      two or three minutes to see if Billy wasn’t done his breakfast,
      and at last ordering round the vehicle to expedite his movements.
      Then he went to the door and gave the bell such a furious ring as
      sounded through the house and seemed well calculated to last for
      ever.

      Billy then came, hustled along by the ticket-of-leave butler and
      the excitable footman, who kept dressing him as he went; and
      putting his mits, his gloves, his shawl, cravat, and his taper
      umbrella into his hands, they helped him up to the seat by Sir
      Moses, who forthwith soused him down, by touching the mare with
      the whip, and starting off at a pace that looked like trying to
      catch an express train. Round flew the wheels, up shot the yellow
      mud, open went the lodge gates, bark went the curs, and they were
      presently among the darker mud of the Marshfield and Greyridge
      Hill Road.

      On, on, Sir Moses pushed, as if in extremis.

      “Well now, how is it to be?” at length asked he, getting his mare
      more by the head, after grinding through a long strip of
      newly-laid whinstone: “How is it to be? Can this beggar of yours
      ride, or can he not?” Sir Moses looking with a scrutinising eye
      at Billy as he spoke.

      “Yarse, he can ride,” replied Billy, feeling his collar; “rode
      the other day, you know.”

      _Sir Moses_. “Ah, but that’s not the sort of riding I mean. Can
      he ride across country? Can he ride a steeple-chase, in fact?”

      _Mr. Pringle_. “Yarse, I should say he could,” hesitated our
      friend.

      _Sir Moses_. “Well, but it won’t do to back a man to do a thing
      one isn’t certain he can do, you know. Now, between ourselves,”
      continued he, lowering his voice so as not to let the Tiger
      hear—“Cuddy Flintoff is no great performer—more of a mahogany
      sportsman than any thing else, and it wouldn’t take any great
      hand to beat him.”

      Billy couldn’t say whether Monsieur was equal to the undertaking
      or not, and therefore made no reply. This perplexed Sir Moses,
      who wished that Billy’s downy face mightn’t contain more mischief
      than it ought. It would be a devil of a bore, he thought, to be
      done by such a boy. So he again took the mare short by the head,
      and gave expression to his thoughts by the whip along her sides.
      Thus he shot down Walkup Hill at a pace that carried him half way
      up the opposing one. Still he couldn’t see his way—dom’d if he
      could—and he felt half inclined not to risk his “fi-pun” note.

      In this hesitating mood he came within sight of the now
      crowd-studded rendezvous.

      Timberlake toll bar, the rendezvous for the race, stands on the
      summit of the hog-backed Wooley Hill, famous for its frequent
      sheep-fairs, and commands a fine view over the cream of the west
      side of Featherbedfordshire, and by no means the worst part of
      the land of Jewdea, as the wags of the former country call Hit-im
      and Hold-im shire.

      Sir Moses had wisely chosen this rendezvous, in order that he
      might give Lord Ladythorne the benefit of the unwelcome intrusion
      without exciting the suspicion of the farmers, who would
      naturally suppose that the match would take place over some part
      of Sir Moses’s own country. In that, however, they had reckoned
      without their host. Sir Moses wasn’t the man to throw a chance
      away—dom’d if he was.

      The road, after crossing the bridge over Bendibus Burn, being all
      against collar, Sir Moses dropped his reins, and sitting back in
      his seat, proceeded to contemplate the crowd. A great gathering
      there was, horsemen, footmen, gigmen, assmen, with here and there
      a tinkling-belled liquor-vending female, a tossing pie-man, or a
      nut-merchant. As yet the spirit of speculation was not aroused,
      and the people gathered in groups, looking as moody as men
      generally do who want to get the better of each other. The only
      cheerful faces on the scene were those of Toney Loftus, the
      pike-man, and his wife, whose neat white-washed, stone-roofed
      cottage was not much accustomed to company, save on the occasion
      of the fairs. They were now gathering their pence and having a
      let-off for their long pent-up gossip.

      Sir Moses’s approach put a little liveliness into the scene, and
      satisfied the grumbling or sceptical ones that they had not come
      to the wrong place. There was then a general move towards the
      great white gate, and as he paid his fourpence the nods of
      recognition and How are ye’s? commenced amid a vigorous salute of
      the muffin bells. _Tinkle tinkle tinkle, buy buy buy_, toss and
      try! toss and try! _tinkle tinkle tinkle_. Barcelona nuts, crack
      ’em and try ’em, crack ’em and try ’em; the invitation being
      accompanied with the rattle of a few in the little tin can.

      “Now, where are the jockeys?” asked Sir Moses, straining his
      eye-balls over the open downs.

      “They’re coomin. Sir Moses, they’re coomin,” replied several
      voices; and as they spoke, a gaily-dressed man, on a milk-white
      horse, emerged from the little fold-yard of Butterby farm, about
      half a mile to the west, followed by two distinct groups of
      mounted and dismounted companions, who clustered round either
      champion like electors round a candidate going to the hustings.

      “There’s Geordey Gallon!” was now the cry, as the hero of the
      white horse shot away from the foremost group, and came best pace
      across the rush-grown sward of the sheep-walk towards the
      toll-bar. “There’s Geordey Gallon! and now we shall hear summut
      about it;” whereupon the scattered groups began to mingle and
      turn in the direction of the coming man.

      It was Mr. Gallon,—Gallon on his famous trotting hack Tippy Tom—a
      vicious runaway brute, that required constant work to keep it
      under, a want that Mr. Gallon liberally supplied it with. It now
      came yawning and boring on the bit, one ear lying one way, the
      other another, shaking its head like a terrier with a rat in its
      mouth, with a sort of air that as good as said. “Let me go, or
      I’ll either knock your teeth down your throat with my head, or
      come back over upon you.” So Mr. Gallon let him go, and came
      careering along at a leg-stuck-out sort of butcher’s shuffle, one
      hand grasping the weather-bleached reins, the other a
      cutting-whip, his green coat-laps and red kerchief ends lying
      out, his baggy white cords and purple plush waistcoat strings all
      in a flutter, looking as if he was going to bear away the gate
      and house, Toney Loftus and wife, all before him. Fortunately for
      the byestanders there was plenty of space, which, coupled with
      the deep holding ground and Mr. Gallon’s ample weight—good
      sixteen stone—enabled him to bring the white nag to its bearings;
      and after charging a flock of geese, and nearly knocking down a
      Barcelona-nut merchant, he got him manoeuvred in a semicircular
      sort of way up to the gate, just as if it was all right and plain
      sailing. He then steadied him with a severe double-handed jerk of
      the bit, coupled with one of those deep ominous _wh-o-o ah’s_
      that always preceded a hiding. Tippy Tom dropped his head as if
      he understood him.

      All eyes were now anxiously scrutinising Gallon’s great rubicund
      double-chinned visage, for, in addition to his general sporting
      knowledge and acquirements, he was just fresh from the scene of
      action where he had doubtless been able to form an opinion. Even
      Sir Moses, who hated the sight of him, and always declared he
      “ought to be hung,” vouchsafed him a “good morning, Gallon,”
      which the latter returned with a familiar nod.

      He then composed himself in his capacious old saddle, and taking
      off his white shallow began mopping his great bald head, hoping
      that some one would sound the key-note of speculation ere the
      advancing parties arrived at the gate. They all, however, seemed
      to wish to defer to Mr. Gallon—Gallon was the man for their
      money, Gallon knew a thing or two, Gallon was up to snuff,—go it,
      Gallon!

      ****


      “What does onybody say ‘boot it Frenchman?” at length asked he in
      his elliptical Yorkshire dialect, looking round on the company.

      “What do you say ‘boot it Frenchman, Sir Moses?” asked he, not
      getting an answer from any one.

      “Faith, I know nothing,” replied the Baronet, with a slight curl
      of the lip.

      “Nay, yeer tied to know summut, hooever,” replied Gallon, rubbing
      his nose across the back of his hand; “yeer tied to know summut,
      hooever. Why, he’s a stoppin’ at yeer house, isn’t he?”

      “That may all be,” rejoined Sir Moses, “without my knowing
      anything of his riding. What do you say yourself? you’ve seen
      him.”

      “Seen him!” retorted Gallon, “why he’s a queer lookin’ chap, ony
      hoo—that’s all ar can say: haw, haw, haw.”

      “You won’t back him, then?” said Sir Moses, inquiringly.

      “Hardly that,” replied Gallon, shaking his head and laughing
      heartily, “hardly that, Sir Moses. Ar’ll tell you whatar’ll do,
      though,” said he, “just to mak sport luike, ar’ll tak yeer two to
      one—two croons to one,” producing a greasy-looking
      metallic-pencilled betting-book as he spoke.

      Just then a move outside the ring announced an arrival, and
      presently Mr. Heslop came steering Cuddy Flintoff along in his
      wife’s Croydon basket-carriage, Cuddy’s head docked in an
      orange-coloured silk cap, and his whole person enveloped in a
      blue pilot coat with large mother-of-pearl buttons. The ominous
      green-pointed jockey whip was held between his knees, as with
      folded arms he lolled carelessly in the carriage, trying to look
      comfortable and unconcerned.

      “Mornin’, Flintoff’, how are ye?” cried Sir Moses, waving his
      hand from his loftier vehicle, as they drew up.

      “Mornin’, Heslop, how goes it? Has anybody seen anything of
      Monsieur?” asked he, without waiting for an answer to either of
      these important inquiries.

      “He’s coming, Sir Moses,” cried several voices, and presently the
      Marseillaise hymn of liberty was borne along on the southerly
      breeze, and Jack’s faded black hunting-cap was seen bobbing up
      and down in the crowd that encircled him, as he rode along on
      Paul Straddler’s shooting pony.

      Jack had been at the brandy bottle, and had imbibed just enough
      to make him excessively noisy.

      “Three cheers for Monsieur Jean Rougier, de next Emperor of de
      French!” cried he, rising in his stirrups, as he approached the
      crowd, taking off his old brown hunting-cap, and waving it
      triumphantly, “Three cheers for de best foxer, de best fencer, de
      best fighter in all Europe!” and at a second flourish of the cap
      the crowd came into the humour of the thing, and cheered him
      lustily. And then of course it was one cheer more for Monsieur;
      and one cheer more he got.

      “Three cheers for ould England!” then demanded Mr. Gallon on
      behalf of Mr. Flintoff, which being duly responded to, he again
      asked “What onybody would do ‘boot it Frenchman?”

      “Now, gentlemen,” cried Sir Moses, standing erect in his dogcart,
      and waving his hand for silence: “Now, gentlemen, listen to me!”
      Instead of which somebody roared out, “Three cheers for Sir
      Moses!” and at it they went again, _Hooray, hooray, hooray_, for
      when an English mob once begins cheering, it never knows when to
      stop. “Now, gentlemen, listen to me,” again cried he, as soon as
      the noise had subsided. “It’s one o’clock, and it’s time to
      proceed to business. I called you here that there might be no
      unnecessary trespass or tampering with the ground, and I think
      I’ve chosen a line that will enable you all to see without risk
      to yourselves or injury to anyone” (applause, mingled with a
      tinkling of the little bells). “Well now,” added he, “follow me,
      and I’ll show you the way;” so saying, he resumed his seat, and
      passing through the gate turned short to the right, taking the
      diagonal road leading down the hill, in the direction of
      Featherbedfordshire.

      “Where can it be?” was then the cry.

      “I know,” replied one of the know-everything ones.

      “Rainford, for a guinea!” exclaimed Mr. Gallon, fighting with
      Tippy Tom, who wanted to be back.

      “I say Rushworth!” rejoined Mr. Heslop, cutting in before him.

      “Nothin’ o’ the sort!” asserted Mr. Buckwheat; “he’s for
      Harlingson green to a certainty.”

      The heterogeneous cavalcade then fell into line, the vehicles and
      pedestrians keeping the road, while the horsemen spread out on
      either side of the open common, with the spirit of speculation
      divided between where the race was to be and who was to win.

      Thus they descended the hill and joined the broad, once well-kept
      turnpike, whose neglected milestones still denoted the distance
      between London and Hinton—London so many miles on one side,
      Hinton so many miles on the other—things fast passing into the
      regions of antiquity. Sir Moses now put on a little quicker, and
      passing through the village of Nettleton and clearing the
      plantation beyond, a long strip of country lay open to the eye,
      hemmed in between the parallel lines of the old road and the new
      Crumpletin Railway.

      He then pulled up on the rising ground, and placing his whip in
      the socket, stood up to wait the coming of the combatants, to
      point them out the line he had fixed for the race. The spring
      tide of population flowed in apace, and he was presently
      surrounded with horsemen, gigmen, footmen, and bellmen as before.

      “Now, gentlemen!” cried Sir Moses, addressing Mr. Flintoff and
      Monsieur, who were again ranged on either side of his dogcart:
      “Now, gentlemen, you see the line before you. The stacks, on the
      right here,” pointing to a row of wheat stacks in the adjoining
      field, “are the starting post, and you have to make your ways as
      straight as ever you can to Lawristone Clump yonder,” pointing to
      a clump of dark Scotch firs standing against the clear blue sky,
      on a little round hill, about the middle of a rich old pasture on
      Thrivewell Farm, the clump being now rendered more conspicuous by
      sundry vehicles clustered about its base, the fair inmates of
      which had received a private hint from Sir Moses where to go to.
      The Baronet always played up to the fair, with whom he flattered
      himself he was a great favourite.

      “Now then, you see,” continued he, “you can’t get wrong, for
      you’ve nothing to do but to keep between the lines of the rail
      and the road, on to neither of which must you come: and now you
      gentlemen,” continued he, addressing the spectators generally,
      “there’s not the slightest occasion for any of you to go off the
      road, for you’ll see a great deal better on it, and save both
      your own necks and the farmers’ crops; so just let me advise you
      to keep where you are, and follow the jockeys field by field as
      they go. And now, gentlemen,” continued he, again addressing the
      competitors, ‘“having said all I have to say on the subject, I
      advise you to get your horses and make a start of it, for though
      the day is fine its still winter, you’ll remember, and there are
      several ladies waiting for your coming.” So saying, Sir Moses
      soused down in his seat, and prepared to watch the proceedings.

      Mr. Flintoff was the first to peel; and his rich orange and white
      silk jacket, natty doeskins, and paper-like boots, showed that he
      had got himself up as well with a due regard to elegance as to
      lightness. He even emptied some halfpence out of his pockets, in
      order that he might not carry extra weight. He would, however,
      have been a great deal happier at home. There was no “yoieks,
      wind him,” or “yoicks, push ‘im up,” in him now.

      Monsieur did not show to so much advantage as Cuddy; but still he
      was a good deal better attired than he was out hunting on the
      Crooked-Billet day. He still retained the old brown cap, but in
      lieu of the shabby scarlet, pegtop trousers and opera-boots, he
      sported a red silk jacket, a pair of old-fashioned broad-seamed
      leathers, and mahogany boots—the cap being the property of Sir
      Moses’s huntsman, Tom Findlater, the other articles belonging to
      Mr. George Gallon of the Rose and Crown. And the sight of them,
      as Monsieur stripped, seemed to inspirit the lender, for he
      immediately broke out with the old inquiry, “What does onybody
      say ‘boot it Frenchman?”

      “What do _you_ say ‘boot it Frenchman, Sir Moses?” asked he.

      Sir Moses was silent, for he couldn’t see his way to a
      satisfactory investment; so, rising in his seat, he holloaed out
      to the grooms, who were waiting their orders outside the crowd,
      to “bring in the horses.”

      “Make way, there! make way, there!” cried he, as the hooded and
      sheeted animals approached and made up to their respective
      riders.

      “Takeoff his nightcap! take off his nightcap!” cried Jack,
      pulling pettedly at the strings of the hood; “take off his
      nightcap!” repeated he, stamping furiously, amid the laughter of
      the bystanders, many of whom had never seen a Frenchman, let
      alone a mounted one, before.

      The obnoxious nightcap being removed, and the striped sheet swept
      over his tail, Mr. Rowley Abingdon’s grey horse Mayfly Blood
      showing himself as if he was in a dealer’s yard, for as yet he
      had not ascertained what he was out for. A horse knows when he is
      going to hunt, or going to exercise, or going to be shod, or
      going to the public house, but these unaccustomed jaunts puzzle
      him. Monsieur now proceeded to inform him by clutching at the
      reins, as he stood preparing for a leg-up on the wrong side.

      “The other side, mun, the other side,” whispered Paul Straddler
      in his ear; whereupon Monsieur passed under the horse’s head, and
      appeared as he ought. The movement, however, was not lost on Sir
      Moses, who forthwith determined to back Cuddy. Cuddy might be
      bad, but Monsieur must be worse, he thought.

      “I’ll lay an even five on Mr. Flintoff!” cried he in a loud and
      audible voice. “I’ll lay an even five on Mr. Flintoff,” repeated
      he, looking boldly round. “Gallon, what say you?” asked he,
      appealing to the hero of the white horse.

      “Can’t be done, Sir Moses, can’t be done,” replied Gallon,
      grinning from ear to ear, with a shake of his great bull head.
      “Tak yeer three to two if you loike,” added he, anxious to be on.

      Sir Moses now shook his head in return.

      “Back myself, two pound ten—forty shillin’, to beat dis serene
      and elegant Englishman!” exclaimed Jack, now bumping up and down
      in his saddle as if to establish a seat.

      “Do you owe him any wages?” asked Sir Moses of Billy in an
      under-tone, wishing to ascertain what chance there was of being
      paid if he won.

      “Yarse, I owe him some,” replied Billy; but how much he couldn’t
      say, not having had Jack’s book lately.

      Sir Moses caught at the answer, and the next time Jack offered to
      back himself, he was down upon him with a “Done!” adding, “I’ll
      lay you an even pund if you like.”

      “With all my heart, Sare Moses Baronet,” replied Jack gaily;
      adding, “you are de most engagin’, agreeable mans I knows; a
      perfect beauty vidout de paint.”

      Gallon now saw his time was come, and he went at Sir Moses with a
      “Weell, coom, ar’le lay ye an even foive.”

      “Done!” cried the Baronet.

      “A tenner, if you loike!” continued Gallon, waxing valiant.

      Sir Moses shook his head.

      “Get me von vet sponge, get me von vet sponge,” now exclaimed
      Jack, looking about for the groom.

      “Wet sponge! What the deuce do you want with a wet sponge?”
      demanded Sir Moses with surprise.

      “Yet sponge, just damp my knees leetle—make me stick on better,”
      replied Jack, turning first one knee and then the other out of
      the saddle to get sponged.

      “O dom it, if it’s come to that, I may as well have the ten,”
      muttered Sir Moses to himself. So, nodding to Gallon, he said
      “I’ll make it ten.”

      “Done!” said Gallon, with a nod, and the bet was made—Done, and
      Done, being enough between gentlemen.

      “Now, then,” cried Sir Moses, stepping down from his dogcart,
      “come into the field, and I’ll start you.”

      Away then the combatants went, and the betting became brisk in
      the ring. Mr. Flintoff the favourite at evens.



      CHAPTER XLIV. THE RACE ITSELF.

      335m


      _Original Size_


      FROM the Nettleton cornstacks to Lawristone Clump was under two
      miles, and, barring Bendibus Brook, there was nothing formidable
      in the line—nothing at least to a peaceably disposed man pursuing
      the even tenor of his way, either on horseback or in his carriage
      along the deserted London road.

      Very different, however, did the landscape now appear to our
      friend Cuddy Flintoff as he saw it stretching away in diminishing
      perspective, presenting an alternating course of husbandry
      stubble after grass, wheat after stubble, seeds after wheat, with
      perhaps pasture again after fallow. Bendibus, too, as its name
      indicates, seemed to be here, there, and everywhere; here, as
      shown by the stone bridge on the road,—there, as marked by the
      pollard willows lower down—and generally wherever there was an
      inconvenient breadth and irregularity of fence. The more Mr.
      Flintoff looked at the landscape, the less he liked it. Still he
      had a noble horse under him in General Havelock—a horse that
      could go through deep as fast as he could over grass, and that
      only required holding together and sitting on to carry him safe
      over his fences. It was just that, however, that Cuddy couldn’t
      master. He couldn’t help fancying that the horse would let him
      down, and he didn’t like the idea.

      Mayfly, on the other hand, was rather skittish, and began
      prancing and capering as soon as he got off the road into the
      field.

      “Get ‘im by de nob! get ‘im by de nob!” cried Jack, setting up
      his shoulders. “Swing ‘im round by de tail! swing ‘im round by de
      tail!” continued he, as the horse still turned away from his
      work.

      “Ord dom it, that’s that nasty crazy brute of old Rowley
      Abingdon’s, I do declare!” exclaimed Sir Moses, getting out of
      the now plunging horse’s way. “Didn’t know the beggar since he
      was clipped. That’s the brute that killed poor Cherisher,—best
      hound in my pack. Take care, Monsieur! that horse will eat you if
      he gets you off.”

      “Eat me!” cried Jack, pretending alarm; “dat vod be vare unkind.”

      _Sir Moses_. “Unkind or not, he’ll do it, I assure you.”

      “Oh, dear! oh! dear!” cried Jack, as the horse laid back his
      ears, and gave a sort of wincing kick.

      “I’ll tell you what,” cried Sir Moses, emboldened by Jack’s fear,
      “I’ll lay you a crown you don’t get over the brook.”

      “Crown, sare! I have no crowns,” replied Jack, pulling the horse
      round. “I’ll lay ve sovereign—von pon ten, if vou like.”

      “Come, I’ll make it ten shillings. I’ll make it ten shillings,”
      replied Sir Moses: adding, “Mr. Flintoff is my witness.”

      “Done!” cried Monsieur. “Done! I takes the vager. Von pon I beats
      old Cuddy to de clomp, ten shillin’ I gets over de brook.”

      “All right!” rejoined Sir Moses, “all right! Now,” continued he,
      clapping his hands, “get your horses together—one, two, three,
      and _away!_”

      Up bounced Mayfly in the air; away went Cuddy amidst the cheers
      and shouts of the roadsters—“_Flintoff! Flintoff! Flinfoff!! The
      yaller! the yaller! the yaller!_” followed by a general rush
      along the grass-grown Macadamised road, between London and
      Hinton.

      “Oh, dat is your game, is it?” asked Jack as Mayfly, after a
      series of minor evolutions, subsided on all fours in a sort of
      attitude of attention. “Dat is your game, is it!” saying which he
      just took him short by the head, and, pressing his knees closely
      into the saddle, gave him such a couple of persuasive digs with
      his spurs as sent him bounding away after the General. “_Go it,
      Frenchman!_” was now the cry.

      “Go it! aye he _can_ go it,” muttered Jack, as the horse now
      dropped on the bit, and laid himself out for work. He was soon in
      the wake of his opponent.

      The first field was a well-drained wheat stubble, with a newly
      plashed fence on the ground between it and the adjoining pasture;
      which, presenting no obstacle, they both went at it as if bent on
      contending for the lead, Monsieur _sacré_ing, grinning, and
      grimacing, after the manner of his adopted country; while Mr.
      Flintoff sailed away in the true jockey style, thinking he was
      doing the thing uncommonly well.

      Small as the fence was, however, it afforded Jack an opportunity
      of shooting into his horse’s shoulders, which Cuddy perceiving,
      he gave a piercing view holloa, and spurred away as if bent on
      bidding him goodbye. This set Jack on his mettle; and getting
      back into his seat he gathered his horse together and set too,
      elbows and legs, elbows and legs, in a way that looked very like
      frenzy.

      The _feint_ of a fall, however, was a five-pound note in Mr.
      Gallon’s way, for Jack did it so naturally that there was an
      immediate backing of Cuddv. “_Flintoff! Flintoff! Flintoff! The
      yaller! the yaller! the yaller!_” was again the cry.

      The pasture was sound, and they sped up it best pace, Mr.
      Flintoff well in advance.

      The fence out was nothing either—a young quick fence set on the
      ground, which Cuddy flew in Leicestershire style, throwing up his
      right arm as he went. Monsieur was soon after him with a high
      bucking jump.

      They were now upon plough,—undrained plough, too, which the
      recent rains bad rendered sticky and holding. General Havelock
      could have crossed it at score, but the ragged boundary fence of
      Thrivewell farm now appearing in view, Mr. Flintoff held him well
      together, while he scanned its rugged irregularities for a place.

      “These are the nastiest fences in the world,” muttered Cuddy to
      himself, “and I’ll be bound to say there’s a great yawning ditch
      either on this side or that. Dash it! I wish I was over,”
      continued he, looking up and down for an exit. There was very
      little choice. Where there weren’t great mountain ash or alder
      growers laid into the fence, there were bristling hazel uprights,
      which presented little more attraction. Altogether it was not a
      desirable obstacle. Even from the road it looked like something.
      “_Go it, Cuddy! Go it!_” cried Sir Moses, now again in his
      dogcart, from the midst of the crowd, adding, “It’s nothing of a
      place!”

      “Isn’t it,” muttered Cuddy, still looking up and down, adding, “I
      wish you had it instead of me.”

      “Ord dom it, go at it like a man!” now roared the Baronet,
      fearing for his investments. “Go at it for the honour of the
      hunt! for the honour of Hit-im and Hold-im shire!” continued he,
      nearly stamping the bottom of his dog-cart out. The mare started
      forward at the sound, and catching Tippy Tom with the shafts in
      the side, nearly upset Geordey Gallon, who, like Sir Moses, was
      holloaing on the Frenchman. There was then a mutual interchange
      of compliments. Meanwhile Cuddy, having espied a weak
      bush-stopped gap in a bend of the hedge, now walks his horse
      quietly up to it, who takes it in a matter-of-course sort of way
      that as good as says, “What _have_ you been making such a bother
      about.” He then gathers himself together, and shoots easily over
      the wide ditch on the far side, Cuddy hugging himself at its
      depth as he lands. Monsieur then exclaiming, “Dem it, I vill not
      make two bites of von cherry,” goes at the same place at the rate
      of twenty miles an hour, and beat beside Cuddy ere the latter had
      well recovered from his surprise at the feat. “Ord rot it!”
      exclaimed he, starting round, “what d’ye mean by following a man
      that way? If I’d fallen, you’d ha’ been a-top of me to a
      certainty.”

      “Oh, never fear,” replied Monsieur, grinning and flourishing his
      whip. “Oh, never fear, I vod have ‘elped you to pick up de
      pieces.”

      “Pick up the pieces, sir!” retorted Cuddy angrily. “I don’t want
      to pick up the pieces. I want to ride the race as it should be.”

      “Come then, old cock,” cried Monsieur, spurring past, “you shall
      jomp ‘pon me if you can.” So saying, Jack hustled away over a
      somewhat swampy enclosure, and popping through an open
      bridle-gate, led the way into a large rich alluvial pasture
      beyond.

      Jack’s feat at the boundary fence, coupled with the manner in
      which he now sat and handled his horse, caused a revulsion of
      feeling on the road, and Gallon’s stentorian roar of “The
      _Frenchman! the Frenchman!_” now drowned the vociferations on
      behalf of Mr. Flintoff and the “yaller.” Sir Moses bit his lips
      and ground his teeth with undisguised dismay. If Flintoff let the
      beggar beat him, he—-he didn’t know what he would do. “_Flintoff!
      Flintoff!_” shrieked he as Cuddy again took the lead.

      And now dread Rendibus appears in view! There was no mistaking
      its tortuous sinuosities, even if the crowd on the bridge had not
      kept vociferating, “The bruk! the bruk!”

      “The bruk be hanged!” growled Cuddy, hardening his heart for the
      conflict. “The bruk be hanged!” repeated he, eyeing its varying
      curvature, adding, “if ever I joke with any man under the rank of
      a duke again, may I be capitally D’d. Ass that I was,” continued
      he, “to take a liberty with this confounded Frenchman, who cares
      no more for his neck than a frog. Dashed, if ever I joke with any
      man under the rank of a prince of the blood royal,” added he,
      weaving his eyes up and down the brook for a place.

      “_Go at it full tilt!_” now roars Sir Moses from the bridge; “go
      at it full tilt for the honour of Hit-im and Hold-im shire!”

      “Honour of Hit-im and Hold-im shire be hanged!” growled Cuddy;
      “who’ll pay for my neck if I break it, I wonder!”

      “Cut along, old cock of vax!” now cries Monsieur, grinning up on
      the grey. “Cut along, old cock of vax, or I’ll be into your
      pocket.”

      “_Shove him along!_” roars stentorian-lunged Gallon, standing
      erect in his stirrups, and waving Monsieur on with his hat.
      “_Shove him along!_” repeats he, adding, “he’ll take it in his
      stride.”

      Mayfly defers to the now-checked General, who, accustomed to be
      ridden freely, lays back his vexed ears for a kick, as Monsieur
      hurries up. Cuddy still contemplates the scene, anxious to be
      over, but dreading to go. “Nothing so nasty as a brook,” says he;
      “never gets less, but may get larger.” He then scans it
      attentively. There is a choice of ground, but it is choice of
      evils, of which it is difficult to choose the least when in a
      hurry.

      About the centre are sedgy rushes, indicative of a bad taking
      off, while the weak place next the ash involves the chance of a
      crack of the crown against the hanging branch, and the cattle gap
      higher up may be mended with wire rope, or stopped with some
      awkward invisible stuff. Altogether it is a trying position,
      especially with the eyes of England upon him from the bridge and
      road.

      “Oh, go at it, mun!” roars Sir Moses, agonised at his hesitation;
      “Oh, go at it, mun! It’s _nothin_’ of a place!”

      “Isn’t it,” muttered Cuddy; “wish you were at it instead of me.”
      So saying, he gathers his horse together in an undecided sort of
      way, and Monsieur charging at the moment, lands Cuddie on his
      back in the field and himself in the brook.



      339m


      _Original Size_


      Then a mutual roar arose, as either party saw its champion in
      distress.

      “_Stick to him, Cuddy! stick to him!_” roars Sir Moses.

      “_Stick to him, Mouncheer! stick to him!_” vociferates Mr. Gallon
      on the other side.

      They do as they are bid; Mr. Flintoff remounting just as Monsieur
      scrambles out of the brook, aud Cuddy’s blood now being roused,
      he runs the General gallantly at it, and lands, hind legs and
      all, on the opposite bank. Loud cheers followed the feat.

      It is now anybody’s race, and the vehemence of speculation is
      intense.

      “The red!”—“The yaller! the yaller!”—“The red!” Mr. Gallon is
      frantic, and Tippy Tom leads the way along the turnpike as if he,
      too, was in the race. Sir Moses’s mare breaks into a canter, and
      makes the action of the gig resemble that of a boat going to sea.
      The crowd rush pell-mell without looking where they are going; it
      is a wonder that nobody is killed.

      Lawristone Clump is now close at hand, enlivened with the gay
      parasols and colours of the ladies.

      There are but three more fences between the competitors and it,
      and seeing what he thinks a weak place in the next, Mr. Flintoff
      races for it over the sound furrows of the deeply-drained
      pasture. As he gets near it begins to look larger, and Cuddy’s
      irresolute handling makes the horse swerve.

      “Now, then, old stoopid!” cries Jack, in a good London cabman’s
      accent; “Now, then, old stoopid! vot are ye stargazing that way
      for? Vy don’t ye go over or get out o’ de vay?”

      “_Go yourself_,’” growled Cuddy, pulling his horse round.

      “Go myself!” repeated Jack; “‘ow the doose can I go vid your
      great carcase stuck i’ the vay!”

      “My great carcase stuck i’ the way!” retorted Cuddy, spurring and
      hauling at his horse. “My great carcase stuck in the way! Look at
      your own, and be hanged to ye!”

      “Vell, look at it!” replied Jack, backing his horse for a run,
      and measuring his distance, he clapped spurs freely in his sides,
      and going at it full tilt, flew over the fence, exclaiming as he
      lit, “Dere, it is for you to ’zamine.”

      “That feller can ride a deuced deal better than he pretends,”
      muttered Cuddy, wishing his tailorism mightn’t be all a trick;
      saying which he followed Jack’s example, and taking a run he
      presently landed in the next field, amidst the cheers of the
      roadsters. This was a fallow, deep, wet, and undrained, and his
      well ribbed-up horse was more than a match for Jack’s across it.
      Feeling he could go, Cuddy set himself home in his saddle, and
      flourishing his whip, cantered past, exclaiming, “Come along old
      stick in the mud!”

      “I’ll stick i’ the mod ye!” replied Jack, hugging and holding his
      sobbing horse. “I’ll stick i’ the mod ye! Stop till I gets off
      dis birdliming field, and I’ll give you de go-bye, Cuddy, old
      cock.”

      Jack was as good as his word, for the ground getting sounder on
      the slope, he spurted up a wet furrow, racing with Cuddy for the
      now obvious gap, that afforded some wretched half-starved calves
      a choice between the rushes of one field and the whicken grass of
      the other. Pop, Jack went over it, looking back and exclaiming to
      Cuddy, “Bon jour! top of de mornin’ to you, sare!” as he hugged
      his horse and scuttled up a high-backed ridge of the sour blue
      and yellow-looking pasture.

      The money was now in great jeopardy, and the people on the road
      shouted and gesticulated the names of their respective favourites
      with redoubled energy, as if their eagerness could add impetus to
      the animals. “_Flintoff! Flintoff! Flintoff!_” “_The Frenchman!
      the Frenchman!_” as Monsieur at length dropped his hands and
      settled into something like a seat. On, on, they went, Monsieur
      every now and then looking back to see that he had a proper space
      between himself and his pursuer, and, giving his horse a good dig
      with his spurs, he lifted him over a stiff stake-and-rice fence
      that separated him from the field with the Clump.

      “Here they come!” is now the cry on the hill, and fair faces at
      length turn to contemplate the galloppers, who come sprawling up
      the valley in the unsightly way fore-shortened horses appear to
      do. The road gate on the right flies suddenly open, and Tippy Tom
      is seen running away with Geordey Gallon, who just manages to
      manouvre him round the Clump to the front as Monsieur comes
      swinging in an easy winner.

      Glorious victory for Geordey! Glorious victory for Monsieur! They
      can’t have won less than thirty pounds between them, supposing
      they get paid, and that Geordey gives Jack his “reglars.” Well
      may Geordey throw up his shallow hat and hug the winner. But who
      shall depict the agony of Sir Moses at this dreadful blow to his
      finances? The way he dom’d Cuddy, the way he dom’d Jack, the way
      he swung frantically about Lawristone Clump, declaring he was
      ruined for ever and ever! After thinking of everybody at all
      equal to the task, we are obliged to get, our old friend Echo to
      answer “Who!”



      CHAPTER XLV. HENEREY BROWN & CO. AGAIN.


      THE first paroxysm of rage being over, Sir Moses remounted his
      dog-cart, and drove rapidly off, seeming to take pleasure in
      making his boy-groom (who was at the mare’s head) run after it as
      long as he could.

      “What’s it Baronet off?” exclaimed Mr. Gallon, staring with
      astonishment at the fast-receding vehicle; “what’s it, Baronet
      off?” repeated he, thinking he would have to go to Pangburn Park
      for his money.

      “O dear Thir Mothes is gone!” lisped pretty Miss Mechlinton, who
      wanted to have a look at our hero, Mr. Pringle, who she heard was
      frightfully handsome, and alarmingly rich. And the ladies, who
      had been too much occupied with the sudden rush of excited people
      to notice Sir Moses’s movements, wondered what had happened that
      he didn’t come to give his tongue an airing among them as usual.
      One said he had got the tooth-ache; another, the ear-ache; a
      third, that he had got something in his eye; while a satirical
      gentleman said it looked more like a B. in his bonnet.

      “Ony hoo,” however, as Mr. Gallon would say, Sir Moses was
      presently out of the field and on to the hard turnpike again.

      We need scarcely say that Mr. Pringle’s ride home with him was
      not of a very agreeable character: indeed, the Baronet had seldom
      been seen to be so put out of his way, and the mare came in for
      frequent salutations with the whip—latitudinally, longitudinally,
      and horizontally, over the head and ears, accompanied by cutting
      commentaries on Flintoff’s utter uselessness and inability to do
      anything but drink.

      He “never saw such a man—domd if ever he did,” and he whipped the
      mare again in confirmation of the opinion.

      Nor did matters mend on arriving at home; for here Mr. Mordecai
      Nathan met him in the entrance hall, with a very doleful face, to
      announce that Henerey Brown & Co., who had long been coddling up
      their horses, had that morning succeeded in sloping with them and
      their stock to Halterley Fair, and selling them in open market,
      leaving a note hanging to the key in the house-door, saying that
      they had gone to Horseterhaylia where Sir Moses needn’t trouble
      to follow them.

      “Ond dom it!” shrieked the Baronet, jumping up in the air like a
      stricken deer; “ond dom it! I’m robbed! I’m robbed! I’m ruined!
      I’m ruined!” and tottering to an arm-chair, he sank, overpowered
      with the blow. Henerey Brown & Co. had indeed been too many for
      him. After a long course of retrograding husbandry, they seemed
      all at once to have turned over a new leaf, if not in the tillage
      way, at all events in that still better way for the land, the
      cattle line,—store stock, with some symptoms of beef on their
      bones, and sheep with whole fleeces, going on all-fours
      depastured the fields, making Mordecai Nathan think it was all
      the fruits of his superior management. Alaek a-day! They belonged
      to a friend of Lawyer Hindmarch’s, who thought Henerey Brown &
      Co. might as well eat all off the land ere they left. And so they
      ate it as bare as a board.

      “Ond dom it, how came you to let them escape?” now demanded the
      Baronet, wringing his hands in despair; “ond dom it, how came you
      to let them escape?” continued he, throwing himself back in the
      chair.

      “Why really, Sir Moses, I was perfectly deceived; I thought they
      were beginning to do better, for though they were back with their
      ploughing, they seemed to be turning their attention to stock,
      and I was in hopes that in time they would pull round.”

      “Pull round!” ejaculated the Baronet; “pull round! They’ll
      flatten me I know with their pulling;” and thereupon he kicked
      out both legs before him as if he was done with them altogether.

      His seat being in the line of the door, a rude draught now caught
      his shoulder, which making him think it was no use sitting there
      to take cold and the rheumatism, he suddenly bounced up, and
      telling Nathan to stay where he was, he ran up stairs, and
      quickly changed his fine satiney, velvetey, holiday garments, for
      a suit of dingy old tweeds, that looked desperately in want of
      the washing-tub. Then surmounting the whole with a drab
      wide-awake, he clutched a knotty dog-whip, and set off on foot
      with his agent to the scene of disaster, rehearsing the licking
      he would give Henerey with the whip if he caught him, as he went.

      Away he strode, as if he was walking a match, down Dolly’s Close,
      over the stile, into Farmer Hayford’s fields, and away by the
      back of the lodges, through Orwell Plantation and Lowestoff End,
      into the Rushworth and Mayland Road.

      Doblington farm-house then stood on the rising ground before him.
      It was indeed a wretched, dilapidated, woe-begone-looking place;
      bad enough when enlivened with the presence of cattle and the
      other concomitants of a farm; but now, with only a poor white
      pigeon, that Henerey Brown & Co., as if in bitter irony, had left
      behind them, it looked the very picture of misery and
      poverty-stricken desolation.

      It was red-tiled and had been rough-cast, but the casting was
      fast coming off, leaving fine map-like tracings of green damp on
      the walls,—a sort of map of Italy on one side of the door, a map
      of Africa on the other, one of Horseterhaylia about the centre,
      with a perfect battery of old hats bristling in the broken panes
      of the windows. Nor was this all; for, by way of saving coals,
      Henerey & Humphrey had consumed all the available wood about the
      place—stable-fittings, cow-house-fittings, pig-sty-fittings, even
      part of the staircase—and acting under the able advice of Lawyer
      Hindmarch, had carried away the pot and oven from the kitchen,
      and all the grates from the fire-places, under pretence of having
      bought them of the outgoing tenant when they entered,—a fact that
      the lawyer said “would be difficult to disprove.” If it had not
      been that Henerey Brown & Co. had been sitting rent-free, and
      that the dilapidated state of the premises formed an excellent
      subject of attack for parrying payment when rent came to be
      demanded, it would be difficult to imagine people living in a
      house where they had to wheel their beds about to get to the
      least drop-exposed quarter, and where the ceilings bagged down
      from the rafters like old-fashioned window-hangings. People,
      however, can put up with a great deal when it saves their own
      pockets. Master and man having surveyed the exterior then
      entered.

      “Well,” said Sir Moses, looking round on the scene of desolation,
      “they’ve made a clean sweep at all events.”

      “They have that,” assented Mr. Mordecai Nathan.

      “I wonder it didn’t strike you, when you caught them selling
      their straw off at night, that they would be doing something of
      this sort,” observed Sir Moses.

      “Why, I thought it rather strange,” replied Mr. Nathan; “only
      they assured me that for every load of straw they sold, they
      brought back double the value in guano, or I certainly should
      have been more on the alert.”

      “Guano be hanged!” rejoined the Baronet, trying to open the
      kitchen window, to let some fresh air into the foul apartment;
      “guano be hanged! one ton of guano makes itself into twenty ton
      with the aid of Kentish gravel. No better trade than spurious
      manure-manufacturing; almost as good as cabbage-cigar making.
      Besides,” continued he, “the straw goes off to a certainty,
      whereas there’s no certainty about the guano coming back instead
      of it. Oh, dom it, man,” continued he, knocking some of the old
      hats out of the broken panes, after a fruitless effort to open
      the window, “I’d have walked the bailiffs into the beggars if I
      could have foreseen this.”

      “So would I, Sir Moses,” replied Mr. Nathan; “only who could we
      get to come in their place?”

      That observation of Mr. Mordecai Nathan comprises a great deal,
      and accounts for much apparent good landlordism, which lets a bad
      tenant go on from year to year with the occasional payment of a
      driblet of rent, instead of ejecting him; the real fact being
      that the landlord knows there is no one to get to come in his
      place—no better one at least—and that fact constitutes one of the
      principal difficulties of land-owning. If a landlord is not
      prepared to take an out-of-order farm into his own hands, he must
      either put up with an incompetent non-paying tenant, or run the
      risk of getting a worse one from the general body of outlying
      incompetence. A farm will always let for something.

      There is a regular rolling stock of bad farmers in every country,
      who pass from district to district, exercising their ingenuity in
      extracting whatever little good their predecessors have left in
      the land. These men are the steady, determined enemies to grass.
      Their great delight is to get leave to plough out an old
      pasture-field under pretence of laying it down better. There
      won’t be a grass field on a farm but what they will take some
      exception to, and ask leave to have “out” as they call it. Then
      if they get leave, they take care never to have a good take of
      seeds, and so plough on and plough on, promising to lay it down
      better after each fresh attempt, just as a thimble-rigger urges
      his dupe to go on and go on, and try his luck once more, until
      land and dupe are both fairly exhausted. The tenant then marches,
      and the thimble-rigger decamps, each in search of fresh fields
      and flats new.

      Considering that all writers on agriculture agree that grass land
      pays double, if not treble, what arable land does, and that one
      is so much more beautiful to the eye than the other, to say
      nothing of pleasanter to ride over, we often wonder that
      landlords have not turned their attention more to the increase
      and encouragement of grass land on their estates than they have
      done.

      To be sure they have always had the difficulty to contend with we
      have named, viz., a constant hankering on the part of even some
      good tenants to plough it out. A poor grass-field, like Gay’s
      hare, seems to have no friends. Each man proposes to improve it
      by ploughing it out, forgetful of the fact, that it may also be
      improved by manuring the surface. The quantity of arable land on
      a farm is what puts landlords so much in the power of bad
      farmers. If farms consisted of three parts grass and one part
      plough, instead of three parts plough and one part grass, no
      landlord need ever put up with an indifferent, incompetent
      tenant; for the grass would carry him through, and he could
      either let the farm off, field by field, to butchers and
      graziers, or pasture it himself, or hay it if he liked. Nothing
      pays better than hay. A very small capital would then suffice for
      the arable land; and there being, as we said before, a rolling
      stock of scratching land-starvers always on the look-out for
      out-of-order farms, so every landowner should have a rolling
      stock of horses and farm-implements ready to turn upon any one
      that is not getting justice done it. There is no fear of
      gentlemen being overloaded with land; for the old saying, “It’s a
      good thing to follow the laird,” will always insure plenty of
      applicants for any farm a landlord is leaving—supposing, of
      course, that he has been doing it justice himself, which we must
      say landlords always do; the first result we see of a gentleman
      farming being the increase of the size of his stock-yard, and
      this oftentimes in the face of a diminished acreage under the
      plough.

      Then see what a saving there is in grass-farming compared to
      tillage husbandry: no ploughs, no harrows, no horses, no lazy
      leg-dragging clowns, who require constant watching; the cattle
      will feed whether master is at home or polishing St. James’s
      Street in paper boots and a tight bearing-rein.

      Again, the independence of the grass-farmer is so great. When the
      wind howls and the rain beats, and the torrents roar, and John
      Flail lies quaking in bed, fearing for his corn, then old Tom
      Nebuchadnezzar turns quietly over on his side like the Irish
      jontleman who, when told the house was on fire, replied, “Arrah,
      by Jasus, I’m only a lodger!” and says, “Ord rot it, let it rain;
      it’ll do me no harm! I’m only a grass-grower!”

      But we are leaving Sir Moses in the midst of his desolation, with
      nothing but the chilly fog of a winter’s evening and his own
      bright thoughts to console him.

      “And dom it, I’m off,” exclaimed he, fairly overcome with the
      impurity of the place; and hurrying out, he ran away towards
      home, leaving Mr. Mordecai Nathan to lock the empty house up, or
      not, just as he liked.

      And to Pangburn Park let us now follow the Baronet, and see what
      our friend Billy is about.



      CHAPTER XLVI. THE PRINGLE CORRESPONDENCE.


      MR. Pringle’s return was greeted with an immense shoal of
      letters, one from Mamma, one with “Yammerton Grange” on the seal,
      two from his tailors—one with the following simple heading, “To
      bill delivered,” so much; the other containing a vast catalogue
      of what a jury of tailors would consider youthful “necessaries,”
      amounting in the whole to a pretty round sum, accompanied by an
      intimation, that in consequence of the tightness of the
      money-market, an early settlement would be agreeable—and a very
      important-looking package, that had required a couple of heads to
      convey, and which, being the most mysterious of the whole, after
      a due feeling and inspection, he at length opened. It was from
      his obsequious friend Mr. Smoothley, and contained a printed copy
      of the rules of the Hit-im and Hold-im shire Hunt, done up in a
      little red-backed yellow-lined book, with a note from the sender,
      drawing Mr. Pringle’s attention to the tenth rule, which
      stipulated that the annual club subscription of fifteen guineas
      was to be paid into Greedy and Griper’s bank, in Hinton, by
      Christmas-day in each year at latest, or ten per cent, interest
      would be charged on the amount after that.

      “Fi-fi-fifteen guineas! te-te-ten per cent.!” ejaculated Billy,
      gasping for breath; “who’d ever have thought of such a thing!”
      and it was some seconds before he sufficiently recovered his
      composure to resume his reading. The rent of the cover he had
      taken, Mr. Smoothley proceeded to say, was eight guineas a-year.
      “Eight guineas a-year!” again ejaculated Billy; “eight guineas
      a-year! why I thought it was a mere matter of form. Oh dear, I
      can’t stand this!” continued he, looking vacantly about him.
      “Surely, risking one’s neck is quite bad enough, without paying
      for doing so. Lord Ladythorne never asked me for any money, why
      should Sir Moses? Oh dear, oh dear! I wish i’d never embarked in
      such a speculation. Nothing to be made by it, but a great deal to
      be lost. Bother the thing, I wish I was out of it,” with which
      declaration he again ventured to look at Mr. Smoothley’s letter.
      It went on to say, that the rent would not become payable until
      the next season, Mr. Treadcroft being liable for that year’s
      rent. “Ah well, come, that’s some consolation, at all events,”
      observed our friend, looking up again; “that’s some consolation,
      at all events,” adding, “I’ll take deuced good care to give it up
      before another year comes round.”

      Smoothley then touched upon the more genial subject of the
      hunt-buttons. he had desired Garnet, the silversmith, to send a
      couple of sets off the last die, one for Billy’s hunting, the
      other for his dress coat; and he concluded by wishing our friend
      a long life of health and happiness to wear them with the
      renowned Hit-im and Hold-im shire hunt; and assuring him that he
      was always his, with great sincerity, John Smoothley. “Indeed,”
      said Billy, throwing the letter down; “more happiness if I don’t
      wear them,” continued he, conning over his many misfortunes, and
      the great difficulty he had in sitting at the jumps. “However,”
      thought he, “the dress ones will do for the balls,” with which
      not uncommon consolation he broke the red seal of the Yammerton
      Grange letter.

      This was from our friend the Major, all about a wonderful hunt
      his “haryers” had had, which he couldn’t resist the temptation of
      writing to tell Billy of. The description then sprawled over four
      sides of letter paper, going an arrant burst from end to end,
      there not being a single stop in the whole, whatever there might
      have been in the hunt; and the Major concluded by saying, that it
      was by far the finest run he had ever seen during his long
      mastership, extending over a period of five-and-thirty years.

      Glancing his eye over its contents, how they found at Conksbury
      Corner, and ran at a racing pace without a check to Foremark
      Hill, and down over the water-meadows at Dove-dale Green to
      Marbury Hall, turning short at Fullbrook Folly, and over the
      race-course at Ancaster Lawn, doubling at Dinton Dean, and back
      over the hill past Oakhanger Gorse to Tufton Holt, where they
      killed, the account being interwoven, parenthesis within
      parenthesis, with the brilliant hits and performances of Lovely,
      and Lilter, and Dainty, and Bustler, and others, with the names
      of the distinguished party who were out, our old friend
      Wotherspoon among the number, Billy came at last to a sly
      postscript, saying that “his bed and stall were quite ready for
      him whenever he liked to return, and they would all be delighted
      to see him.” The wording of the Postscript had taken a good deal
      of consideration, and had undergone two or three revisions at the
      hands of the ladies before they gave it to the Major to add—one
      wanting to make it rather stronger, another rather milder, the
      Major thinking they had better have a little notice before Mr.
      Pringle returned, while Mamma (who had now got all the linen up
      again) inclined, though she did not say so before the girls, to
      treat Billy as one of the family. Upon a division whether the
      word “quite” should stand part of the Postscript or not, the
      Major was left in a minority, and the pressing word passed. His
      bed and stall were “quite ready,” instead of only “ready” to
      receive him. Miss Yammerton observing, that “quite” looked as if
      they really wished to have him, while “ready” looked as if they
      did not care whether he came or not. And Billy, having pondered
      awhile on the Postscript, which he thought came very opportunely,
      proceeded to open his last letter, a man always taking those he
      doesn’t know first.

      This letter was Mamma’s—poor Mamma’s—written in the usual strain
      of anxious earnestness, hoping her beloved was enjoying himself,
      but hinting that she would like to have him back. Butterfingers
      was gone, she had got her a place in Somersetshire, so anxiety on
      that score was over. Mrs. Pringle’s peculiar means of
      information, however, informed her that the Misses Yammerton were
      dangerous, and she had already expressed her opinion pretty
      freely with regard to Sir Moses. Indeed, she didn’t know which
      house she would soonest hear of her son being at—Sir Moses’s with
      his plausible pocket-guarding plundering, or Major Yammerton’s,
      with the three pair of enterprising eyes, and Mamma’s mature
      judgment directing the siege operations. Mrs. Pringle wished he
      was either back at Tantivy Castle, or in Curtain Crescent again.

      Still she did not like to be too pressing, but observed, as
      Christmas was coming, when hunting would most likely be stopped
      by the weather, she hoped he would run up to town, where many of
      his friends, Jack Sheppard, Tom Brown, Harry Bean, and others,
      were asking for him, thinking he was lost. She also said, it
      would be a good time to go to Uncle Jerry’s, and try to get a
      settlement with him, for though she had often called, sometimes
      by appointment, she had never been able to meet with him, as he
      was always away, either seeing after some chapel he was building,
      or attending a meeting for the conversion of the Sepoys, or some
      other fanatics.

      The letter concluded by saying, that she had looked about in vain
      for a groom likely to suit him; for, although plenty had
      presented themselves from gentlemen wishing for high wages with
      nothing to do, down to those who would garden and groom and look
      after cows, she had not seen anything at all to her mind. Mr.
      Luke Grueler, however, she added, who had called that morning,
      had told her of one that he could recommend, who was just leaving
      the Honourable Captain Swellington; and being on his way to town
      from Doubleimupshire, where the Captain had got to the end of his
      tether, he would very possibly call; and, if so, Billy would know
      him by his having Mr. Grueler’s card to present. And with renewed
      expressions of affection, and urging him to take care of himself,
      as well among the leaps as the ladies, she signed herself his
      most doting and loving “Mamma.”

      “Groom!” (humph) “Swellington!” (humph) muttered Billy, folding
      up the letter, and returning it to its highly-musked envelope.

      “Wonder what sort of a beggar he’ll be?” continued he, twirling
      his mustachios; “Wonder how he’ll get on with Rougier?” and a
      thought struck him, that he had about as much as he could manage
      with Monsieur. However, many people have to keep what they don’t
      want, and there is no reason why such an aspiring youth as our
      friend should be exempt from the penance of his station. Talking
      of grooms, we are not surprised at “Mamma’s” difficulty in
      choosing one, for we know of few more difficult selections to
      make; and, considering the innumerable books we have on the
      choice and management of horses, we wonder no one has written on
      the choice and management of grooms. The truth is, they are as
      various as the horse-tribe itself; and, considering that the best
      horse may soon be made a second-rate one by bad grooming, when a
      second-rate one may be elevated to the first class by good
      management, and that a man’s neck may be broken by riding a horse
      not fit to go, it is a matter of no small importance. Some men
      can dress themselves, some can dress their horses; but very few
      can dress both themselves and their horses. Some are only fit to
      strip a horse and starve him. It is not every baggy-corded fellow
      that rolls slangily along in top-boots, and hisses at everything
      he touches, that is a groom. In truth, there are very few grooms,
      very few men who really enter into the feelings and constitutions
      of horses, or look at them otherwise than as they would at chairs
      or mahogany tables. A horse that will be perfectly furious under
      the dressing of one man, will be as quiet as possible in the
      hands of another—-a rough subject thinking the more a horse
      prances and winces, the greater the reason to lay on. Some
      fellows have neither hands, nor eyes, nor sense, nor feeling, nor
      anything. We have seen one ride a horse to cover without ever
      feeling that he was lame, while a master’s eye detected it the
      moment he came in sight. Indeed, if horses could express their
      opinions, we fear many of them would have very indifferent ones
      of their attendants. The greater the reason, therefore, for
      masters giving honest characters of their servants.

      Our friend Mr. Pringle, having read his letters, was swinging up
      and down the little library, digesting them, when the great Mr.
      Bankhead bowed in with a card on a silver salver, and announced,
      in his usual bland way, that the bearer wished to speak to him.

      “Me!” exclaimed Billy, wondering who it could be; “Me!” repeated
      he, taking the highly-glazed thin pasteboard missive off the
      tray, and reading, “Mr. Luke Grueler, Half-Moon Street,
      Piccadilly.”

      “Grueler, Grueler!” repeated Billy, frowning and biting his
      pretty lips; “Grueler—I’ve surely heard that name before.”

      “The bearer, sir, comes _from_ Mr. Grueler, sir,” observed Mr.
      Bankhead, in explanation: “the party’s own name, sir, is Gaiters;
      but he said by bringing in this card, you would probably know who
      he is.”

      “Ah! to be sure, so I do,” replied Billy, thus suddenly
      enlightened, “I’ve just been reading about him. Send him in, will
      you?”

      “If you please, sir,” whispered the bowing Bankhead as he
      withdrew.

      Billy then braced himself up for the coming interview.

      A true groom’s knock, a loud and a little one, presently sounded
      on the white-over-black painted door-panel, and at our friend’s
      “Come in,” the door opened, when in sidled a sleek-headed well
      put on groomish-looking man, of apparently forty or
      five-and-forty years of age. The man bowed respectfully, which
      Billy returned, glancing at his legs to see whether they were
      knock-kneed or bowed, his Mamma having cautioned him against the
      former. They were neither; on the contrary, straight good legs,
      well set off with tightish, drab-coloured kerseymere shorts, and
      continuations to match. His coat was an olive-coloured cutaway,
      his vest a canary-coloured striped toilanette, with a slightly
      turned-down collar, showing the whiteness of his well-tied
      cravat, secured with a gold flying-fox pin. Altogether he was a
      most respectable looking man, and did credit to the
      recommendation of Mr. Grueler.

      Still he was a groom of pretension—that is to say, a groom who
      wanted to be master. He was hardly, indeed, satisfied with that,
      and would turn a gentleman off who ventured to have an opinion of
      his own on any matter connected with his department. Mr. Gaiters
      considered that his character was the first consideration, his
      master’s wishes and inclinations the second; so if master wanted
      to ride, say, Rob Roy, and Gaiters meant him to ride Moonshine,
      there would be a trial of skill which it should be.

      Mr. Gaiters always considered himself corporally in the field,
      and speculated on what people would be saying of “his horses.”

      Some men like to be bullied, some don’t, but Gaiters had dropped
      on a good many who did. Still these are not the lasting order of
      men, and Gaiters had attended the dispersion of a good many studs
      at the Corner. Again, some masters had turned him off, while he
      had turned others off; and the reason of his now being disengaged
      was that the Sheriff of Doubleimupshire had saved him the trouble
      of taking Captain Swellington’s horses to Tattersall’s, by
      selling them off on the spot. Under these circumstances, Gaiters
      had written to his once former master—or rather employer—Mr.
      Grueler, to announce his retirement, which had led to the present
      introduction. Many people will recommend servants who they
      wouldn’t take themselves. Few newly married couples but what have
      found themselves saddled with invaluable servants that others
      wanted to get rid of.

      Mutual salutations over, Gaiters now stood in the first position,
      hat in front, like a heavy father on the stage.

      Our friend not seeming inclined to lead the gallop, Mr. Gaiters,
      after a prefatory hem, thus commenced: “Mr. Grueler, sir, I
      presume, would tell you, sir, that I would call upon you, sir?”

      Billy nodded assent.

      “I’m just leaving the Honourable Captain Swellington, of the
      Royal Hyacinth Hussars, sir, whose regiment is ordered out to
      India; and fearing the climate might not agree with my
      constitution, I have been obliged to give him up.”

      “Ah!” ejaculated Billy.

      “I have his testimonials,” continued Gaiters, putting his hat
      between his legs, and diving into the inside pocket of his
      cutaway as he spoke. “I have his testimonials,” repeated he,
      producing a black, steel-clasped banker or bill-broker’s looking
      pocket-book, and tedding up a lot of characters, bills, recipes,
      and other documents in the pocket. He then selected Captain
      Swellington’s character from the medley, written on the best
      double-thick, cream-laid note-paper, sealed with the Captain’s
      crest—a goose—saying that the bearer John Gaiters was an
      excellent groom, and might safely be trusted with the management
      of hunters. “You’ll probably know who the Captain is, sir,”
      continued Mr. Gaiters, eyeing Billy as he read it. “He’s a son of
      the Right Honourable Lord Viscount Flareup’s, of Flareup Castle,
      one of the oldest and best families in the kingdom—few better
      families anywhere,” just as if the Peer’s pedigree had anything
      to do with Gaiters’s grooming. “I have plenty more similar to
      it,” continued Mr. Gaiters, who had now selected a few out of the
      number which he held before him, like a hand at cards. “Plenty
      more similar to it,” repeated he, looking them over. “Here is Sir
      Rufus Rasper’s, Sir Peter Puller’s, Lord Thruster’s, Mr.
      Cropper’s, and others. Few men have horsed more sportsmen than I
      have done; and if my principals do not go in the first flight, it
      is not for want of condition in my horses. Mr. Grueler was the
      only one I ever had to give up for overmarking my horses; and he
      was so hard upon them I couldn’t stand it; still he speaks of me,
      as you see, in the handsomest manner,” handing our friend Mr.
      Grueler’s certificate, couched in much the same terms as Captain
      Swellington’s.

      “Yarse,” replied Billy, glancing over and then returning it,
      thinking, as he again eyed Mr. Gaiters, that a smart lad like
      Lord Ladythorne’s Cupid without wings would be more in his way
      than such a full-sized magnificent man. Still his Mamma and Mr.
      Grueler had sent Gaiters, and he supposed they knew what was
      right. In truth, Gaiters was one of those overpowering people
      that make a master feel as if he was getting hired, instead of
      suiting himself with a servant.

      This preliminary investigation over, Gaiters returned the
      characters to his ample book, and clasping it together, dropped
      it into his capacious pocket, observing, as it fell, that he
      should be glad to endeavour to arrange matters with Mr. Pringle,
      if he was so inclined.

      Our friend nodded, wishing he was well rid of him.

      “It’s not every place I would accept,” continued Mr. Gaiters,
      growing grand; “for the fact is, as Mr. Grueler will tell you, my
      character is as good as a Bank of England note; and unless I was
      sure I could do myself justice, I should not like to venture on
      an experiment, for it’s no use a man undertaking anything that
      he’s not allowed to carry out his own way; and nothing would be
      so painful to my feelings as to see a gentleman not turned out as
      he should be.”

      Mr. Pringle drawled a “yarse,” for he wanted to be turned out
      properly.

      “Well, then,” continued Mr. Gaiters, changing his hat from his
      right hand to his left, subsiding into the second position, and
      speaking slowly and deliberately, “I suppose you want a groom to
      take the entire charge and management of your stable—a stud
      groom, in short?”

      “Yarse, I s’pose so,” replied Billy, not knowing exactly what he
      wanted, and wishing his Mamma hadn’t sent him such a swell.

      “Well, then, sir,” continued Mr. Gaiters, casting his eyes up to
      the dirty ceiling, and giving his chin a dry shave with his
      disengaged hand; “Well, then, sir, I flatter myself I can fulfil
      that office with credit to myself and satisfaction to my
      employer.”

      “Yarse,” assented Billy, thinking there would be very little
      satisfaction in the matter.

      “Buy the forage, hire the helpers, do everything appertaining to
      the department,—in fact, just as I did with the Honourable
      Captain Swellington.”

      “Humph,” said Billy, recollecting that his Mamma always told him
      never to let servants buy anything for him that he could help.

      “Might I ask if you buy your own horses?” inquired Mr. Gaiters,
      after a pause.

      “Why, yarse, I do,” replied Billy; “at least I have so far.”

      “Hum! That would be a consideration,” muttered Gaiters,
      compressing his mouth, as if he had now come to an obstacle;
      “that would be a consideration. Not that there’s any benefit or
      advantage to be derived from buying horses,” continued he,
      resuming his former tone; “but when a man’s character’s at stake,
      it’s agreeable, desirable, in fact, that he should be intrusted
      with the means of supporting it. I should like to buy the
      horses,” continued he, looking earnestly at Billy, as if to
      ascertain the amount of his gullibility.

      “Well,” drawled Billy, “I don’t care if you do,” thinking there
      wouldn’t be many to buy.

      “Oh!” gasped Gaiters, relieved by the announcement; he always
      thought he had lost young Mr. Easyman’s place by a similar
      demand, but still he couldn’t help making it. It wouldn’t have
      been doing justice to the Bank of England note character, indeed,
      if he hadn’t.

      “Oh!” repeated he, emboldened by success, and thinking he had met
      with the right sort of man. He then proceeded to sum up his case
      in his mind,—forage, helpers, horses, horses, helpers, forage;—he
      thought that was all he required; yes, he thought it was all he
      required, and the Bank of England note character would be
      properly supported. He then came to the culminating point of the
      cash. Just as he was clearing his throat with a prefatory “_Hre_”
      for this grand consideration, a sudden rush and banging of doors
      foreboding mischief resounded through the house, and something
      occurred——that we will tell in another chapter.



      CHAPTER XLVII. A CATASTROPHE.—A TÊTE-À-TÊTE DINNER


      ON, Sir, Sir, please step this way! please step this way!”
      exclaimed the _delirium tremems_ footman, rushing coatless into
      the room where our hero and Mr. Gaiters were,—his shirt-sleeves
      tucked up, and a knife in hand, as if he had been killing a pig,
      though in reality he was fresh from the knife-board.

      “Oh, Sir, Sir, please step this way!” repeated he, at once
      demolishing the delicate discussion at which our friend and Mr.
      Gaiters had arrived.

      “What’s ha-ha-happened?” demanded Billy, turning deadly pale; for
      his cares were so few, that he couldn’t direct his fears to any
      one point in particular.

      “Please, sir, your ‘oss has dropped down in a f-f-fit!” replied
      the man, all in a tremble.

      “Fit!” ejaculated Billy, brushing past Gaiters, and hurrying out
      of the room.

      “Fit!” repeated Gaiters, turning round with comfortable
      composure, looking at the man as much as to say, what do you know
      about it?

      “Yes, f-f-fit!” repeated the footman, brandishing his knife, and
      running after Billy as though he were going to slay him.

      Dashing along the dark passages, breaking his shins over one of
      those unlucky coal-scuttles that are always in the way, Billy
      fell into an outward-bound stream of humanity,—Mrs. Margerum,
      Barbara the housemaid, Mary the Lanndrymaid, Jones the gardener’s
      boy, and others, all hurrying to the scene of action.

      Already there was a ring formed round the door, of bare-armed
      helpers, and miscellaneous hangers-on, looking over each other’s
      shoulders, who opened a way for Billy as he advanced.

      The horse was indeed down, but not in a fit; for he was dying,
      and expired just as Billy entered. There lay the glazy-eyed
      hundred-guinea Napoleon the Great, showing his teeth, reduced to
      the mere value of his skin; so great is the difference between a
      dead horse and a live one.

      “Bad job!” said Wetun, who was on his knees at its head, looking
      up; “bad job!” repeated he, trying to look dismal.

      “What! is he dead?” demanded Billy, who could hardly realise the
      fact.

      “Dead, ay—he’ll never move more,” replied Wetun, showing his
      fast-stiffening neck.

      “By Jove! why didn’t you send for the doctor?” demanded Billy.

      “Doctor! we had the doctor,” replied Wetun, “but he could do
      nothin’ for him.”

      “Nothin’ for him!” retorted Billy; “why not?”

      “Because he’s rotten,” replied Wetun.

      “Rotten! how can that be?” asked our friend, adding, “I only
      bought him the other day!”

      “If you open ‘im you’ll find he’s as black as ink in his inside,
      rejoined the groom, now getting up in the stall and rubbing his
      knees.

      “Well, but what’s that with?” demanded Billy. “It surely must be
      owing to something. Horses don’t die that way for nothing.”

      “Owing to a bad constitution—harn’t got no stamina,” replied
      Wetun, looking down upon the dead animal.

      Billy was posed with the answer, and stood mute for a while.

      “That ‘oss ‘as never been rightly well sin he com’d,” now
      observed Joe Bates, the helper who looked after him, over the
      heads of the door-circle.

      “I didn’t like his looks when he com’d in from ‘unting that day,”
      continued Tom Wisp, another helper.

      “No, nor the day arter nonther,” assented Jack Strong, who was a
      capital hand at finding fault, and could slur over his work with
      anybody.

      Just then Mr. Gaiters arrived; and a deferential entrance was
      opened for his broadcloth by the group before the door.

      The great Mr. Gaiters entered.

      Treating the dirty blear-eyed Wetun more as a helper than an
      equal, he advanced deliberately up the stall and proceeded to
      examine the dead horse.

      He looked first up his nostrils, next at his eye, then at his
      neck to see if he had been bled.

      “I could have cured that horse if I’d had him in time,” observed
      he to Billy with a shake of the head.

      “Neither you nor no man under the sun could ha’ done it,”
      asserted Mr. Wetun, indignant at the imputation.

      “I could though—at least he never should have been in that
      state,” replied Gaiters coolly.

      “I say you couldn’t!” retorted Wetun, putting his arms a-kimbo,
      and sideling up to the daring intruder, a man who hadn’t even
      asked leave to come into his stable.

      A storm being imminent, our friend slipped off, and Sir Moses
      arrived from Henerey Brown &, Co.‘s just at the nick of time to
      prevent a fight.

      So much for a single night in a bad stable, a result that our
      readers will do well to remember when they ask their friends to
      visit them—“Love me, love my horse,” being an adage more attended
      to in former times than it is now.

      “Ah, my dear Pringle! I’m so sorry to hear about your horse! go
      sorry to hear about your horse!” exclaimed Sir Moses, rushing
      forward to greet our friend with a consolatory shake of the hand,
      as he came sauntering into the library, flat candlestick in hand,
      before dinner. “It’s just the most unfortunate thing I ever knew
      in my life; and I wouldn’t have had it happen at my house for all
      the money in the world—dom’d if I would,” added he, with a
      downward blow of his fist.

      Billy could only reply with one of his usual monotonous
      “y-a-r-ses.”

      “However,” said the Baronet, “it shall not prevent your hunting
      to-morrow, for I’ll mount you with all the pleasure in the
      world—all the pleasure in the world,” repeated he, with a
      flourish of his hand.

      “Thank ye,” replied Billy, alarmed at the prospect; “but the fact
      is, the Major expects me back at Yammerton Grange, and——”

      “That’s nothin!” interrupted Sir Moses; “that’s nothin; hunt, and
      go there after—all in the day’s work. Meet at the kennel, find a
      fox in five minutes, have your spin, and go to the Grange
      afterwards.”

      “O, indeed, yes, you shall,” continued he, settling it so, “shall
      have the best horse in my stable—Pegasus, or Atalanta, or Old
      Jack, or any of them—dom’d if you shalln’t—so that matter’s
      settled.”

      “But, but, but,” hesitated our alarmed friend, “I—I—I shall have
      no way of getting there after hunting.”

      “O, I’ll manage that too,” replied Sir Moses, now in the generous
      mood. “I’ll manage that too—shall have the dog-cart—the thing we
      were in to-day; my lad shall go with you and bring it back, and
      that’ll convey you and your traps and all altogether. Only sorry
      I can’t ask you to stay another week, but the fact is I’ve got to
      go to my friend Lord Lundyfoote’s for Monday’s hunting at Harker
      Crag,”—the fact being that Sir Moses had had enough of Billy’s
      company and had invited himself there to get rid of him.

      The noiseless Mr. Bankhead then opened the door with a bow, and
      they proceeded to a tête-à-tête dinner, Cuddy Flintoff having
      wisely sent for his things from Heslop’s house, and taken his
      departure to town under pretence, as he told Sir Moses in a note,
      of seeing Tommy White’s horses sold.

      Cuddy was one of that numerous breed of whom every sportsman
      knows at least one—namely, a man who is always wanting a horse, a
      “do you know of a horse that will suit me?” sort of a man.
      Charley Flight, who always walks the streets like a lamplighter
      and doesn’t like to be checked in his stride, whenever he sees
      Cuddy crawling along Piccadilly towards the Corner, puts on extra
      steam, exclaiming as he nears him, “How are you, Cuddy, how are
      you? I _don’t_ know of a horse that will suit you!” So he gets
      past without a pull-up.

      But we are keeping the soup waiting—also the fish—cod sounds
      rather—for Mrs. Margerum not calculating on more than the usual
      three days of country hospitality,—the rest day, the drest day,
      and the pressed day,—had run out of fresh fish. Indeed the whole
      repast bespoke the exhausted larder peculiar to the end of the
      week, and an adept in dishes might have detected some old friends
      with new faces. Some _rechauffers_ however are quite as good if
      not better than the original dishes—hashed venison for
      instance—though in this case, when Sir Moses inquired for the
      remains of the Sunday’s haunch, he was told that Monsieur had had
      it for his lunch—Jack being a safe bird to lay it upon, seeing
      that he had not returned from the race. If Jack had been in the
      way then, the cat would most likely have been the culprit, or old
      Libertine, who had the run of the house.

      Neither the Baronet nor Billy however was in any great humour for
      eating, each having cares of magnitude to oppress his thoughts,
      and it was not until Sir Moses had imbibed the best part of a
      pint of champagne besides sherry at intervals, that he seemed at
      all like himself. So he picked and nibbled and dom’d and dirted
      as many plates as he could. Dinner being at length over, he
      ordered a bottle of the green-sealed claret (his best), and
      drawing his chair to the fire proceeded to crack walnuts and pelt
      the shells at particular coals in the fire with a vehemence that
      showed the occupation of his mind. An observing eye could almost
      tell which were levelled at Henerey Brown, which at Cuddy
      Flintoff, and which again at the impudent owner of Tippy Tom.

      At length, having exhausted his spleen, he made a desperate dash
      at the claret-jug, and pouring himself out a bumper, pushed it
      across to our friend, with a “help yourself,” as he sent it. The
      ticket-of-leave butler, who understood wine, had not lost his
      skill during his long residence at Portsmouth, and brought this
      in with the bouquet in great perfection. The wine was just as it
      should be, neither too warm nor too cold; and as Sir Moses
      quaffed a second glass, his equanimity began to revive.

      When not thinking about money, his thoughts generally took a
      sporting turn,


Horses and hounds, and the system of kennel, Leicestershire saga, and
the hounds of old Moynell,



      as the song says; and the loss of Billy’s horse now obtruded on
      his mind.

      “How the deuce it had happened he couldn’t imagine; his man,
      Wetun,—and there was no better judge—said he seemed perfectly
      well, and a better stable couldn’t be than the one he was in;
      indeed he was standing alongside of his own favourite mare,
      Whimpering Kate,—‘faith, he wished he had told them to take her
      out, in case it was anything infectious,—only it looked more like
      internal disease than anything else.—Wished he mightn’t be
      rotten. The Major was an excellent man,—cute,——” and here he
      checked himself, recollecting that Billy was going back there on
      the morrow. “A young man,” continued he, “should be careful who
      he dealt with, for many what were called highly honourable men
      were very unscrupulous about horses;” and a sudden thought struck
      Sir Moses, which, with the aid of another bottle, he thought he
      might try to carry out. So apportioning the remains of the jug
      equitably between Billy and himself, he drew the bell, and
      desired the ticket-of-leave butler to bring in another bottle and
      a devilled biscuit.

      “That wine won’t hurt you,” continued he, addressing our friend,
      “that wine won’t hurt you, it’s not the nasty loaded stuff they
      manufacture for the English market, but pure, unadulterated juice
      of the grape, without a headache in a gallon of it so saying, Sir
      Moses quaffed off his glass and set it down with evident
      satisfaction, feeling almost a match for the owner of Tippy Tom.
      He then moved his chair a little on one side, and resumed his
      contemplation of the fire,—the blue lights rising among the
      red,—the gas escaping from the coal,—the clear flame flickering
      with the draught. He thought he saw his way,—yes, he thought he
      saw his way, and forthwith prevented any one pirating his ideas,
      by stirring the fire. Mr. Bankhead then entered with the bottle
      and the biscuit, and, placing them on the table, withdrew.

      “Come, Pringle!” cried Sir Moses cheerfully, seizing the massive
      cut-glass decanter, “let’s drink the healths of the young ladies
      at——, you know where,” looking knowingly at our friend, who
      blushed. “We’ll have a bumper to that,” continued he, pouring
      himself out one, and passing the bottle to Billy.

      “The young ladies at Yammerton Grange!” continued Sir Moses,
      holding the glass to the now sparkling fire before he transferred
      its bright ruby-coloured contents to his thick lips. He then
      quaffed it off with a smack.

      “The young ladies at Yammerton Grange!” faltered Billy, after
      filling himself a bumper.

      “Nice girls those, dom’d if they’re not,” observed the Baronet,
      now breaking the devilled biscuit. “You must take care what
      you’re about there, though, for the old lady doesn’t stand any
      nonsense; the Major neither.”

      Billy said he wasn’t going to try any on——.

      “No—but they’ll try it on with you,” retorted Sir Moses; “mark my
      words if they don’t.”

      “O, but I’m only there for hunting,” observed Billy, timidly.

      “I dare say,” replied Sir Moses, with a jerk of his head, “I dare
      say,—but it’s very agreeable to talk to a pretty girl when you
      come in, and those _are_ devilish pretty girls, let me tell
      you,—dom’d if they’re not,—only one talk leads to another talk,
      and ultimately Mamma talks about a small gold ring.”

      Billy was frightened, for he felt the truth of what Sir Moses
      said. They then sat for some minutes in silence, ruminating on
      their own affairs,—Billy thinking he would be careful of the
      girls, and wondering how he could escape Sir Moses’s offer of a
      bump on the morrow,—Sir Moses thinking he would advance that
      performance a step. He now led the way.

      “You’ll be wanting a horse to go with the Major’s harriers,”
      observed he; “and I’ve got the very animal for that sort of work;
      that grey horse of mine, the Lord Mayor, in the five-stalled
      stable on the right; the safest, steadiest animal ever man got on
      to; and I’ll make you a present of him, dom’d if I won’t; for I’m
      more hurt at the loss of yours than words can express; wouldn’t
      have had such a thing happen at my house on any account; so
      that’s a bargain, and will make all square; for the grey’s an
      undeniable good ‘un—worth half-a-dozen of the Major’s—and will do
      you some credit, for a young man on his preferment should always
      study appearances, and ride handsome horses; and the grey is one
      of the handsomest I ever saw. Lord Tootleton, up in
      Neck-and-crop-shire, who I got him of, gave three ‘under’d for
      him at the hammer, solely, I believe, on account of his looks,
      for he had never seen him out except in the ring, which is all my
      eye, for telling you whether a horse is a hunter or not; but,
      however, he _is_ a hunter, and no mistake, and you are most
      heartily welcome to him, dom’d if you’re not; and I’m deuced glad
      that it occurred to me to give him you, for I shall now sleep
      quite comfortable; so help yourself, and we’ll drink Foxhunting,”
      saying which, Sir Moses, who had had about enough wine, filled on
      a liberal heel-tap, and again passed the bottle to his guest.

      Now Billy, who had conned over the matter in his bedroom before
      dinner, had come to the conclusion that he had had about hunting
      enough, and that the loss of Napoleon the Great afforded a
      favourable opportunity for retiring from the chase; indeed, he
      had got rid of the overpowering Mr. Gaiters on that plan, and he
      was not disposed to be cajoled into a continuance of the penance
      by the gift of a horse; so as soon as he could get a word in
      sideways, he began hammering away at an excuse, thanking Sir
      Moses most energetically for his liberality, but expressing his
      inability to accept such a magnificent offer.

      Sir Moses, however, who did not believe in any one refusing a
      gift, adhered pertinaciously to his promise,—“Oh, indeed, he
      should have him, he wouldn’t be easy if he didn’t take him,” and
      ringing the bell he desired the footman to tell Wetun to see if
      Mr. Pringle’s saddle would fit the Lord Mayor, and if it didn’t,
      to let our friend have one of his in the morning, and “here!”
      added he, as the man was retiring, “bring in tea.”—And Sir Moses
      being peremptory in his presents, Billy was compelled to remain
      under pressure of the horse.—So after a copious libation of tea
      the couple hugged and separated for the night, Sir Moses
      exclaiming “Breakfast at nine, mind!” as Billy sauntered up
      stairs, while the Baronet ran off to his study to calculate what
      Henerey Brown & Co. had done him out of.



      CHAPTER XLVIII. ROUGIER’S MYSTERIOUS LODGINGS—THE GIFT HORSE.


      MR. Gallon’s liberality after the race with Mr. Flintoff was so
      great that Monsieur Rougier was quite overcome with his kindness
      and had to be put to bed at the last public-house they stopped
      at, viz.—the sign of the Nightingale on the Ashworth road.
      Independently of the brandy not being particularly good, Jack
      took so much of it that he slept the clock round, and it was past
      nine the next morning ere he awoke. It then took him good twenty
      minutes to make out where he was; he first of all thought he was
      at Boulogne, then in Paris, next at the Lord Warden Hotel at
      Dover, and lastly at the Coal-hole in the Strand.

      Presently the recollection of the race began to dawn upon him—the
      red jacket—the grey horse, Cuddy in distress, and gradually he
      recalled the general outline of the performance, but he could not
      fill it up so as to make a connected whole, or to say where he
      was.

      He then looked at his watch, and finding it was half-past four,
      he concluded it had stopped,—an opinion that was confirmed on
      holding it to his ear; so without more ado, he bounded out of bed
      in a way that nearly sent him through the gaping boards of the
      dry-rotting floor of the little attic in which they had laid him.
      He then made his way to the roof-raised window to see what was
      outside. A fine wet muddy road shone below him, along which a
      straw-cart was rolling; beyond the road was a pasture, then a
      turnip field; after which came a succession of green, brown, and
      drab fields, alternating and undulating away to the horizon,
      varied with here and there a belt or tuft of wood. Jack was no
      wiser than he was, but hearing sounds below, he made for the
      door, and opening the little flimsy barrier stood listening like
      a terrier with its ear at a rat-hole. These were female voices,
      and he thus addressed them—“I say, who’s there? Theodosia, my
      dear,” continued he, speaking down stairs, “vot’s de time o’ day,
      my sweet?”

      The lady thus addressed as Theodosia was Mrs. Windybank, a very
      forbidding tiger-faced looking woman, desperately pitted with the
      small-pox, who was not in the best of humours in consequence of
      the cat having got to the cream-bowl; so all the answer she made
      to Jack’s polite enquiry was, “Most ten.”

      “Most ten!” repeated Jack, “most ten! how the doose can that be?”

      “It is hooiver,” replied she, adding, “you may look if you like.”

      “No, my dear, I’ll take your word for it,” replied Jack; “but
      tell me, Susannah,” continued he, “whose house is this I’m at?”

      “Whose house is’t?” replied the voice; “whose house is’t? why,
      Jonathan Windybank’s—you knar that as well as I do.”

      “De lady’s not pleasant,” muttered Jack to himself; so returning
      into the room, he began to array himself in his yesterday’s
      garments, Mr. Gallon’s boots and leathers, his own coat with
      Finlater’s cap, in which he presently came creaking down stairs
      and confronted the beauty with whom he had had the flying
      colloquy. The interview not being at all to her advantage, and as
      she totally denied all knowledge of Pangburn Park, and “de great
      Baronet vot kept the spotted dogs,” Monsieur set off on foot to
      seek it; and after divers askings, mistakings, and deviations, he
      at length arrived on Rossington hill just as the servants’ hall
      dinner-bell was ringing, the walk being much to the detriment of
      Mr. Gallon’s boots.

      In consequence of Monsieur’s _laches_, as the lawyers would say,
      Mr. Pringle was thrown on the resources of the house the next
      morning; but Sir Moses being determined to carry out his
      intention with regard to the horse, sent the footman to remind
      Billy that he was going to hunt, and to get him his things if
      required. So our friend was obliged to adorn for the chase
      instead of retiring from further exertion in that line as he
      intended; and with the aid of the footman he made a very
      satisfactory toilette,—his smart scarlet, a buff vest, a green
      cravat, correct shirt-collar, with unimpeachable leathers and
      boots.

      Though this was the make-believe day of the week, Sir Moses was
      all hurry and bustle as usual, and greeted our hero as he came
      down stairs with the greatest enthusiasm, promising, of all
      things in the world! to show him a run.

      “Now bring breakfast! bring breakfast!” continued he, as if they
      had got twenty miles to go to cover; and in came urn and eggs,
      and ham, and cakes, and tongue, and toast, and buns, all the
      concomitants of the meal.—At it Sir Moses went as if he had only
      ten minutes to eat it in, inviting his guest to fall-to also.

      Just as they were in the midst of the meal a horse was heard to
      snort outside, and on looking up the great Lord Mayor was seen
      passing up the Park.

      “Ah, there’s your horse!” exclaimed Sir Moses, “there’s your
      horse! been down to the shop to get his shoes looked to,” though
      in reality Sir Moses had told the groom to do just what he was
      doing, viz.—to pass him before the house at breakfast-time
      without his clothing.

      The Lord Mayor was indeed a sort of horse that a youngster might
      well be taken in with, grey, with a beautiful head and neck, and
      an elegantly set-on tail. He stepped out freely and gaily, and
      looked as lively as a lark.

      He was, however, as great an impostor as Napoleon the Great; for,
      independently of being troubled with the Megrims, he was a
      shocking bad hack, and a very few fields shut him up as a hunter.

      “Well now,” said Sir Moses, pausing in his meal, with the
      uplifted knife and fork of admiration, “that, to my mind, is the
      handsomest horse in the country,—I don’t care where the next
      handsomest is.—Just look at his figure, just look at his
      action.—Did you ever see anything so elegant? To my mind he’s as
      near perfection as possible, and what’s more, he’s as good as he
      looks, and all I’ve got to say is, that you are most heartily
      welcome to him.”

      “O, thank’e,” replied Billy, “thank’e, but I couldn’t think of
      accepting him,—I couldn’t think of accepting him indeed.”

      “O, but you shall,” said Sir Moses, resuming his eating, “O but
      you shall, so there’s an end of the matter.—And now have some
      more tea,” whereupon he proceeded to charge Billy’s cup in the
      awkward sort of way men generally do when they meddle with the
      tea-pot.

      Sir Moses, having now devoured his own meal, ran off to his
      study, telling Billy he would call him when it was time to go,
      and our friend proceeded to dandle and saunter, and think what he
      would do with his gift horse. He was certainly a handsome
      one—handsomer than Napoleon, and grey was a smarter colour than
      bay—might not be quite so convenient for riding across country
      on, seeing the color was conspicuous, but for a hot day in the
      Park nothing could be more cool or delightful. And he thought it
      was extremely handsome of Sir Moses giving it to him, more, he
      felt, than nine-tenths of the people in the world would have
      done.

      Our friend’s reverie was presently interrupted by Sir Moses
      darting back, pen and paper in hand, exclaiming, “I’ll tell ye
      what, my dear Pringle! I’ll tell ye what! there shall be no
      obligation, and you shall give me fifty puns for the grey and pay
      for him when you please. But _mark_ me!” added he, holding up his
      forefinger and looking most scrutinisingly at our friend, “_Only
      on one condition, mind! only on one condition, mind!_ that you
      give me the refusal of him if ever you want to part with him;”
      and without waiting for an answer, he placed the paper before our
      friend, and handing him the pen, said, “There, then, sign that I.
      O. U.” And Billy having signed it, Sir Moses snatched it up and
      disappeared, leaving our friend to a renewal of his cogitations.



      365m


      _Original Size_


      Sir Moses having accomplished the grand “do,” next thought he
      would back out of the loan of the dog-cart. For this purpose he
      again came hurrying back, pen in hand, exclaiming, “Oh dear, he
      was so sorry, but it had just occurred to him that he wanted the
      mare to go to Lord Lundyfoote’s; however, I’ll make it all
      square, I’ll make it all square,” continued he; “I’ll tell
      Jenkins, the postman, to send a fly as soon as he gets to Hinton,
      which, I make no doubt, will be here by the time we come in from
      hunting, and it will take you and your traps all snug and
      comfortable; for a dog-cart, after all, is but a chilly concern
      at this time of year, and I shouldn’t like you to catch cold
      going from my house;” and without waiting for an answer, he
      pulled-to the door and hurried back to his den. Billy shook his
      head, for he didn’t like being put off that way, and muttered to
      himself, “I wonder who’ll pay for it though.” However, on
      reflection, he thought perhaps he would be as comfortable in a
      fly as finding his way across country on horseback; and as he had
      now ascertained that Monsieur could ride, whether or not he could
      drive, he settled that he might just as well take the grey to
      Yammerton Grange as not. This then threw him back on his position
      with regard to the horse, which was not so favourable as it at
      first appeared; indeed, he questioned whether he had done wisely
      in signing the paper, his Mamma having always cautioned him to be
      careful how he put his name to anything. Still, he felt he
      couldn’t have got off without offending Sir Moses; and after all,
      it was more like a loan than a sale, seeing that he had not paid
      for him, and Sir Moses would take him back if he liked.
      Altogether he thought he might be worse off, and, considering
      that Lord Tootleton had given three hundred for the horse, he
      certainly must be worth fifty. There is nothing so deceiving as
      price. Only tell a youngster that a horse has cost a large sum,
      and he immediately looks at him, while he would pass him by if he
      stood at a low figure. Having belonged to a lord, too, made him
      so much more acceptable to Billy.

      A loud crack of a whip, accompanied by a “Now, Pringle!”
      presently resounded through the house, and our friend again found
      himself called upon to engage in an act of horsemanship.

      “Coming!” cried he, starting from the little mirror above the
      scanty grey marble mantel-piece, in which he was contemplating
      his moustachios; “Coming!” and away he strode, with the desperate
      energy of a man bent on braving the worst. His cap, whip, gloves,
      and mits, were all laid ready for him on the entrance hall-table;
      and seizing them in a cluster, he proceeded to decorate himself
      as he followed Sir Moses along the intricate passages leading to
      the stable-yard.



      CHAPTER XLIX. THE SHAM DAY.


      SATURDAY is a very different day in the country to what it is in
      London. In London it is the lazy day of the week, whereas it is
      the busy one in the country. It is marked in London by the coming
      of the clean-linen carts, and the hurrying about of Hansoms with
      gentlemen with umbrellas and small carpet-bags, going to the
      steamers and stations for pleasure; whereas in the country
      everybody is off to the parliament of his local capital on
      business. All the markets in Hit-im and Hold-im shire were held
      on a Saturday, and several in Featherbedfordshire; and as
      everybody who has nothing to do is always extremely busy, great
      gatherings were the result. This circumstance made Sir Moses hit
      upon Saturday for his fourth, or make-believe day with the
      hounds, inasmuch as few people would be likely to come, and if
      they did, he knew how to get rid of them. The consequence was,
      that the court-yard at Pangburn Park exhibited a very different
      appearance, on this occasion, to what it would have done had the
      hounds met there on any other day of the week. Two red coats
      only, and those very shabby ones, with very shady horses under
      them—viz., young Mr. Billikins of Red Hill Lodge, and his cousin
      Captain Luff of the navy (the latter out for the first time in
      his life), were all that greeted our sportsmen; the rest of the
      field being attired in shooting-jackets, tweeds, antigropolos and
      other anti-fox-hunting looking things.

      “Good morning, gentlemen! good morning!” cried Sir Moses, waving
      his hand from the steps at the promiscuous throng; and without
      condescending to particularise any one, he hurried across for his
      horse, followed by our friend. Sir Moses was going to ride Old
      Jack, one of the horses he had spoken of for Billy, a venerable
      brown, of whose age no one’s memory about the place supplied any
      information—though when he first came all the then wiseacres
      prophesied a speedy decline. Still Old Jack had gone on from
      season to season, never apparently getting older, and now looking
      as likely to go on as ever. The old fellow having come pottering
      out of the stable and couched to his load, the great Lord Mayor
      came darting forward as if anxious for the fray. “It’s _your_
      saddle, sir,” said Wetun, touching his forehead with his finger,
      as he held on by the stirrup for Billy to mount. Up then went our
      friend into the old seat of suffering. “There!” exclaimed Sir
      Moses, as he got his feet settled in the stirrups; “there, you do
      look well! If Miss ‘um’ sees you,” continued he, with a knowing
      wink, “it’ll be all over with you;” so saying, Sir Moses touched
      Old Jack gently with the spur, and proceeded to the slope of the
      park, where Findlater and the whips now had the hounds.

      Tom Findlater, as we said before, was an excellent huntsman, but
      he had his peculiarities, and in addition to that of getting
      drunk, he sometimes required to be managed by the rule of
      contrary, and made to believe that Sir Moses wanted him to do the
      very reverse of what he really did. Having been refused leave to
      go to Cleaver the butcher’s christening-supper at the sign of the
      Shoulder of Mutton, at Kimberley, Sir Moses anticipated that this
      would be one of his perverse days, and so he began taking
      measures accordingly.

      “Good morning, Tom,” said he, as huntsman and whips now
      sky-scraped to his advance—“morning all of you,” added he, waving
      a general salute to the hound-encircling group.

      “Now, Tom,” said he, pulling up and fumbling at his horn, “I’ve
      been telling Mr. Pringle that we’ll get him a gallop so as to
      enable him to arrive at Yammerton Grange before dark.”

      “Yes, Sir Moses,” replied Tom, with a rap of his cap-peak,
      thinking he would take very good care that he didn’t.

      “Now whether will Briarey Banks or the Reddish Warren be the
      likeliest place for a find?”

      “Neither, Sir Moses, neither,” replied Tom confidently,
      “Tipthorne’s the place for us.”

      This was just what Sir Moses wanted.

      “Tipthorne, you think, do you?” replied he, musingly. “Tipthorne,
      you think—well, and where next?”

      “Shillington, Sir Moses, and Halstead Hill, and so on to
      Hatchington Wood.”

      “Good!” replied the Baronet, “Good!” adding, “then let’s be
      going.”

      At a whistle and a waive of his hand the watchful hounds darted
      up, and Tom taking the lead, the mixed cavalcade swept after them
      over the now yellow-grassed park in a north-easterly direction,
      Captain Luff working his screw as if he were bent on treading on
      the hounds’ stems.

      There being no one out to whom Sir Moses felt there would be any
      profitable investment of attention, he devoted himself to our
      hero, complimenting him on his appearance, and on the gallant
      bearing of his steed, declaring that of all the neat horses he
      had ever set eyes on the Lord Mayor was out-and-out the neatest.
      So with compliments to Billy, and muttered “cusses” at Luff, they
      trotted down Oxclose Lane, through the little village of
      Homerton, past Dewfield Lawn, over Waybridge Common, shirking
      Upwood toll-bar, and down Cornforth Bank to Burford, when
      Tipthorne stood before them. It was a round Billesdon Coplow-like
      hill, covered with stunted oaks, and a nice warm lying gorse
      sloping away to the south; but Mr. Tadpole’s keeper having the
      rabbits, he was seldom out of it, and it was of little use
      looking there for a fox.

      That being the case, of course it was more necessary to make a
      great pretension, so halting noiselessly behind the high
      red-berried hedge, dividing the pasture from the gorse, Tom
      despatched his whips to their points, and then touching his cap
      to Sir Moses, said, “P’raps Mr. Pringle would like to ride in and
      see him find.”

      “Ah, to be sure,” replied Sir Moses, “let’s both go in,”
      whereupon Tom opened the bridle-gate, and away went the hounds
      with a dash that as good as said if we don’t get a fox we’ll get
      a rabbit at all events.

      “A fox for a guinea!” cried Findlater, cheering them, and looking
      at his watch as if he had him up already. “A fox for a guinea!”
      repeated he, thinking how nicely he was selling his master.

      “Keep your eye on this side,” cried Sir Moses to Billy. “he’ll
      cross directly!” Terrible announcement. How our friend did quake.

      “_Yap, yap, yap_,” now went the shrill note of Tartar, the
      tarrier, “_Yough, yough, yough_” followed the deep tone of young
      Venturesome, close in pursuit of a bunny.

      “_Crack!_” went a heavy whip, echoing through the air and
      resounding at the back of the hill.

      All again was still, and Tom advanced up the cover, standing
      erect in his stirrups, looking as if half-inclined to believe it
      was a fox after all.

      “_Eloo in! Eloo in!_” cried he, capping Talisman and Wonderful
      across. “Yoicks wind ‘im! yoicks push him up!” continued he,
      thinking what a wonderful performance it would be if they did
      find.

      “Squeak, yap, yell, squeak,” now went the well-known sound of a
      hound in a trap. It is Labourer, and a whip goes diving into the
      sea of gorse to the rescue.

      “Oh, dom those traps,” cries Sir Moses, as the clamour ceases,
      adding, “no fox here, I told you so,” adding, “should have gone
      to the Warren.”

      He then took out his box-wood horn and stopped the performance by
      a most discordant blast. The hounds came slinking out to the
      summons, some of them licking their lips as if they had not been
      there altogether for nothing.

      “Where to, now, please Sir Moses?” asked Tom, with a touch of his
      cap, as soon as he had got them all out.



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      “_Tally-ho!_” cries Captain Luff, in a most stentorian
      strain—adding immediately, “Oh no! I’m mistaken, _It’s a hare!_”
      as half the hounds break away to his cry.

      “Oh, dom you and your noise,” cries Sir Moses, in well-feigned
      disgust, adding—“Why don’t you put your spectacles on?”

      Luff looks foolish, for he doesn’t know what to say, and the
      excitement dies out in a laugh at the Captain’s expense.

      “Where to, now, please, Sir Moses?” again asks Tom, chuckling at
      his master’s displeasure, and thinking how much better it would
      have been if he had let him go to the supper.

      “Where you please,” growled the Baronet, scowling at Luff’s nasty
      rusty Napoleons—“where you please, you said Shillington, didn’t
      you—anywhere, only let us find a fox,” added he, as if he really
      wanted one.

      Tom then got his horse short by the head, and shouldering his
      whip, trotted off briskly, as if bent on retrieving the day. So
      he went through the little hamlet of Hawkesworth over Dippingham
      water meadows, bringing Blobbington mill-race into the line, much
      to Billy’s discomfiture, and then along the Hinton and London
      turnpike to the sign of the Plough at the blacksmith’s shop at
      Shillington.

      The gorse was within a stone’s throw of the “Public,” so Luff and
      some of the thirsty ones pulled up to wet their whistles and
      light the clay pipes of gentility.

      The gorse was very open, and the hounds ran through it almost
      before the sots had settled what they would have, and there being
      a bye-road at the far end, leading by a slight _détour_ to
      Halstead Hill, Sir Moses hurried them out, thinking to shake off
      some of them by a trot. They therefore slipped away with scarcely
      a crack of the whip, let alone the twang of a horn.

      “Bad work this,” said Sir Moses, spurring and reining up
      alongside of Billy, “bad work this; that huntsman of mine,” added
      he, in an under tone, “is the most obstinate fool under the sun,
      and let me give you a bit of advice,” continued he, laying hold
      of our friend’s arm, as if to enforce it. “If ever you keep
      hounds, always give orders and never ask opinions. Now, Mister
      Findlater!” hallooed he, to the bobbing cap in advance, “Now,
      Mister Findlater! you’re well called Findlater, by Jove, for I
      think you’ll never find at all. Halstead Hill, I suppose, next?”

      “Yes, Sir Moses,” replied Tom, with a half-touch of his cap,
      putting on a little faster, to get away, as he thought, from the
      spray of his master’s wrath. And so with this comfortable game at
      cross purposes, master and servant passed over what is still
      called Lingfield common (though it now grows turnips instead of
      gorse), and leaving Cherry-trees Windmill to the left, sunk the
      hill at Drovers’ Heath, and crossing the bridge at the
      Wellingburn, the undulating form of Halstead Hill stood full
      before them. Tom then pulled up into a walk, and contemplated the
      rugged intricacies of its craggy bush-dotted face.

      “If there’s a fox in the country one would think he’d be here,”
      observed he, in a general sort of way, well knowing that Mr.
      Testyfield’s keeper took better care of them than that. “Gently
      hurrying!” hallooed he, now cracking his whip as the hounds
      pricked their ears, and seemed inclined to break away to an
      outburst of children from the village school below.

      Tom then took the hounds to the east end of the hill, where the
      lying began, and drew them along the face of it with the usual
      result, “_Nil_.” Not even a rabbit.

      “Well, that’s queer,” said he, with well feigned chagrin, as
      Pillager, Petulant, and Ravager appeared on the bare ground to
      the west, leading out the rest of the pack on their lines. They
      were all presently clustering in view again. A slight twang of
      the horn brought them pouring down to the hill to our obstinate
      huntsman just as Captain Luff and Co. hove in sight on the
      Wellingburn Bridge, riding as boldly as refreshed gentlemen
      generally do.

      There was nothing for it then but Hatchington Wood, with its deep
      holding rides and interminable extent.

      There is a Hatchington Wood in every hunt, wild inhospitable
      looking thickets, that seem as if they never knew an owner’s
      care, where men light their cigars and gather in groups, well
      knowing that whatever sport the hounds may have, theirs is over
      for the day. Places in which a man may gallop his horse’s tail
      off, and not hear or see half as much as those do who sit still.

      Into it Tom now cheered his hounds, again thinking how much
      better it would have been if Sir Moses had let him go to the
      supper. “_Cover hoick! Cover hoick!_” cheered he to his hounds,
      as they came to the rickety old gate. “I wouldn’t ha’ got drunk,”
      added he to himself. “_Yoi, wind him! Yoi, rouse him, my boys!_
      what ‘arm could it do him, my going, I wonders?” continued he to
      himself. “Yoi, try for him, Desp’rate, good lass! Desp’rate bad
      job my not gettin’, I know,” added he, rubbing his nose on the
      back of his hand; and so with cheers to his hounds and
      commentaries on Sir Moses’s mean conduct, the huntsman proceeded
      from ride to road and from road to ride, varied with occasional
      dives into the fern and the rough, to exhort and encourage his
      hounds to rout out a fox; not that he cared much now whether he
      found one or not, for the cover had long existed on the
      reputation of a run that took place twelve years before, and it
      was not likely that a place so circumstanced would depart from
      its usual course on that day.

      There is nothing certain, however, about a fox-hunt, but
      uncertainty; the worst-favoured days sometimes proving the best,
      and the best-favoured ones sometimes proving the worst. We dare
      say, if our sporting readers would ransack their memories, they
      will find that most of their best days have been on unpromising
      ones. So it was on the present occasion, only no one saw the run
      but Tom and the first whip. Coming suddenly upon a fine
      travelling fox, at the far corner of the cover, they slipped away
      with him down wind, and had a bona fide five and thirty minutes,
      with a kill, in Lord Ladythorne’s country, within two fields of
      his famous gorse cover, at Cockmere.

      “Ord! rot ye, but ye should ha’ seen that, if you’d let me go to
      the supper,” cried Tom, as he threw himself off his lathered
      tail-quivering horse to pick up his fox, adding, “I knows when to
      blow the horn and when not.”

      Meanwhile Sir Moses, having got into a wrangle with Jacky
      Phillips about the price of a pig, sate on his accustomed place
      on the rising ground by the old tumble-down farm-buildings,
      wrangling, and haggling, and declaring it was a “do.” In the
      midst of his vehemence, Robin Snowball’s camp of roystering,
      tinkering besom-makers came hattering past; and Robin, having a
      contract with Sir Moses for dog horses, gave his ass a forwarding
      bang, and ran up to inform his patron that “the hunds had gone
      away through Piercefield plantins iver see lang since:”—a fact
      that Robin was well aware of, having been stealing besom-shanks
      in them at the time.

      “Oh, the devil!” shrieked Sir Moses, as if he was shot. “Oh, the
      devil!” continued he, wringing his hands, thinking how Tom would
      be bucketing Crusader now that he was out of sight; and catching
      up his horse, he stuck spurs in his sides, and went clattering up
      the stony cross-road to the west, as hard as ever the old Jack
      could lay legs to the ground, thinking what a wigging he would
      give Tom if he caught him.

      “Hark!” continued he, pulling short up across the road, and
      nearly shooting Billy into his pocket with the jerk of his
      suddenly stopped horse, “Hark!” repeated he, holding up his hand,
      “Isn’t that the horn?”

      “Oh, dom it! it’s Parker, the postman,” added he,—“what business
      has the beggar to make such a row!” for, like all noisy people,
      Sir Moses had no idea of anybody making a noise but himself. He
      then set his horse agoing again, and was presently standing in
      his stirrups, tearing up the wretched, starvation, weed-grown
      ground outside the cover.

      Having gained a sufficient elevation, he again pulled up, and
      turning short round, began surveying the country. All was quiet
      and tranquil. The cattle had their heads to the ground, the sheep
      were scattered freely over the fields, and the teams were going
      lazily over the clover-lays, leaving shiny furrows behind them.

      “Well, that’s a sell, at all events!” said he, dropping his
      reins. “Be b’und to say they are right into the heart of
      Featherbedfordshire by this time,—most likely at Upton Moss in
      Woodberry Yale,—as fine a country as ever man crossed,—and to
      think that that wretched deluded man has it all to himself!—I’d
      draw and quarter him if I had him, dom’d if I wouldn’t,” added
      Sir Moses, cutting frantically at the air with his thong-gathered
      whip.

      Our friend Billy, on the other hand, was all ease and composure.
      He had escaped the greatest punishment that could befall him, and
      was so clean and comfortable, that he resolved to surprise his
      fair friends at Yammerton Grange in his pink, instead of changing
      as he intended.

      Sir Moses, having strained his eye-balls about the country in
      vain, at length dropped down in his saddle, and addressing the
      few darkly-clad horsemen around him with, “Well, gentlemen, I’m
      afraid it’s all over for the day,” adding, “Come, Pringle, let us
      be going,” he poked his way past them, and was presently
      retracing his steps through the wood, picking up a lost hound or
      two as he went. And still he was so loth to give it up, that he
      took Forester Hill in his way, to try if he could see anything of
      them; but it was all calm and blank as before; and at length he
      reached Pangburn Park in a very discontented mood.

      In the court-yard stood the green fly that had to convey our
      friend back to fairy-land, away from the red coats, silk jackets
      and other the persecutions of pleasure, to the peaceful repose of
      the Major and his “haryers.” Sir Moses looked at it with
      satisfaction, for he had had as much of our friend’s society as
      he required, and did not know that he could “do” him much more if
      he had him a month; so if he could now only get clear of Monsieur
      without paying him, that was all he required.

      Jack, however, was on the alert, and appeared on the back-steps
      as Sir Moses dismounted; nor did his rapid dive into the stable
      avail him, for Jack headed him as he emerged at the other end,
      with a hoist of his hat, and a “Bon jour, Sare Moses, Baronet!”

      “Ah, Monsieur, comment vous portez-vous?” replied the Baronet,
      shying off, with a keep-your-distance sort of waive of the hand.

      Jack, however, was not to be put off that way, and following
      briskly up, he refreshed Sir Moses’s memory with, “Pund, I beat
      Cuddy, old cock, to de clomp; ten franc—ten shillin’—I get over
      de brook; thirty shillin’ in all, Sare Moses, Baronet,” holding
      out his hand for the money.

      “Oh, ah, true,” replied Sir Moses, pretending to recollect the
      bets, adding, “If you can give me change of a fifty-pun note, I
      can pay ye,” producing a nice clean one from his pocket-book that
      he always kept ready for cases of emergency like the present.

      “Fifty-pun note, Sare Moses!” replied Jack, eyeing it. “Fifty-pun
      note! I ‘ave not got such an astonishin’ som about me at
      present,” feeling his pockets as he spoke; “bot I vill seek
      change, if you please.”

      “Why, no,” replied Sir Moses, thinking he had better not part
      with the decoy-duck. “I’ll tell you what I’ll do, though,”
      continued he, restoring it to its case; “I’ll send you a
      post-office order for the amount, or pay it to your friend, Mr.
      Gallon, whichever you prefer.”

      “Vell, Sir Moses, Baronet,” replied Jack, considering, “I think
      de leetle post-office order vill be de most digestible vay of
      squarin’ matters.”

      “Va-a-ry good,” cried Sir Moses, “Va-a-ry good. I’ll send you
      one, then,” and darting at a door in the wall, he slipped through
      it, and shot the bolt between Jack and himself.

      And our hero, having recruited nature with lunch, and arranged
      with Jack for riding his horse, presently took leave of his most
      hospitable host, and entered the fly that was to convey him back
      to Yammerton Grange. And having cast himself into its ill-stuffed
      hold he rumbled and jolted across country in the careless,
      independent sort of way that a man does who has only a temporary
      interest in the vehicle, easy whether he was upset or not. Let us
      now anticipate his arrival by transferring our imaginations to
      Yammerton Grange.



      CHAPTER L. THE SURPRISE.


      IT is all very well for people to affect the magnificent, to give
      general invitations, and say “Come whenever it suits you; we
      shall always be happy to see you,” and so on; but somehow it is
      seldom safe to take them at their word. How many houses has the
      reader to which he can ride or drive up with the certainty of not
      putting people “out,” as the saying is. If there is a running
      account of company going on, it is all very well; another man
      more or less is neither here nor there; but if it should happen
      to be one of those solemn lulls that intervene between one set of
      guests going and another coming, denoted by the wide-apart
      napkins seen by a side glance as he passes the dining-room
      window, then it is not a safe speculation. At all events, a
      little notice is better, save, perhaps, among fox-hunters, who
      care less for appearances than other people.

      It was Saturday, as we said before, and our friend the Major had
      finished his week’s work:—paid his labourers, handled the heifers
      that had left him so in the lurch, counted the sheep, given out
      the corn, ordered the carriage for church in case it kept dry,
      and as day closed had come into the house, and exchanged his
      thick shoes for old worsted worked slippers, and cast himself
      into a semicircular chair in the druggeted drawing-room to wile
      away one of those long winter evenings that seem so impossible in
      the enduring length of a summer day, with that best of all
      papers, the “Hit-im and Hold-im shire Herald.” The local paper is
      the paper for the country gentleman, just as the “Times” is the
      paper for the Londoner. The “Times” may span the globe, tell what
      is doing at Delhi and New York, France, Utah, Prussia, Spain,
      Ireland, and the Mauritius; but the paper that tells the squire
      of the flocks and herds, the hills and dales, the births and
      disasters of his native district, is the paper for his money. So
      it was with our friend the Major. He enjoyed tearing the
      half-printed halfwritten envelope off his “Herald,” and holding
      its damp sides to the cheerful fire until he got it as crisp as a
      Bank of England note, and then, sousing down in his easy chair to
      enjoy its contents, conscious that no one had anticipated them.
      How he revelled in the advertisements, and accompanied each
      announcement with a mental commentary of his own.

      We like to see country gentlemen enjoying their local papers.

      Ashover farm to let, conjured up recollections of young Mr.

      Gosling spurting past in white cords, and his own confident
      prediction that the thing wouldn’t last.

      Burlinson the auctioneer’s assignment for the benefit of his
      creditors, reminded him of his dogs, and his gun, and his manor,
      and his airified looks, and drew forth anathemas on Burlinson in
      particular, and on pretenders in general.

      Then Mr. Napier’s announcement that Mr. Draggleton of Rushworth
      had applied for a loan of four thousand pounds from the Lands
      Improvement Company for draining, sounded almost like a triumph
      of the Major’s own principles, Draggleton having long derided the
      idea of water getting into a two-inch pipe at a depth of four
      feet, or of draining doing any good.

      And the Major chuckled with delight at the thought of seeing the
      long pent-up water flow in pure continuous streams off the
      saturated soil, and of the clear, wholesome complexion the land
      would presently assume. Then the editorial leader on the state of
      the declining corn markets, and of field operations (cribbed of
      course from the London papers) drew forth an inward opinion that
      the best thing for the land-owners would be for corn to keep low
      and cattle to keep high for the next dozen years or more, and so
      get the farmers’ minds turned from the precarious culture of corn
      to the land-improving practice of grazing and cattle-feeding.

      And thus the Major sat, deeply immersed in the contents of each
      page; but as he gradually mastered the cream of their contents,
      he began to turn to and fro more rapidly; and as the rustling
      increased, Mrs. Yammerton, who was dying for a sight of the
      paper, at length ventured to ask if there was anything about the
      Hunt ball in it.

      “Hunt ball!” growled the Major, who was then in the hay and straw
      market, wondering whether, out of the twenty-seven carts of hay
      reported to have been at Hinton Market on the previous Saturday,
      there were any of his tenants there on the sly; “Hunt ball!”
      repeated he, running the candle up and down the page; “No,
      there’s nothin’ about it here,” replied he, resuming his reading.

      “It’ll be on the front page, my dear,” observed Mrs. Yammerton,
      “if there is anything.”

      “Well, I’ll give it you presently,” replied the Major, resuming
      his reading; and so he wens on into the wool markets, thence to
      the potato and hide departments, until at length he found himself
      floundering among the Holloway Pills, Revalenta Food, and
      “Sincere act of gratitude,” &c., advertisements; when, turning
      the paper over with a wisk, and an inward “What do they put such
      stuff as that in for?” he handed it to his wife: while, John Bull
      like, he now stood up, airing himself comfortably before the
      fire.

      No sooner was the paper fairly in Mamma’s hands, than there was a
      general rush of the young ladies to the spot, and four pairs of
      eyes were eagerly glancing up and down the columns of the front
      page, all in search of the magical letter “B” for Ball.
      Education—Fall in Night Lights—Increased Rate of Interest—Money
      without Sureties—Iron and Brass Bedsteads—Glenfield
      Starch—Deafness Cured—German Yeast—Insolvent Debtor—Elkington’s
      Spoons—Boots and Shoes,—but, alas! no Ball.

      “Yes, there it is! No it isn’t,” now cried Miss Laura, as her
      blue eye caught at the heading of Mrs. Bobbinette the milliner’s
      advertisement, in the low corner of the page, Mrs. Bobbinette,
      like some of her customers, perhaps, not being a capital payer,
      and so getting a bad place. Thus it ran—

      HIT-IM AND HOLD-IM SHIRE HUNT BALL.


      —Mrs. Bobbinette begs to announce to the ladies her return from
      Paris, with every novelty in millinery, mantles, embroideries,
      wreaths, fans, gloves, &c.

      “Mrs. Bobbinette be hanged,” growled the Major, who winced under
      the very name of milliner; “just as much goes to Paris as I do.
      Last time she was there I know she was never out of Hinton, for
      Paul Straddler watched her.”

      “Well, but she gets very pretty things at all events,” replied
      Mrs. Yammerton, thinking she would pay her a visit.

      “Aye, and a pretty bill she’ll send in for them,” replied the
      Major.

      “Well, my dear, but you must pay for fashion, you know,” rejoined
      Mamma.

      “Pay for fashion! pay for haystacks!” growled the Major; “never
      saw such balloons as the women make of themselves. S’pose we
      shall have them as flat as doors next. One extreme always leads
      to another.”

      This discussion was here suddenly interrupted by a hurried
      “hush!” from Miss Clara, followed by a “hish!” from Miss Flora;
      and silence being immediately accorded, all ears recognised a
      rumbling sound outside the house that might have been mistaken
      for wind, had it not suddenly ceased before the door.

      The whole party was paralysed: each drawing breath, reflecting on
      his or her peculiar position:—Mamma thinking of her
      drawing-room—Miss, of her hair—Flora, of her sleeves—Harriet, of
      her shabby shoes—the Major, of his dinner.

      The agony of suspense was speedily relieved by the grating of an
      iron step and a violent pull at the door-bell, producing
      ejaculations of, “It _is_, however!”

      “Him, to a certainty!” with, “I told you so,—nothing but liver
      and bacon for dinner,” from the Major; while Mrs. Yammerton, more
      composed, swept three pair of his grey worsted stockings into the
      well of the ottoman, and covered the old hearth-rug with a fine
      new one from the corner, with a noble antlered stag in the
      centre. The young ladies hurried out of the room, each to make a
      quick revise of her costume.

      The shock to the nervous sensibilities of the household was
      scarcely less severe than that experienced by the inmates of the
      parlour; and the driver of the fly was just going to give the
      bell a second pull, when our friend of the brown coat came,
      settling himself into his garment, wondering who could be coming
      at that most extraordinary hour.

      “Major at home?” asked our hero, swinging himself out of the
      vehicle into the passage, and without waiting for an answer, he
      began divesting himself of his muffin-cap, cashmere shawl, and
      other wraps.

      He was then ready for presentation. Open went the door. “Mr.
      Pringle!” announced the still-astonished footman, and host and
      hostess advanced in the friendly emulation of cordiality. They
      were overjoyed to see him,—as pleased as if they had received a
      consignment of turtle and there was a haunch of venison roasting
      before the fire. The young ladies presently came dropping in one
      by one, each “_so_ astonished to find Mr. Pringle there!” Clara
      thinking the ring was from Mr. Jinglington, the pianoforte-tuner;
      Flora, that it was Mr. Tightlace’s curate; while Harriet did not
      venture upon a white lie at all.

      Salutations and expressions of surprise being at length over, the
      ladies presently turned the weather-conversation upon Pangburn
      Park, and inquired after the sport with Sir Moses, Billy being in
      the full glory of his pink and slightly soiled leathers and
      boots, from which they soon diverged to the Hunt ball, about
      which they could not have applied to any better authority than
      our friend. He knew all about it, and poured forth the volume of
      his information most freely.

      Though the Major talked about there being nothing but liver and
      bacon for dinner, he knew very well that the very fact of there
      being liver and bacon bespoke that there was plenty of something
      else in the larder. In fact he had killed a south-down,—not one
      of your modern muttony-lambs, but an honest, home-fed,
      four-year-old, with its fine dark meat and rich gravy; in
      addition to which, there had been some minor murders of ugly
      Cochin-China fowls,—to say nothing of a hunted hare, hanging by
      the heels, and several snipes and partridges, suspended by the
      neck.

      It is true, there was no fish, for, despite the railroad, Hit-im
      and Hold-im shire generally was still badly supplied with fish,
      but there was the useful substitute of cod-sounds, and some
      excellent mutton-broth; which latter is often better than half
      the soups one gets. Altogether there was no cause for
      despondency; but the Major, having been outvoted on the question
      of requiring notice of our friend’s return, of course now felt
      bound to make the worst of the case—especially as the necessary
      arrangements would considerably retard his dinner, for which he
      was quite ready. He had, therefore, to smile at his guest, and
      snarl at his family, at one and the same time.—Delighted to see
      Mr. Pringle back.—Disgusted at his coming on a Saturday.—Hoped
      our hero was hungry.—Could answer for it, he was himself,—with a
      look at Madam, as much as to say, “Come, you go and see about
      things and don’t stand simpering there.”

      But Billy, who had eaten a pretty hearty lunch at Pangburn Park,
      had not got jolted back into an appetite by his transit through
      the country, and did not enter into the feelings of his
      half-famished host. A man who has had half his dinner in the
      shape of a lunch, is far more than a match for one who has fasted
      since breakfast, and our friend chatted first with one young
      lady, and then with another, with an occasional word at Mamma,
      delighted to get vent for his long pent-up flummery. He was
      indeed most agreeable.

      Meanwhile the Major was in and out of the room, growling and
      getting into everybody’s way, retarding progress by his anxiety
      to hurry things on.

      At length it was announced that Mr. Pringle’s room was ready; and
      forthwith the Major lit him a candle, and hurried him upstairs,
      where his uncorded boxes stood ready for the opening keys of
      ownership.

      “Ah, there you are!” cried the Major, flourishing the composite
      candle about them; “there you are! needn’t mind much
      dressing—only ourselves—only ourselves. There’s the
      boot-jack,—here’s some hot water,—and we’ll have dinner as soon
      as ever you are ready.” So saying, he placed the candle on the
      much be-muslined toilette-table, and, diving into his pocket for
      the key of the cellar, hurried off to make the final arrangement
      of a feast.

      Our friend, however, who was always a dawdling leisurely
      gentleman, took very little heed of his host’s injunctions, and
      proceeded to unlock and open his boxes as if he was going to
      dress for a ball instead of a dinner; and the whole party being
      reassembled, many were the Major’s speculations and enquiries
      “what could he be about?” “must have gone to bed,” “would go up
      and see,” ere the glad sound of his opening door announced that
      he might be expected. And before he descended a single step of
      the staircase the Major gave the bell such a pull as proclaimed
      most volubly the intensity of his feelings. The ladies of course
      were shocked, but a hungry man is bad to hold, and there is no
      saying but the long-pealing tongue of the bell saved an explosion
      of the Major’s. At all events when our friend came sauntering
      into the now illuminated drawing-room, the Major greeted him
      with, “Heard you coming, rang the bell, knew you’d be hungry,
      long drive from Sir Moses’s here;” to which Billy drawled a
      characteristic “Yarse,” as he extinguished his candle and
      proceeded to ingratiate himself with the now elegantly attired
      ladies, looking more lovely from his recent restriction to the
      male sex.

      The furious peal of the bell had answered its purpose, for he had
      scarcely got the beauties looked over, and settled in his own
      mind that it was difficult to say which was the prettiest, ere
      the door opened, the long-postponed dinner was announced to be on
      the table, and the Major, having blown out the composites, gladly
      followed the ladies to the scene of action.

      And his host being too hungry to waste his time in apologies for
      the absence of this and that, and the footboy having plenty to do
      without giving the dishes superfluous airings, and the gooseberry
      champagne being both lively and cool, the dinner passed off as
      pleasantly as a luncheon, which is generally allowed to be the
      most agreeable sociable meal of the day, simply because of the
      absence of all fuss and pretension. And by the time the Major had
      got to the cheese, he found his temper considerably improved.
      Indeed, so rapidly did his spirits rise, that before the cloth
      was withdrawn he had well-nigh silenced all the ladies, with his
      marvellous haryers,—five and thirty years master of haryers
      without a subscription,—and as soon as he got the room cleared,
      he inflicted the whole hunt upon Billy that he had written to him
      about, an account of which he had in vain tried to get inserted
      in the Featherbedfordshire Gazette, through the medium of old
      ‘Wotherspoon, who had copied it out and signed himself “A
      Delighted Stranger.” Dorsay Davis, however, knew his cramped
      handwriting, and put his manuscript into the fire, observing in
      his notice to correspondents that “A Delighted Stranger” had
      better send his currant jelly contributions to grandmamma,
      meaning the Hit-im and Hold-im shire Herald. So our friend was
      victimised into a _viva voce_ account of this marvellous chase,
      beginning at Conksbury corner and the flight up to Foremark Hill
      and down over the water meadows to Dove-dale Green, &c.,
      interspersed with digressions and explanations of the wonderful
      performance of the particular members of the pack, until he
      scarcely knew whether a real run or the recital of one was the
      most formidable. At length the Major, having talked himself into
      a state of excitement, without making any apparent impression on
      his guest’s obdurate understanding, proposed as a toast “The
      Merry Haryers,” and intimated that tea was ready in the drawing
      room, thinking he never had so phlegmatic an auditor before. Very
      different, however, was his conduct amid the general conversation
      of the ladies, who thought him just as agreeable as the Major
      thought him the contrary. And they were all quite surprised when
      the clock struck eleven, and declared they thought it could only
      be ten, except the Major, who knew the odd hour had been lost in
      preparing the dinner. So he moved an adjournment, and proclaimed
      that they would breakfast at nine, which would enable them to get
      to church in good time. Whereupon mutual good-nights were
      exchanged, our friend was furnished with a flat candlestick, and
      the elder sisters retired to talk him over in their own room; for
      however long ladies may be together during the day, there is
      always a great balance of conversation to dispose of at last, and
      so the two chatted and talked until midnight.

      Next morning they all appeared in looped-up dresses, showing the
      party-coloured petticoats of the prevailing fashion, which looked
      extremely pretty, and were all very well—a great improvement on
      the draggletails—until they came to get into the coach, when it
      was found, that large as the vehicle was, it was utterly
      inadequate for their accommodation. Indeed the door seemed
      ludicrously insufficient for the ingress, and Miss Clara turned
      round and round like a peacock contending with the wind,
      undecided which way to make the attempt. At last she chose a bold
      sideways dash, and entered with a squeeze of the petticoat, which
      suddenly expanded into its original size, but when the sisters
      had followed her example there was no room for the Major, nor
      would there have been any for our hero had not Mamma been
      satisfied with her own natural size, and so left space to squeeze
      him in between herself and the fair Clara. The Major then had to
      mount the coach box beside old Solomon, and went growling and
      grumbling along at the extravagances of fashion, and wondering
      what the deuce those petticoats would cost, he was presently
      comforted by seeing two similar ones circling over the road in
      advance, which on overtaking proved to contain the elegant Miss
      Bushels, daughters of his hind at Bonnyrigs farm, whereupon he
      made a mental resolution to reduce Bushel’s wages a shilling a
      week at least.

      This speedy influx of fashion and abundance of cheap tawdry
      finery has well nigh destroyed the primitive simplicity of
      country churches. The housemaid now dresses better—finer at all
      events—than her mistress did twenty years ago, and it is almost
      impossible to recognise working people when in their Sunday
      dresses. Gauze bonnets, Marabout feathers, lace scarfs, and silk
      gowns usurp the place of straw and cotton print, while
      lace-fringed kerchiefs are flourished by those whose parents
      scarcely knew what a pocket-handkerchief was. There is a medium
      in all things, but this mania for dress has got far beyond the
      bounds of either prudence or propriety; and we think the Major’s
      recipe for reducing it is by no means a bad one.



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      We need scarcely say, that our hero’s appearance at church caused
      no small sensation in a neighbourhood where the demand for gossip
      was far in excess of the supply. Indeed, we fear many fair
      ladies’ eyes were oftener directed to Major Yammerton’s pew than
      to the Reverend Mr. Tightlace in the pulpit. Wonderful were the
      stories and exaggerations that ensued, people always being on the
      running-up tack until a match is settled, after which, of course,
      they assume the running-down one, pitying one or other victim
      extremely—wouldn’t be him or her for anything—Mr. Tightlace
      thought any of the young ladies might do better than marry a mere
      fox-hunter, though we are sorry to add that the fox-hunter was
      far more talked of than the sermon. The general opinion seemed to
      be that our hero had been away preparing that dread document, the
      proposals for a settlement; and there seemed to be very little
      doubt that there would be an announcement of some sort in a day
      or two—especially when our friend was seen to get into the
      carriage after the gay petticoats, and the little Major to
      remount the box seat.

      And when at the accustomed stable stroll our master of haryers
      found the gallant grey standing in the place of the bay, he was
      much astonished, and not a little shocked to learn the sad
      catastrophe that had befallen the bay.

      “Well, he never heard anything like that!—_dead_! What, do you
      mean to say he absolutely died on your hands without any apparent
      cause?” demanded the Major; “must have been poisoned surely;” and
      he ran about telling everybody, and making as much to do as if
      the horse had still been his own. He then applied himself to
      finding out how Billy came by the grey, and was greatly surprised
      to learn that Sir Moses had given it him. “Well, that was queer,”
      thought he, “wouldn’t have accused him of that.” And he thought
      of the gift of Little Bo-peep, and wondered whether this gift was
      of the same order.



      CHAPTER LI. MONEY AND MATRIMONY.


      MONEY and matrimony! what a fine taking title! If that does not
      attract readers, we don’t know what will. Money and matrimony!
      how different, yet how essentially combined, how intimately
      blended! “No money, no matrimony,” might almost be written above
      some doors. Certainly money is an essential, but not so absorbing
      an essential as some people make it. Beyond the expenditure
      necessary for a certain establishment, a woman is seldom much the
      better for her husband’s inordinate wealth. We have seen the wife
      of a reputed millionaire no better done by than that of a country
      squire.

      Mr. Prospero Plutus may gild his coach and his harness, and his
      horses too, if he likes, but all the lacker in the world will not
      advance him a step in society; therefore, what can he do with his
      surplus cash but carry it to the “reserve fund,” as some
      Joint-Stock Bankers pretend to do. Still there is a money-worship
      among us, that is not even confined to the opposite sex, but
      breaks out in veneration among men, just as if one man having
      half a million or a million pieces of gold could be of any
      advantage to another man, who only knows the rich man to say “How
      d’ye do?” to. A clever foreigner, who came to this country some
      years ago for the honestly avowed purpose of marrying an heiress,
      used to exclaim, when any one told him that another man had so
      many thousands a year, “Vell, my good friend, vot for that to me?
      I cannot go for be marry to him!” and we never hear a man
      recommended to another man for his wealth alone, without thinking
      of our foreign friend. What earthly good can Plutus’s money do
      us? We can safely say, we never knew a rich man who was not
      uncommonly well able to take care of his cash. It is your poor
      men who are easy about money. To tell a young lady that a young
      gentleman has so many thousands a year is very different; and
      this observation leads us to say, that people who think they do a
      young man a kindness by exaggerating his means or expectations,
      are greatly mistaken. On the contrary, they do him an injury;
      for, sooner or later, the lawyers know everything, and
      disappointment and vexation is the result.

      Since our friend Warren wrote his admirable novel, “Ten Thousand
      a Year,” that sum has become the fashionable income for
      exaggerators. Nobody that has anything a year has less, though we
      all know how difficult a sum it is to realise, and how impossible
      it is to extract a five-pound note, or even a sovereign, from the
      pockets of people who talk of it as a mere bagatelle. This money
      mania has increased amazingly within the last few years, aided,
      no doubt, by the gigantic sums the Joint-Stock Banks have enabled
      penniless people to “go” for.

      When Wainwright, the first of the assurance office defrauders by
      poison, was in prison, he said to a person who called upon him,
      “You see with what respect they treat me. They don’t set me to
      make my bed, or sweep the yard, like those fellows,” pointing to
      his brother prisoners; “no, they treat me like a gentleman. They
      think I’m in for ten thousand pounds.” Ten thousand pounds! What
      would ten thousand pounds be nowadays, when men speculate to the
      extent of a quarter or may be half a million of money? Why
      Wainwright would have had to clean out the whole prison on the
      present scale of money delinquency. A hundred thousand pounder is
      quite a common fellow, hardly worth speaking of. There was a time
      when the greediest man was contented with his plum. Now the cry
      is “More! more!” until some fine morning the crier is “no more”
      himself.

      This money-craving and boasting is all bad. It deceives young
      men, and drives those of moderate income into the London clubs,
      instead of their marrying and settling quietly as their fathers
      did before them. They hear of nothing but thousands and tens of
      thousands until they almost believe in the reality, and are
      ashamed to encounter the confessional stool of the lawyers,
      albeit they may have as much as with prudence and management
      would make married life comfortable. Boasting and exaggeration
      also greatly misleads and disappoints anxious “Mammas,” all ready
      to believe whatever they like, causing very likely promising
      speculations to be abandoned in favour of what turn out great
      deal worse ventures. Only let a young man be disengaged,
      professionally and bodily, and some one or other will be sure to
      invest him with a fortune, or with surprising expectations from
      an uncle, an aunt, or other near relation. It is surprising how
      fond people are of fanning the flame of a match, and how they
      will talk about what they really know nothing, until an
      unfortunate youth almost appears to participate in their
      exaggerations. Could some of these Leviathans of fortune know the
      fabulous £ s. d. colours under which they have sailed, they would
      be wonderfully astonished at the extent of their innocent
      imposture. Yet they were not to blame because people said they
      had ten thousand a year, were richest commoners in fact. Many
      would then understand much unexplained politeness, and appreciate
      its disinterestedness at its true value. Captain Quaver would see
      why Mrs. Sunnybrow was to anxious that he should hear Matilda
      sing; Mr. Grist why Mrs. Snubwell manoeuvred to get him next
      Bridget at dinner; and perhaps our “Richest Commoner” why Mrs.
      Yammerton was so glad to see him back at the Grange.



      CHAPTER LII. A NIGHT DRIVE.


      PEOPLE who travel in the winter should remember it isn’t summer,
      and time themselves accordingly. Sir Moses was so anxious to see
      Monsieur Rougier off the premises, in order to stop any extra
      hospitality, that he delayed starting for Lundyfoote Castle until
      he saw him fairly mounted on the gift grey and out of the
      stable-yard; he then had the mare put to the dog-cart, and tried
      to make up for lost time by extra speed upon the road. But winter
      is an unfavourable season for expedition; if highways are
      improving, turnpikes are getting neglected, save in the matter of
      drawing the officers’ sinecure salaries, and, generally speaking,
      the nearer a turnpike is to a railway, the worse the turnpike is,
      as if to show the wonderful advantage of the former. So Sir Moses
      went flipping and flopping, and jipping and jerking, through
      Bedland and Hawksworth and Washingley-field, but scarcely reached
      the confines of his country when he ought to have been nearing
      the Castle. It was nearly four o’clock by the great gilt-lettered
      clock on the diminutive church in the pretty village of Tidswell,
      situated on the banks of the sparkling Lune, when he pulled up at
      the sign of the Hold-away Harriers to get his mare watered and
      fed. It is at these sort of places that the traveller gets the
      full benefit of country slowness and stupidity. Instead of the
      quick ostler, stepping smartly up to his horse’s head as he reins
      up, there is generally a hunt through the village for old Tom, or
      young Joe, or some worthy who is either too old or too idle to
      work. In this case it was old bow-legged, wiry Tom Brown, whose
      long experience of the road did not enable him to anticipate a
      person’s wants; so after a good stare at the driver, whom at
      first he thought was Mr. Meggison, the exciseman; then Mr.
      Puncheon, the brewer; and lastly, Mr. Mossman, Lord Polkaton’s
      ruler; he asked, with a bewildered scratch of his head, “What, de
      ye want her put oop?”

      “Oop, yes,” replied Sir Moses; “what d’ye think I’m stopping for?
      Look alive; that’s a good fellow,” added he, throwing him the
      reins, as he prepared to descend from the vehicle.

      “Oh, it’s you, Sir Moses, is it,” rejoined the now enlightened
      patriarch, “I didn’t know you without your red coat and cap;” so
      saying, he began to fumble at the harness, and, with the aid of
      the Baronet, presently had the mare out of the shafts. It then
      occurred to the old gentleman that he had forgotten the key of
      the stable. “A sink,” said he, with a dash of his disengaged
      hand, “I’ve left the key i’ the pocket o’ mar coat, down i’ Willy
      Wood’s shop, when ar was helpin’ to kill a pig—run, lad, doon to
      Willy Wood,” said he to a staring by-standing boy, “and get me
      mar coat,” adding to Sir Moses, as the lad slunk unwillingly
      away, “he’ll be back directly wi’ it.” So saying, he proceeded to
      lead the mare round to the stable at the back of the house.

      When the coat came, then there was no pail; and when they got a
      pail, then the pump had gone dry; and when they got some water
      from the well, then the corn had to be brought from the top of
      the house; so, what with one delay and another, day was about
      done before Sir Moses got the mare out of the stable again. Night
      comes rapidly on in the short winter months, and as Sir Moses
      looked at the old-fashioned road leading over the steepest part
      of the opposite hill, he wished he was well on the far side of
      it. He then examined his lamps, and found there were no candles
      in them, just as he remembered that he had never been to
      Lundyfoote Castle on wheels, the few expeditions he had made
      there having been performed on horseback, by those nicks and cuts
      that fox-hunters are so famous at making and finding. “Ord dom
      it,” said he to himself, “I shall be getting benighted. Tell me,”
      continued he, addressing the old ostler, “do I go by Marshfield
      and Hengrove, or——”

      “No, no, you’ve no business at noughter Marshfield nor Hengrove,”
      interrupted the sage; “veer way is straight oop to Crowfield-hall
      and Roundhill-green, then to Brackley Moor and Belton, and so on
      into the Sandywell-road at Langley. But if ar were you,”
      continued he, beginning to make confusion worse confounded, “ar
      would just gan through Squire Patterson’s Park here,” jerking his
      thumb to the left to indicate the direction in which it lay.

      “Is it shorter?” demanded Sir Moses, re-ascending the vehicle.

      “W-h-o-y no, it’s not shorter,” replied the man, “but it’s a
      better road rayther—less agin collar-like. When ye get to the new
      lodge ye mun mind turn to the right, and keep Whitecliffe Law to
      the left, and Lidney Mill to the right, you then pass Shimlow
      tilery, and make straight for Roundhill Green, and Brackley Moor,
      and then on to Belton, as ar toll’d ye afoor—ye can’t miss yeer
      way,” added he, thinking he could go it in the dark himself.

      “Can’t I?” replied Sir Moses, drawing the reins. He then chucked
      the man a shilling, and touching the mare with the point of the
      whip, trotted across the bridge over the Lane, and was speedily
      brought up at a toll-bar on the far side.

      It seems to be one of the ordinances of country life, that the
      more toll a man pays the worse road he gets, and Sir Moses had
      scarcely parted with his sixpence ere the sound running turnpike
      which tempted him past Squire Patterson’s lodge, ran out into a
      loose, river-stoned track, that grew worse and worse the higher
      he ascended the hill. In vain he hissed, and jerked, and jagged
      at the mare. The wheels revolved as if they were going through
      sea-sand. She couldn’t go any faster.

      It is labour and sorrow travelling on wheels, with a light horse
      and a heavy load, on woolly winter roads, especially under the
      depressing influence of declining day—when a gorgeous sunset has
      no charms. It is then that the value of the hissing,
      hill-rounding, plain-scudding railway is appreciated. The worst
      line that ever was constructed, even one with goods, passengers,
      and minerals all mixed in one train, is fifty times better than
      one of these ploughing, sobbing, heart-breaking drives. So
      thought Sir Moses, as, whip in hand, he alighted from the vehicle
      to ease the mare up the steep hill, which now ran parallel with
      Mr. Patterson’s rather indifferent park wall.

      What a commentary on consequence a drive across country affords,
      One sees life in all its phases—Cottage, House, Grange, “Imperial
      John” Hall, Park, Tower, Castle, &c. The wall, however, is the
      true index of the whole. Show me your wall and I’ll tell you what
      you have. There is the five hundred—by courtesy, thousand—a year
      wall, built of common stone, well embedded in mortar, extending
      only a few yards on either side of the lodgeless green gate. The
      thousand—by courtesy, fifteen hundred—a year wall, made of the
      same material, only the mortar ceases at the first convenient
      bend of the road, and the mortared round coping of the top is
      afterwards all that holds it together. Then there is the aspiring
      block and course wall, leading away with a sweep from either side
      of a handsome gateway, but suddenly terminating in hedges. The
      still further continued wall, with an abrupt juncture in split
      oak paling, that looks as if it had been suddenly nipped by a
      want-of-cash frost. We then get to the more successful
      all-round-the-park alike efforts of four or five thousand
      a-year—the still more solid masonry and ornamental work of “Ten
      Thousand a Year,” a Warren wall in fact, until at length we come
      to one so strong and so high, that none but a man on a laden wain
      can see over it, which of course denotes a Ducal residence, with
      fifty or a hundred thousand a year. In like manner, a drive
      across country enables a man to pick up information without the
      trouble of asking for it.

      The board against the tree at the corner of the larch plantation,
      stating that “Any one trespassing on these grounds, the property
      of A. B. C. Sowerby, Esq., will, &c., with the utmost, &c.,”
      enables one to jump to the conclusion that the
      Westmoreland-slated roof we see peering among the eagle-winged
      cedars and luxuriant Scotch firs on the green slope to the left,
      is the residence of said Sowerby, who doesn’t like to be
      trespassed upon. A quick-eyed land-agent would then trace the
      boundaries of the Sowerby estate from the rising ground, either
      by the size of its trees, its natural sterility, or by the rough,
      gateless fences, where it adjoins the neighbouring proprietors.

      Again, the sign of the Smith Arms at a wayside public-house,
      denotes that some member of that illustrious family either lives
      or has property in that immediate neighbourhood, and as everybody
      has a friend Smith, we naturally set about thinking whether it is
      our friend Smith or not. So a nobleman’s coronet surmounting his
      many-quartered coat-of-arms, suggests that the traveller is in
      the neighbourhood of magnificence; and if his appearance is at
      all in his favour, he will, perhaps, come in for a touch, or a
      demi-touch, of the hat from the passers-by, the process being
      almost mechanical in aristocratic parts. A board at a branch road
      with the words “To Lavender Lodge only,” saves one the trouble of
      asking the name of the place towards which we see the road
      bending, while a great deal of curious nomenclature may be
      gleaned from shop-fronts, inn-signs, and cart-shafts.

      But we are leaving Sir Moses toiling up the hill alongside of his
      dog-cart, looking now at his watch, now at his jaded mare, now at
      Mr. Patterson’s fragile park wall, thinking how he would send it
      over with his shoulder if he came to it out hunting. The wall was
      at length abruptly terminated by a cross-road intersecting the
      hill along a favourable fall of the ground, about the middle of
      it, and the mare and Sir Moses mutually stopped, the former to
      ease herself on the piece of level ground at the junction, the
      latter to consider whether his course was up the hill or along
      the more inviting line to the left.

      “Marshfield,” muttered he to himself, “is surely that way, but
      then that old buffer said I had no business at Marshfield. Dom
      the old man,” continued he, “I wish I’d never asked him anything
      about it, for he has completely bewildered me, and I believe I
      could have found my way better without.”

      So saying, Sir Moses reconnoitered the scene; the balance of the
      fat hill in front, with the drab-coloured road going straight up
      the steepest part of it, the diverging lines either way; above
      all, the fast closing canopy around. Across the road, to the
      right, was a paintless, weather-beaten finger-post, and though
      our friend saw it had lost two of its arms, he yet thought the
      remaining ones might give him some information. Accordingly, he
      went over to consult it. Not a word, no, not a letter was
      legible. There were some upright marks, but what they had stood
      for it was impossible to decipher. Sir Moses was nonplussed. Just
      at this critical moment, a rumbling sound proceeded from below,
      and looking down the hill, a grey speck loomed in the distance,
      followed by a darker one a little behind. This was consoling; for
      those who know how soon an agricultural country becomes quiet
      after once the labourers go to their homes can appreciate the
      boon of any stirrers.

      Still the carts came very slowly, and the quick falling shades of
      night travelled faster than they. Sir Moses stood listening
      anxiously to their jolting noises, thinking they would never come
      up. At the same time, he kept a sharp eye on the cross-road, to
      intercept any one passing that way. A tinker, a poacher, a
      mugger, the veriest scamp, would have been welcome, so long as he
      knew the country. No one, however, came along. It was an
      unfrequented line; and old Gilbert Price, who worked by the day,
      always retired from raking in the mud ruts on the approach of
      evening. So Sir Moses stood staring and listening, tapping his
      boot with his whip, as he watched the zig-zag course of the grey
      up the hill. He seemed a good puller, and to understand his work,
      for as yet no guiding voice had been heard. Perhaps the man was
      behind. As there is always a stout pull just before a
      resting-place, the grey now came to a pause, to collect his
      energies for the effort.

      Sir Moses looked at his mare, and then at the carts halting
      below, wondering whether if he left her she would take off. Just
      as he determined to risk it, the grey applied himself vigorously
      to the collar, and with a grinding, ploughing rush, came up to
      where Sir Moses stood.

      The cart was empty, but there was a sack-like thing, with a
      wide-awake hat on the top, rolling in the one behind.

      “Holloo, my man!” shouted Sir Moses, with the voice of a Stentor.

      The wide-awake merely nodded to the motion of the cart.

      “_Holloo, I say!_” roared he, still louder.

      An extended arm was thrown over the side of the cart, and the
      wide-awake again nodded as before.

      “The beggar’s asleep!” muttered Sir Moses, taking the butt-end of
      his whip, and poking the somnambulist severely in the stomach.

      A loud grunt, and with a strong smell of gin, as the monster
      changed his position, was all that answered the appeal.

      “The brute’s drunk,” gasped Sir Moses, indignant at having wasted
      so much time in waiting for him.

      The sober grey then made a well-rounded turn to the right,
      followed by the one in the rear, leaving our friend enveloped in
      many more shades of darkness than he was when he first designed
      him coming. Night had indeed about closed in, and lights began to
      appear in cottages and farm-houses that sparsedly dotted the hill
      side.

      “Well, here’s a pretty go,” said Sir Moses, remounting the
      dogcart, and gathering up the reins; “I’ll just give the mare her
      choice,” continued he, touching her with the whip, and letting
      her go. The sensible animal took the level road to the left, and
      Sir Moses’s liberality was at first rewarded by an attempted trot
      along it, which, however, soon relaxed into a walk. The creaking,
      labouring vehicle shook and rolled with the concussion of the
      ruts.

      He had got upon a piece of township road, where each surveyor
      shuffled through his year of office as best he could, filling up
      the dangerous holes in summer with great boulder stones that
      turned up like flitches of bacon in winter. So Sir Moses rolled
      and rocked in imminent danger of an upset. To add to his
      misfortunes, he was by no means sure but that he might have to
      retrace his steps: it was all chance.

      There are but two ways of circumventing a hill, either by going
      round it or over it; and the road, after evading it for some
      time, at length took a sudden turn to the right, and grappled
      fairly with its severity. The mare applied herself sedulously to
      her task, apparently cheered by the increasing lights on the
      hill. At length she neared them, and the radiant glow of a
      blacksmith’s shop cheered the drooping spirit of the traveller.

      “Holloo, my man!” cried Sir Moses, at length, pulling up before
      it.

      “Holloo!” responded the spark-showering Vulcan from within.

      “Is this the way to Lord Lundyfoote’s?” demanded Sir Moses,
      knowing the weight a nobleman’s name carries in the country.

      “Lord Lundyfoote’s!” exclaimed Osmand Hall, pausing in his work;
      “Lord Lundyfoote’s!” repeated he; “why, where ha’ you come from?”

      “Tidswell,” replied Sir Moses, cutting off the former part of the
      journey.

      “Why, what set ye this way?” demanded the dark man, coming to the
      door with a red-hot horse-shoe on a spike, which was nearly all
      that distinguished him from the gloom of night; “ye should never
      ha’ coom’d this way; ye should ha’ gone by Marshfield and
      Hengrove.”

      “Dom it, I said so!” ejaculated the Baronet, nearly stamping the
      bottom of his gig out with vexation. “However, never mind,”
      continued he, recollecting himself, “I’m here now, so tell me the
      best way to proceed.”

      This information being at length accorded, Sir Moses proceeded;
      and the rest of the hill being duly surmounted, the dancing and
      stationary lights spreading o’er the far-stretching vale now
      appeared before him, with a clustering constellation, amid many
      minor stars scattered around, denoting the whereabouts of the
      castle.

      It is always cheering to see the far end of a journey, distant
      though the haven be, and Sir Moses put on as fast as his lampless
      condition would allow him, trusting to his eyes and his ears for
      keeping on the road. Very much surprised would he have been had
      he retraced his steps the next morning, and seen the steep banks
      and yawning ditches he had suddenly saved himself from going over
      or into by catching at the reins or feeling either wheel running
      in the soft.

      At length he reached the lodges of the massive variously-windowed
      castle, and passing gladly through them, found, on alighting at
      the door, that, instead of being late for dinner as he
      anticipated, his Lordship, who always ate a hearty lunch, was
      generally very easy about the matter, sometimes dining at seven,
      sometimes at eight, sometimes in summer even at nine o’clock. The
      footman, in reply to Sir Moses inquiring what time his Lordship
      dined, said he believed it was ordered at seven, but he didn’t
      know when it would be on the table.

      Being an ardent politician, Lord Lundyfoote received Sir Moses
      with the fellow-feeling that makes us wondrous kind cordiality,
      and dived so energetically into his subject, as soon as he got
      the weather disposed of, as never to wait for an answer to his
      question, whether his guest would like to take anything before
      dinner, the consequence of which was, that our poor friend was
      nearly famished with waiting. In vain the library time-piece
      ticked, and chimed, and struck; jabber, jabber, jabber, went his
      voluble Lordship; in vain the deep-toned castle-clock
      reverberated through the walls—on, on he went, without noticing
      it, until the butler, in apparent despair, took the gong, and
      gave it such a beating just outside the door, that he could
      scarcely hear himself speak. Sir Moses then adroitly slipped in
      the question if that was the signal for dressing; to which his
      Lordship having yielded a reluctant “Yes,” he took a candle from
      the entering footman, and pioneered the Baronet up to his
      bedroom, amid a running commentary on the state of the country
      and the stability of the ministry. And when he returned he found
      his Lordship distributing his opinions amoung an obsequious
      circle of neighbours, who received all he said with the deference
      due to a liberal dispenser of venison; so that Sir Moses not only
      got his dinner in comparative peace, but warded his Lordship off
      the greater part of the evening.



      CHAPTER LIII. MASTER ANTHONY THOM.

      396m


      _Original Size_


      THE two-penny post used to be thought a great luxury in London,
      though somehow great people were often shy of availing themselves
      of its advantages, indeed of taking their two-penny-posters in.
      “Two-penny-posters,” circulars, and ticketed shops, used to be
      held in about equal repugnance by some. The Dons, never thought
      of sending their notes or cards of invitation by the two-penny
      post. John Thomas used always to be trotted out for the purpose
      of delivery. Pre-paying a letter either by the two-penny post or
      the general used to be thought little short of an insult. Public
      opinion has undergone a great change in these matters. Not paying
      them is now the offence. We need scarcely expatiate on the boon
      of the penny post, nor on the advantage of the general diffusion
      of post-offices throughout the country, though we may observe,
      that the penny post was one of the few things that came without
      being long called for: indeed, so soon as it was practicable to
      have it, for without the almost simultaneous establishment of
      railways it would have been almost impossible to have introduced
      the system. The mail could not have carried the newspaper traffic
      and correspondence of the present day. The folded tablecloths of
      _Times_, the voluminous _Illustrated News_, the _Punch’s,_ the
      huge avalanches of papers that have broken upon the country
      within the last twenty years. Sir Moses Mainchance, unlike many
      country gentlemen, always had his letters forwarded to him
      where-ever he went. He knew it was only the trouble of writing a
      line to the Post-office, saying re-direct my letters to
      so-and-so, to have what he wanted, and thus to keep pace with his
      correspondence. He was never overpowered with letters when he
      came home from a visit or tour, as some of our acquaintance are,
      thus making writing doubly repugnant to them.

      The morning after his arrival at Lundyfoote Castle brought him a
      great influx of re-directed letters and papers. One from Mr.
      Heslop, asking him to meet at his house on the Friday week
      following, as he was going to have a party, one from Signior
      Quaverini, the eminent musician, offering his services for the
      Hunt ball: one from Mr. Isinglass, the confectioner, hoping to be
      allowed to supply the ices and refreshment as usual; another (the
      fifth), from Mr. Mossman, about the damage to Mr. Anthill’s sown
      grass; an envelope, enclosing the card and terms of Signior
      Dulcetto, an opposition musician, offering lower terras than
      Quaverini; a note from Mr. Paul Straddler, telling him about a
      horse to be bought dog cheap; and a “dead letter office”
      envelope, enclosing a blue ink written letter, directed to Master
      Anthony Thom, at the Inn-in-the-Sands Inn, Beechwood Green,
      stating that the party was not known at the address, reintroduces
      Mr. Geordey Gallon, a gentleman already known to the reader.

      How this letter came to be sent to Sir Moses was as follows:—

      When Mr. Geordey Gallon went upon the “Torf,” as he calls it,
      becoming, as he considered, the associate of Princes, Prime
      Ministers, and so on, he bethought him of turning respectable,
      and giving up the stolen-goods-carrying-trade,—a resolution that
      he was further confirmed in by the establishment of that
      troublesome obnoxious corps the Hit-im-and-Hold-im-shire Rural
      Police.

      To this end, therefore, he gradually reduced the number of his
      Tippy-Tom-jaunts through the country by night, intimating to his
      numerous patrons that they had better suit themselves elsewhere
      ere he ceased travelling altogether.

      Among the inconvenienced, was our old friend Mrs. Margerum, long
      one of his most regular customers; for it was a very rare thing
      for Mr. Gallon not to find a carefully stitched-up bundle in the
      corner of Lawyer Hindmarch’s cattle-shed, abutting on the
      Shillburn road as he passed in his spring cart.

      To remedy this serious inconvenience, Mrs. Margerum had
      determined upon inducting her adopted son, Master Anthony Thom,
      into the about-to-be-relinquished business; and Mr. Gallon having
      made his last journey, the accumulation of dripping caused by our
      hero’s visit to Pangburn Park made it desirable to have a
      clearing-out as soon as possible.

      To this end, therefore, she had written the letter now sent to
      Sir Moses; but, being a very prudent woman, with a slight
      smattering of law, she thought so long as she did not sign her
      surname at the end she was safe, and that no one could prove that
      it was from her. The consequence was, that Anthony Thom not
      having shifted his quarters as soon as intended, the letter was
      refused at the sign of the Sun-in-the-Sands, and by dint of
      postmark and contents, with perhaps a little _malice prepense_ on
      the part of the Post-master, who had suffered from a dishonest
      housekeeper himself, it came into the hands of Sir Moses. At
      first our master of the hounds thought it was a begging-letter,
      and threw it aside accordingly; but in course of casting about
      for a fresh idea wherewith to propitiate Mr. Mossman about the
      sown grass, his eye rested upon the writing, which he glanced at,
      and glanced at, until somehow he thought he had seen it before.
      At length he took the letter up, and read what made him stare
      very much as he proceeded. Thus it run:—

      “PANGBURN PARK, Thursday Night.

      “My own ever dear Anthony Thom,

      “_I write to you, trusting you will receive this safe, to say
      that as Mr. George Gallon has discontinued travelling altogether,
      I must trust to you entirely to do what is necessary in futur,
      but you must be most careful and watchful, for these nasty Pollis
      fellers are about every where, and seem to think they have a
      right to look into every bodies basket and bundle. We live in
      terrible times, I’m sure, my own beloved Anthony Thom, and if it
      wasn’t for the hope that I may see you become a great gentleman,
      like Mr. George Gallon, I really think I would forswear place
      altogether, for no one knows the anxiety and misery of living
      with such a nasty, mean, covetous body as Old Nosey._”

      “Old Nosey!” ejaculated Sir Moses, stopping short in his reading,
      and feeling his proboscis; “Old Nosey! dom it, can that mean me?
      Do believe it does—and it’s mother Margerum’s handwriting—dom’d
      if it isn’t,” continued he, holding the letter a little way off
      to examine and catch the character of the writing; “What does she
      mean by calling me a nasty, covetous body? I that hunt the
      country, subscribe to the Infirmary, Agricultural Society, and do
      everything that’s liberal and handsome. I’ll Old Nosey her!”
      continued he, grinding his teeth, and giving a vigorous flourish
      of his right fist; “I’ll Old Nosey her! I’ll turn her out of the
      house as soon as ever I get home, dom’d if I won’t,” said Sir
      Moses quivering with rage as he spoke. At length he became
      sufficiently composed to resume his reading—

      “-_No one knows the anxiety and misery of living with such a
      nasty, mean, covetous body as Old Nosey, who is always on the
      fret about expense, and thinks everybody is robbing him._”

      “Oh, dom it, that means me sure enough!” exclaimed Sir Moses;
      “that’s on account of the row I was kicking up t’other day about
      the tea—declared I drank a pound a week myself. I’ll tea her!”
      continued he, again turning to the letter and reading,—

      “-_I declare I’d almost as soon live under a mistress as under
      such a shocking mean, covetous man._”

      “Would you?” muttered Sir Moses; adding, “you shall very soon
      have a chance then.” The letter thus continued,—

      “-_The old feller will be away on Saturday and Sunday, so come
      afore lightning on Monday morning, say about four o’clock, and
      I’ll have everything ready to lower from my window_.”

      “Oh the deuce!” exclaimed Sir Moses, slapping his leg; “Oh the
      deuce! going to rob the house, I declare!”

      “-_To lower from my window_” read he again, “_for it’s not safe
      trusting things by the door as we used to do, now that these
      nasty knavish Pollis fellers are about; so now my own beloved
      Anthony Thom, if you will give a gentle whistle, or throw a
      little bit of soft dirt up at the window, where you will see a
      light burning, I’ll be ready for you, and you’ll be clear of the
      place long afore any of the lazy fellers here are up,—for a set
      of nastier, dirtier drunkards never were gathered together._”

      “Humph!” grunted Sir Moses, “that’s a cut at Mr. Findlater.” The
      writer then proceeded to say,—

      “_—But mind my own beloved Anthony Thom, if any body questions
      you, say it’s a parcel of dripping, and tell them they are
      welcome to look in if they like, which is the readiest way of
      stopping them from doing so. We have had a large party here,
      including a young gent from that fine old Lord Ladythorne, who I
      would dearly like to live with, and also that nasty, jealous,
      covetous body Cuddy Flintoff, peeping and prying about everywhere
      as usual. He deserves to have a dish-clout pinned to his tail_.”

      “_He, he, he!_” chuckled Sir Moses, as he read it

      “-_I shall direct this letter by post to you at the sign of the
      Sun in the Sands, unless I can get it conveyed by a private hand.
      I am half in hopes Mr. Gallon may call, as there is going to be a
      great steeple match for an immense sum of money, £200 they say,
      and they will want his fine judgment to direct matters. Mr.
      Gallon is indeed a man of a thousand_.”

      “Humph!” grunted Sir Moses, adding, “we are getting behind the
      curtain now.” He then went on reading,—

      “—_Oh my own dear darling Anthony Thom! what would I give to see
      you a fine gentleman like Mr. George Gallon. I do hope and trust,
      dearest, that it may yet come to pass; but we must make money,
      and take care of our money when made, for a man is nothing
      without money. What a noble example you have before you in Mr.
      George Gallon! He was once no better nor you, and now he has
      everything like a gentleman,—a hunting horse to ride on, gold
      studs in his shirt, and goose for his dinner. O my own beloved
      Anthony Thom, if I could but see you on a white horse, with a
      flowered silk tie, and a cut velvet vest with bright steel
      buttons, flourishing a silver-mounted whip, how glad, how
      rejoiced it would make me. Then I shouldn’t care for the pryings
      and grumblings of Old Nosey, or the jealous watchings of the
      nasty, waspish set with which one is surrounded, for I should say
      my Anthony Thom will revenge and protect me, and make me
      comfortable at last. So now my own dearest Anthony Thom, be
      careful and guarded in coming about here, for I dread those nasty
      lurkin Pollis men more nor can I say, for I never knew suspicious
      people what were good for any thing themselves; and how they ever
      come to interduce such nasty town pests into the quiet peaceful
      country, I can’t for the life of me imagine; but Mr. George
      Gallon, who is a man of great intellect, says they are dangerous,
      and that is partly why he has given up travelling; so therefore
      my own dearest Anthony Thom be guarded, and mind put on your pee
      jacket and red worsted comforter, for I dread these hoar frosts,
      and I’ll have everything ready for my darling pet, so that you
      won’t be kept waiting a moment; but mind if there’s snow on the
      ground you don’t come for fear of the tracks. I think I have
      littel more to say this time, my own darling Anthony Thom, except
      that I am, my own dear, dear son, _

      “Your ever loving mother,

      “Sarah.”

      “B-o-o-y Jove!” exclaimed Sir Moses, sousing himself down in an
      easy chair beside the table at which he had been writing “b-o-y
      Jove, what a production! Regular robber, dom’d if she’s not.
      Would give something to catch Master Anthony Thom, in his red
      worsted comforter, with his parcel of dripping. Would see whether
      I’d look into it or not. And Mr. Geordey Gallon, too! The
      impudent fellow who pretended not to know the Frenchman. Regular
      plant as ever was made. Will see whether he gets his money from
      me. Ten punds the wretch tried to do me out of by the basest
      deceit that ever was heard of. Con-found them, but I’ll see if I
      can’t be upsides with them all though,” continued he, writhing
      for vengeance. And the whole of that day, and most of that night,
      and the whole of the following day when hunting at Harker Crag,
      he was thinking how he could manage it. At length, as he was
      going quietly home with the hounds, after only an indifferent
      day’s sport, a thought struck him which he proceeded to put in
      execution as soon as he got into the house. He wrote a note to
      dear Lord Repartee, saying, if it would be quite convenient to
      Lady Repartee and his Lordship, he would be glad to stay all
      night with them before hunting Filberton forest; and leaving the
      unfolded note on the library table to operate during the night,
      he wrote a second one in the morning, inquiring the character of
      a servant; and putting the first note into the fire, he sealed
      the second one, and laid it ostentatiously on the hall table for
      the post.

      We take it we all have some ambitious feeling to gratify—all have
      some one whom we either wish to visit, or who we desire should
      visit us. We will candidly state that our ambition is to dine
      with the Lord Mayor. If we could but achieve that great triumph,
      we really think we should rest satisfied the rest of our life. We
      know how it would elevate us in the eyes of such men as Cuddy
      Flintoff and Paul Straddler, and what an advantage it would be to
      us in society being able to talk in a familiar way of his
      Lordship (Lordship with a capital L., if you please, Mr.
      Printer).

      Thus the world proceeds on the aspiring scale, each man looking
      to the class a little in advance of his own.

      “O knew they but their happiness, of men the happiest” are the
      sporting country gentlemen who live at home at ease—unvexed alike
      with the torments of the money-maker and the anxieties of the
      great, and yet sufficiently informed and refined to be the
      companions of either—men who see and enjoy nature in all her
      moods and varieties, and live unfettered with the pomp and
      vexation of keeping up appearances, envying no one, whoever may
      envy them. If once a man quits this happy rank to breast the
      contending billows of party in hopes of rising to the one above
      it, what a harvest of discord he sows for his own reaping. If a
      man wants to be thoroughly disgusted with human nature, let him
      ally himself unreservedly to a political party. He will find
      cozening and sneaking and selfishness in all their varieties, and
      patriotic false pretences in their most luxuriant growth. But we
      are getting in advance of our subject, our thesis being Mr. and
      Mrs. Wotherspoon.

      Our snuffy friend Spoon was not exempt from the ambitious
      failings of lesser men. His great object of ambition was to get
      Major Yammerton to visit him—or perhaps to put it more correctly,
      his great object of ambition was to visit Major Yammerton. But
      then, unfortunately, it requires two parties to these bargains;
      and Mrs. Yammerton wouldn’t agree to it, not so much because old
      Spoon had been a butler, but because his wife (our pen splutters
      as it writes the objection) his wife had been a—a—housekeeper. A
      handsome housekeeper she was, too, when she first came into the
      country; so handsome, indeed, that Dicky Boggledike had made two
      excursions over to their neighbour, Farmer Flamstead, to see her,
      and had reported upon her very favourably to the noble Earl his
      august master.

      Still Mrs. Yammerton wouldn’t visit her. In vain Mrs. Wotherspoon
      sent her bantams’ eggs, and guinea fowls’ eggs, and cuttings from
      their famous yellow rose-tree; in vain old Spoon got a worn-out
      horse, and invested his nether man in white cords and top boots
      to turn out after the harriers; in vain he walked a hound in
      summer, and pulled down gaps, and lifted gates off their hinges
      in winter—it all only produced thanks and politeness. The
      Yammertons and they were very good How-do-you-do? neighbours, but
      the true beef-and-mutton test of British friendship was wanting.
      The dinner is the thing that signs and seals the acquaintance.

      Thus they had gone on from summer to summer, and from season to
      season, until hope deferred had not only made old Spoon’s heart
      sick, but had also seen the white cords go at the knees, causing
      him to retire his legs into the military-striped
      cinnamon-coloured tweeds in which he appears in:

      In addition to muffling his legs, he had begun to mutter and talk
      about giving up hunting,—getting old,—last season—and so on,
      which made the Major think he would be losing one of the most
      personable of his field. This made him pause and consider how to
      avert the misfortune. Hunted hares he had sent him in more than
      regular rotation: he had liquored him repeatedly at the door; the
      ladies had reciprocated the eggs and the cuttings, with dahlias,
      and Sir Harry strawberry runners; and there really seemed very
      little left about the place wherewith to propitiate a refractory
      sportsman. At this critical juncture, a too confiding hare was
      reported by Cicely Bennett, farmer Merry field’s dairymaid, to
      have taken up her quarters among some tussuckey brambles at the
      north-east corner of Mr. Wotherspoon’s cow pasture—a most
      unusual, indeed almost unprecedented circumstance, which was
      communicated by Wotherspoon in person to the Major at the next
      meet of the hounds at Girdle Stone Green, and received with
      unfeigned delight by the latter.

      “You don’t say so!” exclaimed he, wringing the old dandy’s hand;
      “you don’t say so!” repeated he, with enthusiasm, for hares were
      scarce, and the country good; in addition to which the Major knew
      all the gaps.

      “_I do_,” replied Spoon, with a confident air, that as good as
      said, you may take my word for anything connected with hunting.

      “Well, then, I’ll tell you what we’ll do,” rejoined the Major,
      poking him familiarly in the ribs with his whip, “I’ll tell you
      what we’ll do; we’ll have a turn at her on Tuesday—meet at your
      house, eh? what say you to that?”

      “With all my heart,” responded the delighted Wotherspoon, adding,
      in the excitement of the moment, “S’pose you come to breakfast?”

      “Breakfast,” gasped the Major, feeling he was caught. “Dash it,
      what would Mrs. Yammerton say? Breakfast!” repeated he, running
      the matter through his mind, the wigging of his wife, the walk of
      his hound, the chance of keeping the old boy to the fore if he
      went—go he would. “With all my heart,” replied he, dashing boldly
      at the oiler; for it’s of no use a man saying he’s engaged to
      breakfast, and the Major felt that if the worst came to the
      worst, it would only be to eat two, one at home, the other with
      Spoon.

      So it was settled, much to Mr. and Mrs. Wotherspoon’s
      satisfaction, who were afterwards further delighted to hear that
      our friend Billy had returned, and would most likely be of the
      party. And most assiduously they applied themselves to provide
      for this, the great event of their lives.



      CHAPTER LIV. MR. WOTHERSPOON’S DÉJEUNER À LA FOURCHETTE.

      404m


      _Original Size_


      IVY BANK Tower (formerly caled Cow gate Hill), the seat of Jeames
      Wotherspoon Esquire, stands on a gentle eminence about a stone’s
      throw from the Horseheath and Hinton turnpike road, and looks
      from the luxuriance of its ivy, like a great Jack-in-the-green.
      Ivy is a troublesome thing, for it will either not grow at all or
      it grows far too fast, and Wotherspoon’s had fairly overrun the
      little angular red brick, red tiled mansion, and helped it to its
      new name of Ivy Bank Tower. If the ivy flourished, however, it
      was the only thing about the place that did; for Wotherspoon was
      no farmer, and the 75A, 3R. 18P., of which the estate consisted,
      was a very uninviting looking property. Indeed Wotherspoon was an
      illustration of the truth of Sydney Smith’s observation that
      there are three things which every man thinks he can do, namely,
      drive a gig, edit a newspaper, and farm a small property, and
      Spoon bought Cowgate Hill thinking it would “go of itself,” as
      they say of a horse, and that in addition to the rent he would
      get the farmer’s profit as well, which he was told ought to be
      equal to the rent. Though he had the Farmers’ Almanack, he did
      not attend much to its instructions, for if Mrs. Wotherspoon
      wanted the Fe-a-ton, as she called it, to gad about the country
      in, John Strong, the plough-boy footman “loused” his team, and
      arraying himself in a chocolate-coloured coat, with a red striped
      vest and black velveteens, left the other horse standing idle for
      the day. So Spoon sometimes caught the season and sometimes he
      lost it; and the neighbours used to hope that he hadn’t to live
      by his land. If he caught the season he called it good
      management; if he didn’t he laid the blame upon the weather, just
      as a gardener takes the credit for all the good crops of fruit,
      and attributes the failures to the seasons. Still Spoon was not
      at all sensible of his deficiencies, and subscribed a couple of
      guineas a year to the Harrowford Agricultural Society, in return
      for which he always had the toast of the healths of the tenant
      farmers assigned to him, which he handled in a very magnificent
      and condescending way, acknowledging the obligations the
      landowners were under to them, and hoping the happy union would
      long subsist to their mutual advantage; indeed, if he could only
      have got the words out of his mouth as fast as he got the drink
      into it, there is no saying but he might some day have filled the
      presidential chair. Now, however, a greater honour even than that
      awaited him, namely, the honour of entertaining the great Major
      Yammerton to breakfast. To this end John Strong was first set to
      clean the very dirty windows, then to trim the ivy and polish the
      brass knocker at the door, next to dig the border, in which grew
      the famous yellow rose, and finally to hoe and rake the
      carriage-drive up to the house; while Mrs. Wotherspoon, aided by
      Sally Brown, her maid-of-all-work, looked out the best blue and
      gold china, examined the linen, selected a tongue, guillotined
      the poultry, bespoke the eggs, and arranged the general programme
      of the entertainment.

      The Major thought himself very sly, and that he was doing the
      thing very cleverly by nibbling and playing with his breakfast on
      the appointed morning, instead of eating voraciously as usual;
      but ladies often know a good deal more than they pretend to do,
      and Mrs. Yammerton had seen a card from Mrs. Wotherspoon to their
      neighbour, Mrs. Broadfurrow, of Blossomfield Farm, inviting
      Broadfurrow and her to a “_déjeuner à la fourchette_” to meet
      Major Yammerton and see the hounds. However, Mrs. Yammerton kept
      the fact to herself, thinking she would see how her Major would
      manoeuvre the matter, and avoid a general acquaintance with the
      Wotherspoons. So she merely kept putting his usual viands before
      him, to try to tempt him into indulgence; but the Major, knowing
      the arduous part he would have to perform at the Tower, kept
      rejecting all her insidious overtures for eating, pretending he
      was not altogether right. “Almond pudding hadn’t agreed with
      him,” he thought. “Never did—should have known better than take
      it,” and so on.

      Our dawdling hero rather discontented his host, for instead of
      applying himself sedulously to his breakfast, he did nothing but
      chatter and talk to the young ladies, as if there was no such
      important performance before them as a hare to pursue, or the
      unrivalled harriers to display. He took cup after cup, as though
      he had lost his reckoning, and also the little word “no” from his
      vocabulary. At length the Major got him raised from the table, by
      telling him they had two miles farther to go than they really
      had, and making for the stable, they found Solomon and the
      footman whipper-in ready to turn out with the hounds. Up went our
      sportsmen on to their horses, and forth came the hounds wriggling
      and frolicking with joy. The cavalcade being thus formed, they
      proceeded across the fields, at the back of the house, and were
      presently passing up the Hollington Lane. The gift grey was the
      first object of interest as soon as they got well under way, and
      the Major examined him attentively, with every desire to find
      fault.

      “Neatish horse,” at length observed he, half to himself, half to
      our friend; “neatish horse—lightish of bone below the knee,
      p’raps, but still by no means a bad shaped ‘un.”

      Still though the Major could’nt hit off the fault, he was pretty
      sure there was a screw loose somewhere, to discover which he now
      got Billy to trot the horse, aud cauter him, and gallop him,
      successively.

      “Humph!” grunted he, as he returned after a brush over the rough
      ground of Farthingfield Moor; “he has the use of his legs—gets
      well away; easy horse under you, I dessay?” asked he.

      Billy said he was, for he could pull him about anywhere; saying
      which he put him boldly at a water furrow, and landed handsomely
      on the far side.

      “Humph!” grunted the Major again, muttering to himself, “May be
      all right—but if he is, it’s devilish unlike the Baronet, giving
      him. Wish he would take that confounded moon-eyed brute of mine
      and give me my forty puns back.”

      “And he gave him ye, did he?” asked the Major, with a
      scrutinising stare at our friend.

      “Why—yarse—no—yarse—not exactly,” replied Billy, hesitating. “The
      fact is, he offered to give me him, and I didn’t like taking him,
      and so, after a good deal to do, he said I might give him fifty
      pounds for him, and pay him when it suited me.”

      “I twig,” replied the Major, adding, “then you have to pay fifty
      pounds for him, eh?”

      “Or return him,” replied Billy, “or return him. He made me
      promise if over I wanted to part with him, I would give him the
      refusal of him again.”

      “Humph!” grunted the Major, looking the horse over attentively.
      “Fifty puns,” muttered he to himself,—“must be worth that if he’s
      sound, and only eight off. Wouldn’t mind giving fifty for him
      myself,” thought he; “must be something wrong about him—certain
      of that—or Sir Moses wouldn’t have parted with him;” with which
      firm conviction, and the full determination to find out the
      horse’s weak point, the Major trotted along the Bodenham Road,
      through the little hamlet of Maywood, thence across Faulder the
      cattle jobber’s farm, into the Heath-field Road at Gilden Bridge.
      A quarter of a mile further, and Mr. Wotherspoon’s residence was
      full in sight.

      The “Tower” never, perhaps, showed to greater advantage than it
      did on this morning, for a bright winter’s sun lit up the
      luxuriant ivy on its angular, gable-ended walls, nestling myriads
      of sparrows that flew out in flocks at the approach of each
      visitor.

      “What place is this?” asked our hero, as, at a jerk of the
      Major’s head, Solomon turned off the road through the now
      propped-open gate of the approach to the mansion.

      “Oh, this is where we meet,” replied the Major; “this is Mr.
      Wotherspoon’s, the gentleman you remember out with us the day we
      had the famous run when we lost the hare at Mossheugh Law—the
      farm by the moor, you know, where the pretty woman was
      churning—you remember, eh?”

      “O, ah!” repeated Billy: “but I thought they called his place a
      Tower,—Ivy something Tower,” thinking this was more like two
      great sentry boxes placed at right angles, and covered with ivy
      than anything else.

      “Well, yes; he calls this a Tower,” replied the Major, seeing by
      Billy’s face that his friend had not risen in his estimation by
      the view of his mansion. “Capital feller Spoon, though,”
      continued he, “must go in and pay our respects to him and his
      lady.” So saying, he turned off the road upon the closely eaten
      sward, and, calling to Solomon to stop and let the hounds have a
      roll on the grass, he dismounted, and gave his horse in charge of
      a fustian-clad countryman, telling him to walk him about till he
      returned, and he would remember him for his trouble. Our friend
      Billy did the same, and knocking the mud sparks off his boots
      against the well pipe-clayed door-steps, prepared to enter the
      Tower. Before inducting them, however, let us prepare the inmates
      for their reception.

      Both Mr. and Mrs. Wotherspoon had risen sufficiently early to
      enable them to put the finishing stroke to their respective
      arrangements, and then to apparel themselves for the occasion.
      They were gorgeously attired, vieing with the rainbow in the
      colour of their clothes. Old Spoon, indeed, seemed as if he had
      put all the finery on he could raise, and his best brown
      cauliflower wig shone resplendent with Macassar oil. He had on a
      light brown coat with a rolling velvet collar, velvet facings and
      cuffs, with a magnificent green, blue, and yellow striped tartan
      velvet vest, enriched with red cornelian buttons, and crossed
      diagonally with a massive Brazilian gold chain, and the broad
      ribbon of his gold double-eye-glasses. He sported a light blue
      satin cravat, an elaborately worked ruby-studded shirt front,
      over a pink flannel vest, with stiff wrist-bands well turned up,
      showing the magnificence of his imitation India garnet buttons.
      On his clumsy fingers he wore a profusion of rings—a brilliant
      cluster, a gold and opal, a brilliant and sapphire, an emerald
      half-hoop ring, a massive mourning, and a signet ring,—six in
      all,—genuine or glass as the case might be, equally distributed
      between the dirty-nailed fingers of each hand. His legs were
      again encased in the treacherous white cords and woe-begone
      top-boots that were best under the breakfast table. He had drawn
      the thin cords on very carefully, hoping they would have the
      goodness to hang together for the rest of the day.

      Mrs. Wotherspoon was bedizened with jewellery and machinery lace.
      She wore a rich violet-coloured velvet dress, with a beautiful
      machinery lace chemisette, fastened down the front with large
      Cairngorum buttons, the whole connected with a diminutive
      Venetian chain, which contrasted with the massive mosaic one that
      rolled and rattled upon her plump shoulders. A splendid imitation
      emerald and brilliant brooch adorned her bust, while her
      well-rounded arms were encircled with a mosaic gold, garnet and
      turquoise bracelet, an imitation rose diamond one, intermixed
      with pearl, a serpent armlet with blood-stone eyes, a heavy jet
      one, and an equally massive mosaic gold one with a heart’s ease
      padlock. Though in the full development of womanhood, she yet
      distended her figure with crinoline, to the great contraction of
      her room.

      The two had scarcely entered the little parlour, some twelve feet
      square, and Spoon got out his beloved Morning Post, ere Mr. and
      Mrs. Broadfurrow were seen wending their way up the road, at the
      plodding diligent sort of pace an agricultural horse goes when
      put into harness; and forthwith the Wotherspoons dismissed the
      last anxieties of preparation, and lapsed into the easy,
      unconcerned host and hostess. When John Strong threw open the
      door, and announced Mr. and Mrs. Broadfurrow, they were
      discovered standing over the fire, as if _d’ejeuner à la
      fourchette_ giving was a matter of every day’s occurrence with
      them. Then, at the summons, they turned and came forward in the
      full glow of cordiality, and welcomed their guests with all the
      fervour of sincerity; and when Mrs. Wotherspoon mounted the
      weather for a trot with Mrs. Broadfurrow, old Spoon out with his
      engine-turned gold snuff-box, and offered Broadfurrow a pinch ere
      he threw his conversation into the columns of his paper. The
      offer being accepted, Wotherspoon replenished his own nose, and
      then felt ready for anything. He was in high feather. He sunk his
      favourite topic, the doings of the House of Lords, and expatiated
      upon the Princess Royal’s then approaching marriage. Oh, dear, he
      was so glad. He was so glad of it—glad of it on every
      account—glad of it on the Princess’s account—glad of it on her
      most gracious Majesty’s account. Bless her noble heart! it almost
      made him feel like an old man when he remembered the Prince
      Consort leading her to the hymeneal altar herself. Well, well,
      life was life, and he had seen as much of it as most men; and
      just as he was going to indulge in some of his high-flown
      reminiscences, the crack of a hunting whip sounded through the
      house, and farmer Nettlefold’s fat figure, attired in the
      orthodox green coat and white cords of the Major Yammerton’s hunt
      was seen piled on a substantial brown cob, making his way to the
      stables at the back of the Tower. Mr. Nettlefold, who profanely
      entered by the back door, was then presently announced, and the
      same greetings having been enacted towards him, Wotherspoon made
      a bold effort to get back to the marriage, beginning with “As I
      was observing,” when farmer Rintoul came trotting up on his white
      horse, and holloaed out to know if he could get him put up.

      “Oh, certainly,” replied Wotherspoon, throwing up the window,
      when a sudden gust of wind nearly blew off his wig, and sadly
      disconcerted the ladies by making the chimney smoke.

      Just at this moment our friend appeared in sight, and all eyes
      were then directed to the now gamboling tongue-throwing hounds,
      as they spread frisking over the green.

      “What beauties!” exclaimed Mrs. Wotherspoon, pretending to admire
      them, though in reality she was examining the Point de Paris lace
      on Mrs. Broadfurrow’s mantle—wondering what it would be a yard,
      thinking it was very extravagant for a person like her to have it
      so broad. Old Spoon, meanwhile, bustled away to the door, to be
      ready to greet the great men as they entered.

      “Major Yammerton and Mr. Jingle!” announced John Strong, throwing
      it open, and the old dandy bent nearly double with his bow.

      “How are ye, Wotherspoon?” demanded our affable master, shaking
      him heartily by the hand, with a hail-fellow-well-met air of
      cordiality. “Mr. Pringle you know,” continued he, drawing our
      friend forward with his left hand, while he advanced with his
      right to greet the radiant Mrs. Wotherspoon.

      The Major then went the round of the party, whole handing Mrs.
      Broadfurrow, three fingering her husband, presenting two to old
      Rintonl, and nodding to Nettlefold.

      “Well, here’s a beautiful morning,” observed he, now
      Colossus-of-Rhodesing with his clumsily built legs—“most
      remarkable season this I ever remember during the five-and-thirty
      years that I have kept haryers—more like summer than winter, only
      the trees are as bare of leaves as boot-trees, _haw, haw, haw_.”

      “_He, he, he_,” chuckled old Wotherspoon, “v-a-a-ry good, Major,
      v-a-a-ry good,” drawled he, taking a plentiful replenishment of
      snuff as he spoke.

      Breakfast was then announced, and the Major making up to the
      inflated Mrs. Wotherspoon tendered his arm, and with much
      difficulty piloted her past the table into the little duplicate
      parlour across the passage, followed by Wotherspoon with Mrs.
      Broadfurrow and the rest of the party.

      And now the fruits of combined science appeared in the elegant
      arrangement of the breakfast-table, the highly polished plate
      vieing with the snowy whiteness of the cloth, and the pyramidical
      napkins encircling around. Then there was the show pattern tea
      and coffee services, chased in wreaths and scrolls, presented to
      Mr. Wotherspoon by the Duke of Thunderdownshire on his marriage;
      the Louis Quatorze kettle presented to Mrs. Wotherspoon by the
      Duchess, with the vine-leaf-patterned cake-basket, the
      Sutherland-patterned toast-rack, and the tulip-patterned
      egg-stand, the gifts and testimonials of other parties.

      Nor was the entertainment devoted to mere show, for piles of
      cakes and bread of every shape and make were scattered profusely
      about, while a couple of covered dishes on the well polished
      little sideboard denoted that the fourchette of the card was not
      a mere matter of form. Best of all, a group of flat vine-leaf
      encircling Champagne glasses denoted that the repast was to be
      enlivened with the exhilarating beverage.

      The party having at length settled into seats, Major Yammerton on
      Mrs. Wotherspoon’s right, Mr. Pringle on her left, Mrs.
      Broadfurrow on Spoon’s right, her husband on his left, with
      Rintoul and Nettlefold filling in the interstices, breakfast
      began in right earnest, and Mrs. Wotherspoon having declined the
      Major’s offer of assisting with the coffee, now had her hands so
      full distributing the beverages as to allow him to apply himself
      sedulously to his food. This he did most determinedly, visiting
      first one detachment of cakes, then another, and helping himself
      liberally to both hashed woodcocks and kidneys from under the
      covers. His quick eye having detected the Champagne glasses, and
      knowing Wotherspoon’s reputed connoisseurship in wines, he
      declined Mrs. Wotherspoon’s tea, reserving himself for what was
      to follow. In truth, Spoon was a good judge of wine, so much so
      that he acted as a sort of decoy duck to a London house, who sent
      him very different samples to the wine they supplied to the
      customers with whom he picked up. He had had a great deal of
      experience in wines, never, in the course of a longish life
      having missed the chance of a glass, good, bad, or indifferent.
      We have seen many men set up for judges without a tithe of
      Wotherspoon’s experience. Look at a Club for instance. We see the
      footman of yesterday transformed into the butler of to-day,
      giving his opinion to some newly joined member on the next, with
      all the authority of a professor—talking of vintages, and
      flavours, and roughs and smooths, and sweets, and drys, as if he
      had been drinking wine all his life. Wotherspoon’s prices were
      rather beyond the Major’s mark, but still he had no objection to
      try his wine, and talk as if he would like to have some of the
      same sort. So having done ample justice to the eatables he turned
      himself back in his chair and proceeded to criticise Mrs.
      Wotherspoon’s now slightly flushed face, and wonder how such a
      pretty woman could marry such a snuffy old cock. While this
      deliberate scrutiny was going on, the last of the tea-drinkers
      died out, and at a pull of the bell, John Strong came in, and
      after removing as many cups and saucers as he could clutch, he
      next proceeded to decorate the table with Champagne glasses amid
      the stares and breath-drawings of the company.

      While this interesting operation was proceeding, the old dandy
      host produced his snuff-box, and replenishing his nose passed it
      on to Broadfurrow to send up the table, while he threw himself
      back in his chair and made a mental wager that Strong would make
      a mistake between the Champagne and the Sillery. The glasses
      being duly distributed, and the Major’s eye at length caught, our
      host after a prefatory throat-clearing hem thus proceeded to
      address him, individually, for the good of the company generally.

      “Major Yammerton,” said he, “I will take the liberty of
      recommending a glass of Sillery to you.—The sparkling, I believe,
      is very good, but the still is what I particularly pride myself
      upon and recommend to my friends.”

      “Strong!” continued he, addressing the clown, “the Sillery to
      Major Yammerton,” looking at Strong as much as to say, “you know
      it’s the bottle with the red cord round the neck.”

      The Major, however, like many of us, was not sufficiently versed
      in the delicacies of Champagne drinking to prefer the Sillery,
      and to his host’s dismay called for the sparkling-stuff that
      Wotherspoon considered was only fit for girls at a boarding
      school. The rest of the party, however, were of the Major’s
      opinion, and all glasses were eagerly held for the sparkling
      fluid, while the Sillery remained untouched to the master.

      It is but justice to Wotherspoon to add, that he showed himself
      deserving of the opportunity, for he immediately commenced taking
      two glasses to his guest’s one.

      That one having been duly sipped and quaffed and applauded, and a
      becoming interval having elapsed between, Mr. Wotherspoon next
      rose from his chair, and looking especially wise, observed, up
      the table “that there was a toast he wished—he had—he had—he
      wished to propose, which he felt certain under any—any (pause)
      circumstances, would be (pause again) accepted—he meant received
      with approbation (applause), not only with approbation, but
      enthusiasm,” continued he, hitting off the word he at first
      intended to use, amid renewed applause, causing a slight “this is
      my health,” droop of the head from the Major—“But when,”
      continued the speaker, drawing largely on his snuff-box for
      inspiration, “But when in addition to the natural and intrinsic
      (pause) merit of the (hem) illustrious individual” (“Coming it
      strong,” thought the Major, who had never been called illustrious
      before,) “there is another and a stronger reason,” continued
      Wotherspoon, looking as if he wished he was in his seat again—“a
      reason that comes ‘ome to the ‘earts and symphonies of us all
      (applause). (“Ah, that’s the hounds,” thought the Major, “only I
      ‘spose he means sympathies.”) “I feel (pause) assured,” continued
      Mr. Wotherspoon, “that the toast will be received with the
      enthusiasm and popularity that ever attends the (pause) mention
      of intrinsic merit, however (pause) ‘umbly and inadequately the
      (pause) toast may be (pause) proposed,” (great applause, with
      cries of no, no,) during which the orator again appealed to his
      snuff-box. He knew he had a good deal more to say, but he felt he
      couldn’t get it out. If he had only kept his seat he thought he
      might have managed it. “I therefore,” said he, helping Mrs.
      Broadfurrow to the sparkling, and passing the bottle to her
      husband while he again appealed to the Sillery, “beg to propose,
      with great sincerity, the ‘ealth of Her most gracious Majesty The
      Queen! The Queen! God bless her!” exclaimed Wotherspoon, holding
      up a brimming bumper ere he sunk in his chair to enjoy it.

      “With all my heart!” gasped the disgusted Major, writhing with
      vexation—observing to Mrs. Wotherspoon as he helped her, and then
      took severe toll of the passing bottle himself, “by Jove, your
      husband ought to be in Parliament—never heard a man acquit
      himself better”—the Major following the now receding bottle with
      his eye, whose fast diminishing contents left little hopes of a
      compliment for himself out of its contents. He therefore felt his
      chance was out, and that he had been unduly sacrificed to
      Royalty. Not so, however, for Mr. Wotherspoon, after again
      charging his nose with snuff, and passing his box round the table
      while he collected his scattered faculties for the charge, now
      drew the bell-cord again, and tapping with his knife against the
      empty bottle as “Strong” entered, exclaimed, “Champagne!” with
      the air of a man accustomed to have all the wants of life
      supplied by anticipation. There’s nobody gets half so well waited
      upon as an old servant.

      This order being complied with, and having again got up the steam
      of his eloquence, Mr. Wotherspoon arose, and, looking as wise as
      before, observed, “That there was another toast he had to
      propose, which he felt (pause) sure would (pause) would be most
      agreeable and acceptable to the meeting,—he meant to say the
      party, the present party (applause)—under any circumstances
      (sniff, snuff, sneeze); he was sure it would be most (snuff)
      acceptable, for the great and distinguished (pause), he had
      almost said illustrious (sniff), gentleman (pause), was—was
      estimable”—

      “This is me, at all events,” thought the Major, again slightly
      drooping his too bashful head, as though the shower-bath of
      compliment was likely to be too heavy for him.

      “——was estimable (pause) and glorious in every relation of life
      (applause), and keeps a pack of hounds second to none in the
      kingdom (great applause, during which the drooping head descended
      an inch or two lower). I need not after that (snuff) expression
      of your (sniff) feelings (pause), undulate on the advantage such
      a character is of to the country, or in promoting (pause)
      cheerful hospitality in all its (pause) branches, and drawing
      society into sociable communications; therefore I think I shall
      (pause) offer a toast most, most heartily acceptable (sniff) to
      all your (snuff) feelings, when I propose, in a bumper toast, the
      health of our most—most distinguished and—and hospitable
      host—guest, I mean—Major Yammerton, and his harriers!” saying
      which, the old orator filled himself a bumper of Sillery, and
      sent the sparkling beverage foaming and creaming on its tour. He
      then presently led the charge with a loud, “Major! your very good
      health!”

      “Major, your very good health!”

      “Your very good health, Major!”

      “Major, your very good health!” then followed up as quickly as
      the glasses could be replenished, and the last explosion having
      taken place, the little Major arose, and looked around him like a
      Bantam cock going to crow. He was a man who could make what he
      would call an off-hand speech, provided he was allowed to begin
      with a particular word, and that word was “for.” Accordingly, he
      now began with,—

      “Ladies and gentlemen, _For_ the very distinguished honour you
      have thus most unexpectedly done me, I beg to return you my most
      grateful and cordial thanks. (Applause.) I beg to assure you,
      that the ‘steem and approbation of my perhaps too partial
      friends, is to me the most gratifying of compliments; and if
      during the five-and-thirty years I have kept haryers, I have
      contributed in any way to the ‘armony and good fellowship of this
      neighbourhood, it is indeed to me a source of unfeigned pleasure.
      (Applause.) I ‘ope I may long be spared to continue to do so.
      (Renewed applause.) Being upon my legs, ladies and gentlemen,”
      continued he, “and as I see there is still some of this most
      excellent and exhilarating beverage in the bottle (the Major
      holding up a half-emptied one as he spoke), permit me to conclude
      by proposing as a toast the ‘ealth of our inestimable ‘ost and
      ‘ostess—a truly exemplary couple, who only require to be known to
      be respected and esteemed as they ought to be. (Applause.) I have
      great pleasure in proposing the ‘ealth of Mr. and Mrs.
      Wotherspoon! (Applause.) Mrs. Wotherspoon,” continued he, bowing
      very low to his fair hostess, and looking, as he thought, most
      insinuating, “your _very_ good ‘ealth! Wotherspoon!” continued
      he, standing erect, and elevating his voice, “Your very good
      ‘ealth!” saying which he quaffed off his wine, and resumed his
      seat as the drinking of the toast became general.

      Meanwhile old Wotherspoon had taken a back hand at the Sillery,
      and again arose, glass in hand, to dribble out his thanks for the
      honour the Major and company had done Mrs. Wotherspoon and
      himself, which being the shortest speech he had made, was
      received with the greatest applause.

      All parties had now about arrived at that comfortable state when
      the inward monitor indicates enough, and the active-minded man
      turns to the consideration of the “next article, mem,”—as the
      teasing shop-keepers say, The Major’s “next article,” we need
      hardly say, was his haryers, which were still promenading in
      front of the ivy-mantled tower, before an admiring group of
      pedestrians and a few sorrily mounted horsemen,—old Duffield,
      Dick Trail, and one or two others,—who would seem rather to have
      come to offer up their cattle for the boiler, than in expectation
      of their being able to carry them across country with the hounds.
      These are the sort of people who stamp the farmers’ hedges down,
      and make hare hunting unpopular.

      “Well, sir, what say you to turning out?” now asked our Master,
      as Wotherspoon still kept working away at the Sillery, and
      maundering on to Mr. Broadfurrow about the Morning Post and high
      life.

      “Well, sir, what you think proper,” replied Spoon, taking a heavy
      pinch of snuff, and looking at the empty bottles on the table.

      “The hare, you say, is close at hand,” observed our master of
      hounds.

      “Close at hand, close at hand—at the corner of my field, in
      fact,” assented Wotherspoon, as if there was no occasion to be in
      a hurry.

      “Then let’s be at her!” exclaimed the Major rising with
      wine-inspired confidence, and feeling that it would require a
      very big fence to stop him with the hounds in full cry.

      “Well, but we are going to see you, ain’t we?” asked Mrs.
      Wotherspoon.

      “By all means,” replied our Master; adding, “but hadn’t you
      better get your bonnet on?”

      “Certainly,” rejoined Mrs. Wotherspoon, looking significantly at
      Mrs. Broadfurrow; whereupon the latter rose, and with much
      squeezing, and pardoning, and thank-you-ing, the two succeeded in
      effecting a retreat. The gentlemen then began kicking their legs
      about, feeling as though they would not want any dinner that day.



      CHAPTER LV. THE COUNCIL OF WAR.—POOR PUSS AGAIN!


      WHILE the ladies were absent adorning themselves, the gentlemen
      held a council of war as to the most advisable mode of dealing
      with the hare, aud the best way of making her face a good
      country. The Major thought if they could set her a-going with her
      head towards Martinfield-heath, they would stand a good chance of
      a run; while Broadfurrow feared Borrowdale brook would be in the
      way.

      “Why not Linacres?” asked Mr. Rintoul, who preferred having the
      hounds over any one’s farm but his own.

      “Linacres is not a bad line,” assented the Major thoughtfully;
      “Linacres is not a bad line, ‘specially if she keeps clear of
      Minsterfield-wood and Dowland preserve; but if once she gets to
      the preserve it’s all U. P., for we should have as many hares as
      hounds in five minutes, to say nothing of Mr. Grumbleton reading
      the riot act among us to boot.”

      “I’ll tell ye how to do, then,” interposed fat Mr. Nettlefold,
      holding his coat laps behind him as he protruded his great
      canary-coloured stomach into the ring; “I’ll tell you how to do,
      then. Just crack her away back over this way, and see if you
      can’t get her for Witherton and Longworth. Don’t you mind,”
      continued he, button-holeing the Major, “what a hunt we had aboot
      eighteen years since with a har we put off old Tommy Carman’s
      stubble, that took us reet away over Marbury Plot, the Oakley
      hill, and then reet down into Woodbury Yale, where we killed?”

      “To be sure I do!” exclaimed the delighted Major, his keen eyes
      glistening with pleasure at the recollection. “The day Sam
      Snowball rode into Gallowfield bog and came out as black as a
      sweep—I remember it well. Don’t think I ever saw a better thing.
      If it had been a—a—certain somebody’s hounds (_he, he, he!_),
      whose name I won’t mention (_haw, haw, haw!_), we should never
      have heard the last of it (_he, he, he!_).”

      While this interesting discussion was going on, old Wotherspoon
      who had been fumbling at the lock of the cellaret, at length got
      it open, and producing therefrom one of those little square
      fibre-protected bottles, with mysterious seals and hieroglyphical
      labels, the particoloured letters leaning different ways, now
      advanced, gold-dotted liquor-glass in hand, towards the group,
      muttering as he came, “Major Yammerton, will you ‘blege me with
      your ‘pinion of this Maraschino di Zara, which my wine merchants
      recommend to me as something very ‘tickler,” pouring out a glass
      as he spoke, and presenting it to his distinguished guest.

      “With all my heart,” replied the Major, who rather liked a glass
      of liquor; adding, “we’ll all give our opinion, won’t we,
      Pringle?” appealing to our hero.

      “Much pleasure,” replied Billy, who didn’t exactly know what it
      was, but still was willing to take it on trust.

      “That’s right,” rejoined old Spoon; “that’s right; then ‘blege
      me,” continued he, “by helping yourselves to glasses from the
      sideboard,” nodding towards a golden dotted brood clustering
      about a similarly adorned glass jug like chickens around a
      speckled hen.

      At this intimation a move was made to the point; and all being
      duly provided with glasses, the luscious beverage flowed into
      each in succession, producing hearty smacks of the lips, and
      “very goods” from all.

      “Well, I think so,” replied the self-satisfied old dandy; “I
      think so,” repeated he, replenishing his nose with a good pinch
      of snuff; “Comes from Steinberger and Leoville, of King Street,
      Saint Jeames’s—very old ‘quaintance of mine—great house in the
      days of George the Fourth of festive memory. And, by the way,
      that reminds me,” continued he, after a long-drawn respiration,
      “that I have forgotten a toast that I feel (pause) we ought to
      have drunk, and—”

      “Let’s have it now then,” interrupted the Major, presenting his
      glass for a second helping.

      “If you please,” replied “Wotherspoon, thus cut short in his
      oration, proceeding to replenish the glasses, but with more
      moderate quantities than before.

      “Well, now what’s your toast?” demanded the Major, anxious to be
      off.

      “The toast I was about to propose—or rather, the toast I forgot
      to propose,” proceeded the old twaddler, slowly and deliberately,
      with divers intermediate sniffs and snuffs, “was a toast that I
      feel ‘sured will come ‘ome to the ‘arts and symphonies of us all,
      being no less a—a—(pause) toast than the toast of the illustrious
      (pause), exalted—I may say, independent—I mean Prince—Royal
      Highness in fact—who (wheeze) is about to enter into the holy
      state of matrimony with our own beloved and exalted Princess
      (Hear, hear, hear). I therefore beg to (pause) propose that we
      drink the ‘ealth of His Royal (pause) ‘Ighness Prince (pause)
      Frederick (snuff) William (wheeze) Nicholas (sniff) Charles!”
      with which correct enunciation the old boy brightened up and
      drank off his glass with the air of a man who has made a clean
      breast of it.

      “Drink both their ‘ealths!” exclaimed the Major, holding up his
      glass, and condensing the toast into “The ‘ealths of their Royal
      Highnesses!” it was accepted by the company with great applause.

      Just as the last of the glasses was drained, and the lip-smacking
      guests were preparing to restore them to the sideboard, a slight
      rustle was heard at the door, which opening gently, a smart black
      velvet bonnet trimmed with cerise-coloured velvet and leaves, and
      broad cerise-coloured ribbons, piloted Mrs. Wotherspoon’s pretty
      face past the post, who announced that Mrs. Broadfurrow and she
      were ready to go whenever they were.

      “Let’s be going, then,” exclaimed Major Yammerton, hurrying to
      the sideboard and setting down his glass. “How shall it be, then?
      How shall it be?” appealing to the company. “Give them a view or
      put her away quietly?—give them a view or put her away quietly?”

      “Oh, put her away quietly,” responded Mr. Broadfurrow, who had
      seen many hares lost by noise and hurry at starting.

      “With her ‘ead towards Martinfield?” asked the Major.

      “If you can manage it,” replied Broadfurrow, well knowing that
      these sort of feats are much easier planned than performed.

      “‘Spose we let Mrs. Wotherspoon put her away for us,” now
      suggested Mr. Rintonl.

      “By all means!” rejoined the delighted Major; “by all means! She
      knows the spot, and will conduct us to it. Mrs. Wotherspoon,”
      continued he, stumping up to her as she now stood waiting in the
      little passage, “allow me to have the honour of offering you my
      arm;” so saying, the Major presented it to her, observing
      confidentially as they passed on to the now open front door, “I
      feel as if we were going to have a clipper!” lowering the ominous
      hat-string as he spoke.

      “Solomon! Solomon!” cried he, to the patient huntsman, who had
      been waiting all this time with the hounds. “We are going! we are
      going!”

      “Yes, Major,” replied Solomon, with a respectful touch of his
      cap.

      “Now for it!” cried the Major, wheeling sharp round with his fair
      charge, and treading on old Wotherspoon’s gouty foot, who was
      following too closely behind with Mrs. Broadfurrow on his arm,
      causing the old cock to catch up his leg and spin round on the
      other, thus splitting the treacherous cords across the knee.



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      “_Oh-o-o-o!_” shrieked he, wrinkling his face up like a Norfolk
      biffin, and hopping about as if he was dancing a hornpipe.

      “_Oh-o-o-o!_” went he again, on setting it down to try if he
      could stand.

      “I really beg you ten thousand pardons!” now exclaimed the
      disconcerted Major, endeavouring to pacify him. “I really beg you
      ten thousand pardons; but I thought you were ever so far behind.”

      “So did I, I’m sure,” assented Mrs. Wotherspoon.

      “You’re such a gay young chap, and step so smartly, you’d tread
      on any body’s heels,” observed the Major jocularly.

      “Well, but it was a pincher, I assure you,” observed Wotherspoon,
      still screwing up his mouth.

      At length he got his foot down again, and the assault party was
      reformed, the Major and Mrs. Wotherspoon again leading, old Spoon
      limping along at a more respectful distance with Mrs.
      Broadfurrow, while the gentlemen brought up the rear with the
      general body of pedestrians, who now deserted Solomon and the
      hounds in order to see poor puss started from her form. Solomon
      was to keep out of sight until she was put away.

      Passing through the little American blighted orchard, and what
      Spoon magnificently called his kitchen garden, consisting of a
      dozen grass-grown gooseberry bushes, and about as many winter
      cabbages, they came upon a partially-ploughed fallow, with a most
      promising crop of conch grass upon the unturned part, the hungry
      soil looking as if it would hardly return the seed.

      “Fine country! fine country!” muttered the Major, looking around
      on the sun-bright landscape, and thinking he could master it
      whichever way the hare went. Up Sandywell Lane for Martinfield
      Moor, past Woodrow Grange for Linacres, and through Farmer
      Fulton’s fold-yard for Witherton.

      Oh, yes, he could do it; and make a very good show out of sight
      of the ladies.

      “Now, where have you her? where have you her?” whispered he,
      squeezing Mrs. Wotherspoon’s plump arm to attract her attention,
      at the same time not to startle the hare.

      “O, in the next field,” whispered she, “in the next field,”
      nodding towards a drab-coloured pasture in which a couple of lean
      and dirty cows were travelling about in search of a bite. They
      then proceeded towards it.

      The gallant Major having opened the ricketty gate that intervened
      between the fallow and it, again adopted his fair charge, and
      proceeded stealthily along the high ground by the ragged hedge on
      the right, looking back and holding up his hand for silence among
      the followers.

      At length Mrs. Wotherspoon stopped. “There, you see,” said she,
      nodding towards a piece of rough, briary ground, on a sunny
      slope, in the far corner of the field.

      “I see!” gasped the delighted Major; “I see!” repeated he, “just
      the very place for a hare to be in—wonder there’s not one there
      always. Now,” continued he, drawing his fair charge a little
      back, “we’ll see if we can’t circumvent her, and get her to go to
      the west. Rintoul!” continued he, putting his hand before his
      mouth to prevent the sound of what he said being wafted to the
      hare. “Rintoul! you’ve got a whip—you go below and crack her away
      over the hill, that’s a good feller, and we’ll see if we can’t
      have something worthy of com-mem-mo-ration”—the Major thinking
      how he would stretch out the run for the newspapers—eight miles
      in forty minutes, an hour and twenty with only one check—or
      something of that sort.

      The pause thrilled through the field, and caused our friend Billy
      to feel rather uncomfortable, he didn’t appreciate the beauties
      of the thing.

      Rintoul having now got to his point, and prepared his heavy
      whip-thong, the gallant band advanced, in semicircular order,
      until they came within a few paces of where the briars began. At
      a signal from the Major they all hailed. The excitement was then
      intense.

      “I see her!” now whispered the Major into Mrs. Wotherspoon’s ear.
      “I see her!” repeated he, squeezing her arm, and pointing
      inwardly with his thong-gathered whip.

      Mrs. Wotherspoon’s wandering eyes showed that she did not
      participate in the view.

      “Don’t you see the tuft of fern just below the thick red-berried
      rose bush a little to the left here?” asked the Major; “where the
      rushes die out?”

      Mrs. Wotherspoon nodded assent.

      “Well, then, she’s just under the broken piece of fern that lies
      bending this way. You can see her ears moving at this moment.”

      Mrs. Wotherspoon’s eyes brightened as she saw a twinkling
      something.

      “_Now then, put her away!_” said the Major gaily.

      “She won’t bite, will she?” whispered Mrs. Wotherspoon,
      pretending alarm.

      “Oh, bite, no!” laughed the Major; “hares don’t bite—not pretty
      women at least,” whispered he. “Here take my whip and give her a
      touch behind,” handing it to her as he spoke.

      Mrs. Wotherspoon having then gathered up her violet-coloured
      velvet dress a little, in order as well to escape the frays of
      the sharp-toothed brambles as to show her gay red and black
      striped petticoat below, now advanced cautiously into the rough
      sea, stepping carefully over this tussuck and t’other, avoiding
      this briar and that, until she came within whip reach of the
      fern. She then paused, and looked back with the eyes of England
      upon her.

      “_Up with her!”_ cried the excitcd Major, as anxious for a view
      as if he had never seen a hare in his life.

      Mrs. Wotherspoon then advanced half a step farther, and
      protruding the Major’s whip among the rustling fern, out
      sprang—what does the reader think?—A GREAT TOM CAT!

      “_Tallyho!_” cried Billy Pringle, deceived by the colour.

      “_Hoop, hoop, hoop!_” went old Spoon, taking for granted it was a
      hare.

      _Crack!_ resounded Rintoul’s whip from afar.

      “_Haw, haw, haw!_ never saw anything like that!” roared the
      Major, holding his sides.

      “Why, it’s a cat!” exclaimed the now enlightened Mrs.
      Wotherspoon, opening wide her pretty eyes as she retraced her
      steps towards where he stood.

      “Cat, ay, to be sure, my dear! why, it’s your own, isn’t it?”
      demanded our gallant Master.

      “No; ours is a grey—that’s a tabby,” replied she, returning him
      his whip.

      “Grey or tab, it’s a cat,” replied the Major, eyeing puss
      climbing up a much-lopped ash-tree in the next hedge.

      “Why, Spoon, old boy, don’t you know a cat when you see her?”
      demanded he, as his chagrined host now came pottering towards
      them.

      “I thought it was a hare, ‘pon honour, as we say in the Lords,”
      replied the old buck, bowing and consoling himself with a copious
      pinch of snuff.

      “Well, it’s a sell,” said the Major, thinking what a day he had
      lost.

      “D-a-a-vilish likely place for a hare,” continued old
      Wotherspoon, reconnoitring it through his double eye-glasses;
      “D-a-a-vilish likely place, indeed.”

      “Oh, likely enough,” muttered the Major, with a chuck of his
      chin, “likely enough,—only it isn’t one, _that’s all!_”

      “Well, I wish it had been,” replied the old boy.

      “So do I,” simpered his handsome wife, drawing her fine
      lace-fringed kerchief across her lips.

      The expectations of the day being thus disappointed, another
      council of war was now held, as to the best way of retrieving the
      misfortune. Wotherspoon, who was another instance of the truth of
      the observation, that a man who is never exactly sober is never
      quite drunk, was inclined to get back to the bottle. “Better get
      back to the house,” said he, “and talk matters quietly over
      before the fire;” adding, with a full replenishment of snuff up
      his nose, “I’ve got a batch of uncommonly fine Geisenheimer that
      I would like your ‘pinion of, Major,” but the Major, who had had
      wine enough, and wanted to work it off with a run, refused to
      listen to the tempter, intimating, in a whisper to Mrs. Spoon,
      who again hung on his arm, that her husband would be much better
      of a gallop.

      And Mrs. Wotherspoon, thinking from the haziness of the old
      gentleman’s voice, and the sapient twinkling of his gooseberry
      eyes, that he had had quite enough wine, seconded this view of
      the matter; whereupon, after much backing and bowing, and shaking
      of hands, and showing of teeth, the ladies and gentlemen parted,
      the former to the fire, the latter to the field, where the
      performance of the pack must stand adjourned for another chapter.



      CHAPTER LVI. A FINE RUN!—THE MAINCHANCE CORRESPONDENCE.



      424m _Original Size_



      HE worst of these _dejeuners à la fourchette_, and also of
      luncheons, is, that they waste the day, and then send men out
      half-wild to ride over the hounds or whatever else comes in their
      way. The greatest funkers, too, are oftentimes the boldest under
      the influence of false courage; so that the chances of mischief
      are considerably increased. The mounted Champagne bottle smoking
      a cigar, at page 71, is a good illustration of what we mean. We
      doubt not Mr. Longneck was very forward in that run.

      All our Ivy Tower party were more or less primed, and even old
      Wotherspoon felt as if he could ride. Billy, too, mounted the
      gallant grey without his usual nervous misgivings, and trotted
      along between the Major and Rintoul with an easy Hyde Park-ish
      sort of air. Rintonl had intimated that he thought they would
      find a hare on Mr. Merryweather’s farm at Swayland, and now led
      them there by the fields, involving two or three little
      obstacles—a wattled hurdle among the rest—which they all charged
      like men of resolution. The hurdle wasn’t knocked over till the
      dogs’-meatmen came to it.

      Arrived at Swayland, the field quickly dispersed, each on his own
      separate hare-seeking speculation, one man fancying a fallow,
      another a pasture: Rintonl reserving the high hedge near the Mill
      bridle-road, out of which he had seen more than one whipped in
      his time. So they scattered themselves over the country, flipping
      and flopping all the tufts ard likely places, aided by the
      foot-people with their sticks, and their pitchings and tossings
      of stones into bushes and hollows, and other tempting-looking
      retreats.

      The hounds, too, ranged far and wide, examining critically each
      likely haunt, pondering on spots where they thought she had been,
      but which would not exactly justify a challenge.

      While they were all thus busily employed, Rintoul’s shallow hat
      in the air intimated that the longed-for object was discerned,
      causing each man to get his horse by the head, and the
      foot-people to scramble towards him, looking anxiously forward
      and hurriedly back, lest any of the riders should be over them.
      Rintoul had put her away, and she was now travelling and
      stopping, and travelling and stopping, listening and wondering
      what was the matter. She had been coursed before but never
      hunted, and this seemed a different sort of proceeding.

      The terror-striking notes of the hounds, as they pounced upon her
      empty form, with the twang of the horn and the cheers of the
      sportsmen urging them on, now caused her to start; and, laying
      back her long ears, she scuttled away over Bradfield Green and up
      Ridge Hill as hard as ever she could lay legs to the ground.

      “Come along, Mr. Pringle! come along, Mr. Pringle!” cried the
      excited Major, spurring up, adjusting his whip as if he was going
      to charge into a solid square of infantry. He then popped through
      an open gate on the left.

      The bustling beauties of hounds had now fallen into their
      established order of precedence, Lovely and Lilter contending for
      the lead, with Bustler and Bracelet, and Ruffler and Chaunter,
      and Ruin and Restless, and Dauntless and Driver, and Dancer and
      Flaunter and others striving after, some giving tongue because
      they felt the scent, others, because the foremost gave it.—So
      they went truthfully up the green and over the hill, a gap, a
      gate, and a lane serving the bustling horsemen.

      The vale below was not quite so inviting to our “green linnets”
      as the country they had come from, the fields being small, with
      the fences as irregular as the counties appear on a map of
      England. There was none of that orderly squaring up and
      uniformity of size, that enables a roadster to trace the line of
      communication by gates through the country.—All was zigzag and
      rough, indicating plenty of blackthorns and briers to tear out
      their eyes. However, the Champagne was sufficiently alive in our
      sportsmen to prevent any unbecoming expression of fear, though
      there was a general looking about to see who was best acquainted
      with the country. Rintoul was now out of his district, and it
      required a man well up in the line to work them satisfactorily,
      that is to say, to keep them in their saddles, neither shooting
      them over their horses’ heads nor swishing them over their tails.
      Our friend Billy worked away on the grey, thinking, if anything,
      he liked him better than the bay. He even ventured to spur him.

      The merry pack now swing musically down the steep hill, the
      chorus increasing as they reach the greener regions below. The
      fatties, and funkers, and ticklish forelegged ones, begin
      who-a-ing and g-e-e-ntly-ing to their screws, holding on by the
      pommels and cantrells, and keeping their nags’ heads as straight
      as they can. Old Wotherspoon alone gets off and leads down. He’s
      afraid of his horse slipping upon its haunches. The sight of him
      doing so emboldens our Billy, who goes resolutely on, and
      incautiously dropping his hand too soon, the grey shot away with
      an impetus that caused him to cannon off Broadfurrow and the
      Major and pocket himself in the ditch at the bottom of the hill.
      Great was the uproar! The Richest Commoner in England was in
      danger! Ten thousand a-year in jeopardy! “Throw yourself off!”

      “Get clear of him!”

      “Keep hold of him!”

      “Mind he doesn’t strike ye!” resounded from all parts, as first
      the horse’s head went up, and then his tail, and then his head
      again, in his efforts to extricate himself.

      At length Billy, seizing a favourable opportunity, threw himself
      off on the green sward, and, ere he could rise, the horse, making
      a desperate plunge, got out, and went staring away with his head
      in the air, looking first to the right and then to the left, as
      the dangling reins kept checking and catching him.



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      “Look sharp or you’ll loss him!” now cried old Duffield, as after
      an ineffectual snatch of the reins by a passing countryman, the
      horse ducked his head and went kicking and wriggling and
      frolicking away to the left, regardless of the tempting cry of
      the hounds.

      The pace, of course, was too good for assistance—and our friend
      and the field were presently far asunder.

      Whatever sport the hounds had—and of course they would have a
      clipper—we can answer for it Mr. Pringle had a capital run; for
      his horse led him a pretty Will-o’-the-wisp sort of dance,
      tempting him on and on by stopping to eat whenever his rider—or
      late rider, rather—seemed inclined to give up the chase, thus
      deluding him from field to lane and from lane to field until our
      hero was fairly exhausted.—Many were the rushes and dashes and
      ventures made at him by hedgers and ditchers and drainers, but he
      evaded them all by laying back his ears and turning the battery
      of his heels for the contemplation, as if to give them the choice
      of a bite or a kick.

      At length he turned up the depths of the well-known Love Lane,
      with its paved _trottoir_, for the damsels of the adjoining
      hamlets of East and West Woodhay to come dry-shod to the
      gossip-shop of the well; and here, dressed in the
      almost-forgotten blue boddice and red petticoat of former days,
      stood pretty Nancy Bell, talking matrimonially to Giles Bacon,
      who had brought his team to a stand-still on the higher ground of
      the adjoining hedge, on the field above.

      Hearing the clatter of hoofs, as the grey tried first the hard
      and then the soft of the lane, Bacon looked that way; and seeing
      a loose horse he jumped bodily into the lane, extending his arms
      and his legs and his eyes and his mouth in a way that was very
      well calculated to stop even a bolder animal than a horse. He
      became a perfect barrier. The grey drew up with an indignant
      snort and a stamp of his foot, and turning short round he trotted
      back, encountering in due time his agitated and indignant master,
      who had long been vowing what a trimming he would give him when
      he caught him. Seeing Billy in a hurry,—for animals are very good
      judges of mischief, as witness an old cock how he ducks when one
      picks up a stone,—seeing Billy in a hurry we say, the horse again
      wheeled about, and returned with more leisurely steps towards his
      first opponent. Bacon and Nancy were now standing together in the
      lane; and being more pleasantly occupied than thinking about
      loose horses, they just stood quietly and let him come towards
      them, when Giles’s soothing w-ho-o-ays and matter-of-course style
      beguiled the horse into being caught.

      Billy presently came shuffling up, perspiring profusely, with his
      feet encumbered with mud, and stamping the thick of it off while
      he answered Bacon’s question as to “hoo it happened,” and so on,
      in the grumpy sort of way a man does who has lost his horse, he
      presented him with a shilling, and remounting, rode off, after a
      very fine run of at least twenty minutes.

      The first thing our friend did when he got out of sight of Giles
      Bacon and Nancy, was to give his horse a good rap over the head
      with his whip for its impudent stupidity in running away, causing
      him to duck his head and shake it, as if he had got a pea or a
      flea in his ear.—He then began wheeling round and round, like a
      dog wanting to lie down, much to Billy’s alarm, for he didn’t
      wish for any more nonsense. That performance over, he again began
      ducking and shaking his head, and then went moodily on, as if
      indifferent to consequences. Billy wished he mightn’t have hit
      him so hard.

      When he got home, he mentioned the horse’s extraordinary
      proceedings to the Major, who, being a bit of a vet. and a strong
      suspector of Sir Moses’ generosity to boot, immediately set it
      down to the right cause—megrims—and advised Billy to return him
      forthwith, intimating that Sir Moses was not altogether the thing
      in the matter of horses; but our friend, who kept the blow with
      the whip to himself, thought he had better wait a day or two and
      see if the attack would go off.—In this view he was upheld by
      Jack Rogers, who thought his old recipe, “leetle drop gin,” would
      set him all right, and proceeded to administer it to himself
      accordingly. And the horse improved so much that he soon seemed
      himself again, whereupon Billy, recollecting Sir Moses’s
      strenuous injunctions to give him the refusal of him if ever he
      wanted to part with him, now addressed him the following letter:—

      “Yammerton Grange.

      “Dear Sir Moses,

      _“As I find I must return to town immediately after the hunt
      ball, to which you were so good as invite me, and as the horse
      you were so good as give me would be of no use to me there, I
      write, in compliance with my promise to offer him back to you if
      ever I wanted to part with him, to say that he will be quite at
      your service after our next day’s hunting, or before if you like,
      as I dare say the Major will mount me if I require it. He is a
      very nice horse, and I feel extremely obliged for your very
      handsome intentions with regard to him, which, under other
      circumstances, I should have been glad to accept. Circumstanced
      as I am, however, he would be wasted upon me, and will be much
      better back in your stud. _

      “I will, therefore, send him over on hearing from you; and you
      can either put my I.O.U. in the fire, or enclose it to me by the
      Post.

      “Again thanking you for your very generous offer, and hoping you
      are having good sport, I beg to subscribe myself,

      “Dear Sir Moses,

      “Yours very truly,

      “Wm. PRINGLE

      “To Sir Moses Mainchance, Bart.,

      “Pangburn Park.”

      And having sealed it with the great seal of state, he handed it
      to Rougier to give to the postman, without telling his host what
      he had done.

      The next post brought the following answer:—

      “_Many, very many thanks to you, my dear Pringle, for your kind
      recollection of me with regard to the grey, which I assure you
      stamps you in my opinion as a most accurate and excellent young
      man.—You are quite right in your estimate of my opinion of the
      horse; indeed, if I had not considered him something very far out
      of the common way, I should not have put him into your hands; but
      knowing him to be as good as he’s handsome, I had very great
      satisfaction in placing him with you, as well on your own account
      as from your being the nephew of my old and excellent friend and
      brother baronet, Sir Jonathan Pringle—to whom I beg you to make
      my best regards when you write._

      _“Even were it not so, however, I should be precluded from
      accepting your kind and considerate offer for only yesterday I
      sent Wetun into Doubleimupshire, to bring home a horse I’ve
      bought of Tom Toweler, on Paul Straddler’s recommendation, being,
      as I tell Paul, the last I’ll ever buy on his judgment, unless he
      turns out a trump, as he has let me in for some very bad ones._

      _“But, my dear Pringle, ain’t you doing yourself a positive
      injustice in saying that you would have no use for the grey in
      town? Town, my dear fellow, is the very place for a horse of that
      colour, figure, and pretension; and a very few turns in the Park,
      with you on his back, before that best of all pennyworths, the
      chair-sitting swells, might land you in the highest ranks of the
      aristocracy—unless, indeed, you are booked elsewhere, of which,
      perhaps, I have no business to inquire._

      _“I may, however, as a general hint, observe to the nephew of my
      old friend, that the Hit-im and Hold-imshire Mammas don’t stand
      any nonsense, so you will do well to be on your guard. No; take
      my advice, my dear fellow, and ride that horse in town.—It will
      only be sending him to Tat.‘s if you tire of him there, and if it
      will in any way conduce to your peace of mind, and get rid of any
      high-minded feeling of obligation, you can hand me over whatever
      you get for him beyond the £50 —And that reminds me, as life is
      uncertain, and it is well to do everything regularly, I’ll send
      my agent, Mr. Mordecai Nathan, over with your I.O.U., and you can
      give me a bill at your own date—say two or three months—instead,
      and that will make us all right and square, and, I hope, help to
      maintain the truth of the old adage, that short reckonings make
      long friends,—which I assure you is a very excellent one._

      _“And now, having exhausted both my paper and subject, I shall
      conclude with repeating my due appreciation of your kind
      recollection of my wishes; and with best remembrances to your
      host and hostess, not forgetting their beautiful daughters, whom
      I hope to see in full feather at the ball, I remain,_

      _“My dear Pringle._

      _“Very truly and sincerely, yours,_

      _“Moses Mainchance._

      _“To Wm. Pringle”_

      We need scarcely add that Mr. Mordecai Nathan followed quickly on
      the heels of the letter, and that the I. 0. U. became a
      short-winded bill of exchange, thus saddling our friend
      permanently with the gallant grey. And when Major Yammerton heard
      the result, all the consolation Billy got from him was, “_I told
      you so_,” meaning that he ought to have taken his advice, and
      returned the horse as unsound.

      With this episode about the horse, let us return to Pangburn
      Park.



      CHAPTER LVII. THE ANTHONY THOM TRAP.


      SIR Moses was so fussy about his clothes, sending to the laundry
      for this shirt and that, censuring the fold of this cravat and
      that, inquiring after his new hunting ties and best boots, that
      Mrs. Margerum began to fear the buxom widow, Mrs. Vivian, was
      going to be at Lord Repartee’s, and that she might be saddled
      with that direst of all dread inflictions to an honest
      conscientious housekeeper, a teasing, worreting, meddling
      mistress. That is a calamity which will be best appreciated by
      the sisterhood, and those who watch how anxiously “widowers and
      single gentlemen” places are advertised for in the newspapers, by
      parties who frequently, not perhaps unaptly, describe themselves
      as “thoroughly understanding their business.”

      Sir Moses, indeed, carried out the deception well; for not only
      in the matter of linen, but in that of clothes also, was he
      equally particular, insisting upon having all his first-class
      daylight things brought out from their winter quarters, and
      reviewing them himself as they lay on the sofa, ere he suffered
      Mr. Bankhead to pack them.

      At length they were sorted and passed into the capacious depths
      of an ample brown leather portmanteau, and the key being duly
      turned and transferred to the Baronet, the package itself was
      chucked into the dog-cart in the unceremonious sort of way
      luggage is always chucked about. The vehicle itself then came to
      the door, and Sir Moses having delivered his last injunctions
      about the hounds and the horses, and the line of coming to cover
      so as to avoid public-houses, he ascended and touching the mare
      gently with the whip, trotted away amid the hearty—“well shut of
      yous” of the household. Each then retired to his or her private
      pursuits; some to drink, some to gamble, some to write letters,
      Mrs. Margerum, of course, to pick up the perquisites. Sir Moses,
      meanwhile, bowled away ostentatiously through the lodges,
      stopping to talk to everybody he met, and saying he was going
      away for the night.

      Bonmot Park, the seat of Lord Repartee, stands about the junction
      of Hit-im and Hold-imshire, with Featherbedfordshire. Indeed, his
      great cover of Tewington Wood is neutral between the hunts, and
      the best way to the park on wheels, especially in winter time, is
      through Hinton and Westleak, which was the cause of Sir Moses
      hitting upon it for his deception, inasmuch as he could drive
      into the Fox and Hounds Hotel; and at Hinton, under pretence of
      baiting his mare without exciting suspicion, and there make his
      arrangements for the night. Accordingly, he took it very quietly
      after he got clear of his own premises, coveting rather the
      shades of evening that he had suffered so much from before, and
      as luck would have it by driving up Skinner Lane, instead of
      through Nelson Street, he caught a back view of Paul Straddler,
      as for the twenty-third time that worthy peeped through the panes
      of Mrs. Winship, the straw-bonnet maker’s window in the
      market-place, at a pretty young girl she had just got from
      Stownewton. Seeing his dread acquaintance under such favourable
      circumstances, Sir Moses whipped Whimpering Kate on, and nearly
      upset himself against the kerb-stone as he hurried up the archway
      of the huge deserted house,—the mare’s ringing hoofs alone,
      announcing his coming.

      _Ostler! Ostler! Ostler!_ cried he in every variety of tone, and
      at length the crooked-legged individual filling that and other
      offices, came hobbling and scratching his head to the summons.
      Sir Moses alighting then, gave him the reins and whip; and
      wrapper in hand, proceeded to the partially gas-lit door in the
      archway, to provide for himself while the ostler looked after the
      mare.

      Now, it so happened, that what with bottle ends and whole
      bottles, and the occasional contributions of the generous, our
      friend Peter the waiter was even more inebriated than he appears
      at page 263; and the rumbling of gig-wheels up the yard only made
      him waddle into the travellers’ room, to stir the fire and twist
      up a bit of paper to light the gas, in case it was any of the
      despised brotherhood of the road.—He thought very little of
      bagmen—Mr. Customer was the man for his money. Now, he rather
      expected Mr. Silesia, Messrs. Buckram the clothiers’
      representative, if not Mr. Jaconette, the draper’s also, about
      this time; and meeting Sir Moses hurrying in top-coated and
      cravated with the usual accompaniments of the road, he concluded
      it was one of them; so capped him on to the commercial room with
      his dirty duster-holding hand.

      “Get me a private room, Peter; get me a private room,” demanded
      the Baronet, making for the bottom of the staircase away from the
      indicated line of scent.

      “Private room,” muttered Peter.

      “Why, who is it?”

      “Me! me!” exclaimed Sir Moses, thinking Peter would recognise
      him.

      “Well, but whether are ye a tailor or a draper?” demanded Peter,
      not feeling inclined to give way to the exclusiveness of either.

      “Tailor or draper! you stupid old sinner—don’t you see it’s me—me
      Sir Moses Mainchance?”

      “Oh, Sir Moses, Sir, I beg your pardon, Sir,” stammered the now
      apologising Peter, hurrying back towards the staircase. “I really
      begs your pardon, Sir; but my eyes are beginning to fail me,
      Sir—not so good as they were when Mr. Customer hunted the
      country.—Well Sir Moses, Sir, I hope you’re well, Sir; and
      whether will you be in the Sun or the Moon? You can have a fire
      lighted in either in a minute, only you see we don’t keep fires
      constant no ways now, ‘cept in the commercial room.—Great change,
      Sir Moses, Sir, since Mr. Customer hunted the country; yes, Sir,
      great change—used to have fires in every room, Sir, and brandy
      and—”

      “Well, but,” interrupted Sir Moses, “I can’t sit freezing up
      stairs till the fire’s burnt up.—You go and get it lighted, and
      come to me in the commercial-room and tell me when it’s ready;
      and here!” continued he, “I want some dinner in an hour’s time,
      or so.”

      “By all means, Sir Moses. What would you like to take, Sir
      Moses?” as if there was everything at command.

      _Sir Moses_—“Have you any soup?”

      _Peter_—“Soup, Sir Moses. No, I don’t think there is any soup.”

      _Sir Moses_—“Fish; have you any fish?”

      _Peter_—“Why, no; I don’t think there’ll be any fish to-day, Sir
      Moses.”

      _Sir Moses_—“What have you, then?”

      _Peter_—(Twisting the dirty duster), “Mutton chops—beef
      steak—beef steak—mutton chops—boiled fowl, p’raps you’d like to
      take?”

      _Sir Moses_—“No. I shouldn’t (_muttering_, most likely got to be
      caught and killed yet.) Tell the cook,” continued he, speaking
      up, “to make on a wood and coal fire, and to do me a nice dish of
      mutton chops on the gridiron; not in the frying-pan mind, all
      swimming in grease; and to boil some mealy potatoes.”

      _Peter_—“Yes, Sir Moses; and what would you like to have to
      follow?”

      “_Cheese!_” said Sir Moses, thinking to cut short the inquiry.

      “And hark’e.” continued Sir Moses: Don’t make a great man of me
      by bringing out your old battered copper showing-dishes; but tell
      the cook to send the chops up hot and hot, between good warm
      crockery-ware plates, with ketchup or Harvey sauce for me to use
      as I like.”

      “Yes, Sir Moses,” replied Peter, toddling off to deliver as much
      of the order as he could remember.

      And Sir Moses having thawed himself at the commercial-room fire,
      next visited the stable to see that his mare had been made
      comfortable, and told the ostler post-boy boots to be in the way,
      as he should most likely want him to take him out in the fly
      towards night. As he returned, he met Bessey Bannister, the
      pretty chambermaid, now in the full glow of glossy hair and
      crinoline, whom he enlisted as purveyor of the mutton into the
      Moon, in lieu of the antiquated Peter, whose services he was too
      glad to dispense with.—It certainly is a considerable aggravation
      of the miseries of a country inn to have to undergo the
      familiarities of a dirty privileged old waiter.



      435m


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      So thought Sir Moses, as he enjoyed each succeeding chop, and
      complimented the fair maiden so on her agility and general
      appearance, that she actually dreamt she was about to become Lady
      Mainchance.



      CHAPTER LVIII. THE ANTHONY THOM TAKE.


      SIR Moses Mainchance, having fortified himself against the night
      air with a pint of club port, and a glass of pale brandy after
      his tea, at length ordered out the inn fly, without naming its
      destination to his fair messenger. These vehicles, now so
      generally scattered throughout the country, are a great
      improvement on the old yellow post-chaise, that made such a hole
      in a sovereign, and such a fuss in getting ready, holloaing,
      “Fust pair out!” and so on, to give notice to a smock-frocked old
      man to transform himself into a scarlet or blue jacketed post-boy
      by pulling off his blouse, and who, after getting a leg-up and a
      ticket for the first turnpike-gate, came jingling, and
      clattering, and cracking his dog-whip round to the inn door,
      attracting all the idlers and children to the spot, to see who
      was going to get into the “chay.” The fly rumbles quietly round
      without noise or pretension, exciting no curiosity in any one’s
      mind; for it is as often out as in, and may only be going to the
      next street, or to Woodbine Lodge, or Balsam Bower, on the
      outskirts of the town, or for an hour’s airing along the
      Featherbedfordshire or the old London road. It does not even
      admit of a pull of the hair as a hint to remember the ostler as
      he stands staring in at the window, the consequence of which is,
      that the driver is generally left to open the door for his
      passenger himself. Confound those old iniquities of travelling!—a
      man used never to have his hand out of his pocket. Let not the
      rising generation resuscitate the evil, by contravening the
      salutary regulation of not paying people on railways.

      Sir Moses hearing the sound of wheels, put on his wraps; and, rug
      in hand, proceeded quietly down stairs, accompanied only by the
      fair Bessy Bannister, instead of a flight of dirty waiters,
      holloaing “Coming down! coming down! now then! look sharp!” and
      so on.

      The night was dark, but the ample cab-lamps threw a gleam over
      the drab and red lined door that George Beer the driver held back
      in his hand to let his customer in.

      “Good night, my dear,” said Sir Moses, now slyly squeezing Miss
      Bannister’s hand, wondering why people hadn’t nice clean
      quiet-stepping women to wait upon them, instead of stuck-up men,
      who thought to teach their masters what was right, who wouldn’t
      let them have their plate-warmers in the room, or arrange their
      tables according to their own desires.—With these and similar
      reflections he then dived head-foremost into the yawning abyss of
      a vehicle. “Bang” went the door, and Beer then touched the side
      of his hat for instructions where to go to.

      “Let me see,” said Sir Moses, adjusting his rug, as if he hadn’t
      quite made up his mind. “Let me see—oh, ah! drive me northwards,
      and I’ll tell you further when we stop at the Slopewell
      turnpike-gate:” so saying Sir Moses drew up the gingling window,
      Beer mounted the box, and away the old perpetual-motion horse
      went nodding and knuckling over the uneven cobble-stone pavement,
      varying the motion with an occasional bump and jump at the open
      channels of the streets. Presently a smooth glide announced the
      commencement of Macadam, and shortly after the last gas-lamp left
      the road to darkness and to them. All was starlight and serene,
      save where a strip of newly laid gravel grated against the
      wheels, or the driver objurgated a refractory carter for not
      getting out of his way. Thus they proceeded at a good, steady,
      plodding sort of pace, never relaxing into a walk, but never
      making any very vehement trot.

      At the Slopewell gate Sir Moses told Beer to take a ticket for
      the Winterton Burn one; arrived at which, he said, “Now go on and
      stop at the stile leading into the plantation, about half a mile
      on this side of my lodges,” adding, “I’ll walk across the park
      from there;” in obedience to which the driver again plied his
      whip along the old horse’s ribs, and in due time the vehicle drew
      up at the footpath along-side the plantation.—The door then
      opened, Sir Moses alighted and stood waiting while the man turned
      his fly round and drove off, in order to establish his night eyes
      ere he attempted the somewhat intricate passage through the
      plantation to his house.

      The night, though dark, was a good deal lighter than it appeared
      among the gloom of the houses and the glare of the gaslights at
      Hinton; and if he was only well through the plantation, Sir Moses
      thought he should not have much difficulty with the rest of the
      way. So conning the matter over in his mind, thinking whereabouts
      the boards over the ditch were, where the big oak stood near
      which the path led to the left, he got over the stile, and dived
      boldly into the wood.

      The Baronet made a successful progress, and emerged upon the open
      space of Coldnose, just as the night breeze spread the twelve
      o’clock notes of his stable clock through the frosty air, upon
      the quiet country.

      “All right,” said he to himself, sounding his repeater to
      ascertain the hour, as he followed the tortuous track of the
      footpath, through cowslip pasture, over the fallow and along the
      side of the turnip field; he then came to the turn from whence in
      daylight the first view of the house is obtained.

      A faint light glimmered in the distance, about where he thought
      the house would be situate.

      “Do believe that’s her room,” said Sir Moses, stopping and
      looking at the light. “Do believe that’s her signal for beloved
      Anthony Thom. If I catch the young scoundrel,” continued he,
      hurrying on, “I’ll—I’ll—I’ll break every bone in his skin.” With
      this determination, Sir Moses put on as fast as the now darker
      lower ground would allow, due regard being had to not missing his
      way.

      At length he came to the cattle hurdles that separated the east
      side of the park from the house, climbing over which he was
      presently among the dark yews and hollies, and box-bushes of the
      shrubbery. He then paused to reconnoitre.—The light was still
      there.—If it wasn’t Mrs. Margerum’s room, it was very near it;
      but he thought it was hers by the angle of the building and the
      chimneys at the end. What should he do?—Throw a pebble at the
      window and try to get her to lower what she had, or wait and see
      if he could take Anthony Thom, cargo and all? The night was cold,
      but not sufficiently so, he thought, to stop the young gentleman
      from coming, especially if he had his red worsted comforter on;
      and as Sir Moses threw his rug over his own shoulders, he thought
      he would go for the great haul, at all events; especially as he
      felt he could not converse with Mrs. Margerum à la Anthony Thom,
      should she desire to have a little interchange of sentiment. With
      this determination he gathered his rug around him, and proceeded
      to pace a piece of open ground among the evergreens, like the
      Captain of a ship walking the quarter-deck, thinking now of his
      money, now of his horses, now of Miss Bannister, and now of the
      next week’s meets of his hounds.—He had not got half through his
      current of ideas when a footstep sounded upon the gravel-walk;
      and, pausing in his career, Sir Moses distinctly recognised the
      light patter of some one coming towards him. He down to charge
      like a pointer to his game, and as the sound ceased before the
      light-showing window, Sir Moses crept stealthily round among the
      bushes, and hid behind a thick ground-sweeping yew, just as a
      rattle of peas broke upon the panes.

      The sash then rose gently, and Sir Moses participated in the
      following conversation:—

      _Mrs. Margerum_ (from above)—“O, my own dearly beloved Anthony
      Thom, is that you, darling! But don’t, dear, throw such big
      ‘andfulls, or you’ll be bricking the winder.”

      _Master Anthony Thom_ (from below)—“No, mother; only I thought
      you might be asleep.”

      _Mrs. Margerum_—“Sleep, darling, and you coming! I never sleep
      when my own dear Anthony Thom is coming! Bless your noble heart!
      I’ve been watching for you this—I don’t know how long.”

      _Master Anthony Thom_—“Couldn’t get Peter Bateman’s cuddy to come
      on.”

      _Mrs. Margerum_—“And has my Anthony Thom walked all the way?”

      _Master Anthony Thom_—“No; I got a cast in Jackey Lishman the
      chimbley-sweep’s car as far as Burnfoot Bridge. I’ve walked from
      there.”

      _Mrs. Margerum_—“Bless his sweet heart! And had he his worsted
      comforter on?”

      _Master Anthony Thom_—“Yes; goloshes and all.”

      _Mrs. Margerum_—“Ah, goloshes are capital things. They keep the
      feet, warm, and prevent your footsteps from being heard. And has
      my Anthony Thom got the letter I wrote to him at the Sun in the
      Sands?”

      _Master Anthony Thom_—“No, never heard nothin’ of it.”

      _Mrs. Margerum—“No!_ Why what can ha’ got it?”

      _Master Anthony Thom_—“Don’t know.—Makes no odds.—I got the
      things all the same.”

      _Mrs. Margerum_—“O, but my own dear Anthony Thom, but it does.
      Mr. Gerge Gallon says it’s very foolish for people to write
      anything if they can ‘elp it—they should always send messages by
      word of mouth. Mr. Gallon is a man of great intellect, and I’m
      sure what he says is right, and I wish I had it back.”

      _Master Anthony Thom_—“O, it’ll cast up some day, I’ll be
      bound.—It’s of no use to nobody else.”

      _Mrs. Margerum_—“I hope so, my dear. But it is not pleasant to
      think other folks may read what was only meant for my own Anthony
      Thom. However, it’s no use crying over spilt milk, and we must
      manish better another time. So now look out, my beloved, and I’ll
      lower what I have.”

      So saying, a grating of cord against the window-sill announced a
      descent, and Master Anthony Thom, grasping the load, presently
      cried, “All right!”

      _Mrs. Margerum_,—“It’s not too heavy for you, is it, dear?”
      _Master Anthony Thom_ (hugging the package)—“O, no; I can manish
      it. When shall I come again, then, mother?” asked he, preparing
      to be off.

      _Mrs. Margerum_—“Oh, bless your sweet voice, my beloved. When
      shall you come again, indeed? I wish I could say very soon; but,
      dearest, it’s hardly safe, these nasty pollis fellers are always
      about, besides which, I question if old Nosey may be away again
      before the ball; and as he’ll be all on the screw for a while, to
      make up for past expense, I question it will be worth coming
      before then. So, my own dear Anthony Thom, s’pose we say the ball
      night, dear, about this time o’ night, and get a donkey to come
      on as far as the gates, if you can, for I dread the fatigue; and
      if you could get a pair of panniers, so much the better, you’d
      ride easier, and carry your things better, and might have a few
      fire-bricks or hearth-stones to put at the top, to pretend you
      were selling them, in case you were stopped—which, however, I
      hope won’t be the case, my own dear; but you can’t be too
      careful, for it’s a sad, sinful world, and people don’t care what
      they say of their neighbours. So now, my own dearest Anthony
      Thom, good night, and draw your worsted comforter close round
      your throat, for colds are the cause of half our complaints, and
      the night air is always to be dreaded; and take care that you
      don’t overheat yourself, but get a lift as soon as you can, only
      mind who it is with, and don’t say you’ve been here, and be back
      on the ball night. So good night, my own dearest Anthony Thom,
      and take care of yourself whatever you do, for——”

      “Good night, mother,” now interrupted Anthony Thom, adjusting the
      bundle under his arm, and with repeated “Good night, my own
      dearest,” from her, he gave it a finishing jerk, and turning
      round, set off on his way rejoicing.

      Sir Moses was too good a sportsman to holloa before his game was
      clear of the cover; and he not only let Anthony Thom’s footsteps
      die out on the gravel-walk, but the sash of Mrs. Margerum’s
      window descend ere he withdrew from his hiding-place and set off
      in pursuit. He then went tip-toeing along after him, and was soon
      within hearing of the heavily laden lad.

      “Anthony Thom, my dear! Anthony Thom,” whispered he, coming
      hastily upon him as he now turned the corner of the house.

      Anthony Thom stopped, and trembling violently exclaimed, “O Mr.
      Gallon, is it you?”

      “Yes, my dear, it’s me,” replied Sir Moses, adding, “you’ve _got_
      a great parcel, my dear; let me carry it for you,” taking it from
      him as he spoke.



      441m


      _Original Size_


      “_Shriek! shriek! scream!_” now went the terrified Thom, seeing
      into whose hands he had fallen. “O you dom’d young rascal,”
      exclaimed Sir Moses, muffling him with his wrapper,—“I’ll draw
      and quarter you if you make any noise. Come this way, you young
      miscreant!” added he, seizing him by the worsted comforter and
      dragging him along past the front of the house to the private
      door in the wall, through which Sir Moses disappeared when he
      wanted to evade Mon s. Rougier’s requirements for his
      steeple-chase money.

      That passed, they were in the stable-yard, now silent save the
      occasional stamp of the foot or roll of the halter of some horse
      that had not yet lain down. Sir Moses dragged his victim to the
      door in the corner leading to the whipper-in’s bedroom, which,
      being open, he proceeded to grope his way up stairs. “Harry! Joe!
      Joe! Harry!” holloaed he, kicking at the door.

      Now, Harry was away, but Joe was in bed; indeed he was having a
      hunt in his sleep, and exclaimed as the door at length yielded to
      the pressure of Sir Moses’ foot. “‘Od rot it! Don’t ride so near
      the hounds, man!”

      “Joe!” repeated Sir Moses, making up to the corner from whence
      the sound proceeded. “Joe! Joe!” roared he still louder.

      “O, I beg your pardon! I’ll open the gate!” exclaimed Joe, now
      throwing off the bed-clothes and bounding vigorously on to the
      floor.

      “Holloa!” exclaimed he, awaking and rubbing his eyes. “Holloa!
      who’s there?”

      “Me,” said Sir Moses, “me,”—adding: “Don’t make a row, but strike
      a light as quick as you can; I’ve got a bag fox I want to show
      you.”

      “Bag fox, have you?” replied Joe, now recognising his master’s
      voice, making for the mantel-piece and feeling for the box. “Bag
      fox, have you? Dreamt we were in the middle of a run from Ripley
      Coppice, and that I couldn’t get old Crusader over the brook at
      no price.” He then hit upon the box, and with a scrape of a
      lucifer the room was illuminated.

      Having lit a mould candle that stood stuck in the usual
      pint-bottle neck, Joe came with it in his hand to receive the
      instructions of his master.

      “Here’s a dom’d young scoundrel I’ve caught lurking about the
      house,” said Sir Moses, pushing Anthony Thom towards him “and I
      want you to give him a good hiding.”

      “Certainly, Sir Moses; certainly,” replied Joe, taking Anthony
      Thom by the ear as he would a hound, and looking him over amid
      the whining and whimpering and beggings for mercy of the boy.

      “Why this is the young rascal that stole my Sunday shirt off Mrs.
      Saunders’s hedge!” exclaimed Joe, getting a glimpse of Anthony
      Thom’s clayey complexioned face.

      “No, it’s not,” whined the boy. “No, it’s not. I never did
      nothin’ o’ the sort.”

      “Nothin’ o’ the sort!” retorted Joe, “why there ain’t two hugly
      boys with hare lips a runnin’ about the country,” pulling down
      the red-worsted comforter, and exposing the deformity as he
      spoke.

      “It’s you all over,” continued he, seizing a spare stirrup
      leather, and proceeding to administer the buckle-end most
      lustily. Anthony Thom shrieked and screamed, and yelled and
      kicked, and tried to bite; but Joe was an able practitioner, and
      Thom could never get a turn at him.

      Having finished one side, Joe then turned him over, and gave him
      a duplicate beating on the other side.

      “There! that’ll do: kick him down stairs!” at length cried Sir
      Moses, thinking Joe had given him enough; and as the boy went
      bounding head foremost down, he dropped into his mother’s arms,
      who, hearing his screams, had come to the rescue.

      Joe and his master then opened the budget and found the following
      goods:—

      2 lb. of tea, 1 bar of brown soap in a dirty cotton night-cap,
      marked C. F.; doubtless, as Sir Moses said, one of Cuddy
      Flintoff’s.

      “Dom all such dripping,” said Sir Moses, as he desired Joe to
      carry the things to the house. “No wonder that I drank a great
      deal of tea,” added he, as Joe gathered them together.

      “Who the deuce would keep house that could help it?” muttered Sir
      Moses, proceeding on his way to the mansion, thinking what a
      trouncing he would give Mrs. Margerum ere he turned her out of
      doors.

      1 lb. of coffee

      3 lb. of brown sugar

      3 lb. of starch

      1 lb. of currants

      1 lb. of rushlights

      1 roll of cocoa

      2 oz. of nutmegs

      1 lb. of mustard

      1 bar of pale soap

      1 lb. of orange peel

      1 bottle of capers

      1 quail of split pras



      CHAPTER LIX. ANOTHER COUNCIL OF WAR.—MR. GALLON AT HOME.


      MRS. Margerum having soothed and pressed her beautiful boy to her
      bosom, ran into the house, and hurrying on the everlasting
      pheasant-feather bonnet in which she was first introduced to the
      reader, and a faded red and green tartan cloak hanging under it,
      emerged at the front door just as Sir Moses and Joe entered at
      the back one, vowing that she would have redress if it cost her a
      fi’ pun note. Clutching dear Anthony Thom by the waist, she made
      the best of her way down the evergreen walk, and skirting the
      gardens, got upon the road near the keeper’s lodge. “Come along,
      my own dear Anthony Thom,” cried she, helping him along, “let us
      leave this horrid wicked hole.—Oh, dear! I wish I’d never set
      foot in it; but I’ll not have my Anthony Thom chastised by any
      nasty old clothesman—no, that I won’t, if it cost me a fifty pun
      note”—continued she, burning for vengeance. But Anthony Thom had
      been chastised notwithstanding, so well, indeed, that he could
      hardly hobble—seeing which, Mrs. Margerum halted, and again
      pressing him to her bosom, exclaimed, “Oh, my beloved Anthony
      Thom can’t travel; I’ll take him and leave him at Mr.
      Hindmarch’s, while I go and consult Mr. Gallon.”—So saying, she
      suddenly changed her course, and crossing Rye-hill green, and the
      ten-acre field adjoining, was presently undergoing the _wow-wow
      wow-wow_ of the farmer lawyer’o dog, Towler. The lawyer, ever
      anxious for his poultry, was roused by the noise; and after a
      rattle of bolts, and sliding of a sash, presented his cotton
      night-capped head at an upper window, demanding in a stentorian
      voice “who was there?”

      “Me! Mr. Hindmarch, me! Mrs. Margerum; for pity’s sake take us
      in, for my poor dear boy’s been most shemfully beat.”

      “Beat, has he!” exclaimed the lawyer, recognising the voice, his
      ready wit jumping to an immediate conclusion; “beat, has he!”
      repeated he, withdrawing from the window to fulfil her behest,
      adding to himself as he struck a light and descended the
      staircase, “that’ll ha’ summut to do with the dripping, I
      guess—always thought it would come to mischief at last.” The
      rickety door being unbolted and opened, Mrs. Margerum and her boy
      entered, and Mrs. Hindmarch having also risen and descended, the
      embers of the kitchen fire were resuscitated, and Anthony Thom
      was examined by the united aid of a tallow candle and it. “Oh,
      see! see!” cried Mrs. Margerum, pointing out the wales on his
      back,—“was there ever a boy so shemfully beat? But I’ll have
      revenge on that villainous man,—that I will, if it cost me a
      hundred pun note.”—The marks seen, soothed, and deplored, Mr.
      Hindmarch began inquiring who had done it. “Done it! that nasty
      old Nosey,” replied Mrs. Margerum, her eyes flashing with fire;
      “but I’ll make the mean feller pay for it,” added she,—“that I
      will.”

      “No, it wasn’t old No-No-Nosey, mo-mo-mother,” now sobbed Anthony
      Thom, “it was that nasty Joe Ski-Ski-Skinner.”

      “Skinner, was it, my priceless jewel,” replied Mrs. Margerum,
      kissing him, “I’ll skin him; but Nosey was there, wasn’t he, my
      pet?”

      “O, yes, Nosey was there,” replied Anthony Thom, “it was him that
      took me to Ski-Ski-Skinner”—the boy bursting out into a fresh
      blubber, and rubbing his dirty knuckles into his streaming eyes
      as he spoke.

      “O that Skinner’s a bad un,” gasped Mrs. Margerum, “always said
      he was a mischievous, dangerous man; but I’ll have satisfaction
      of both him and old Nosey,” continued she, “or I’ll know the
      reason why.”

      The particulars of the catastrophe being at length related (at
      least as far as it suited Mrs. Margerum to tell it), the kettle
      was presently put on the renewed fire, a round table produced,
      and the usual consolation of the black bottle resorted to. Then
      as the party sat sipping their grog, a council of war was held as
      to the best course of proceeding. Lawyer Hindmarch was better
      versed in the law of landlord and tenant—the best way of a tenant
      doing his landlord,—than in the more recondite doctrine of master
      and servant, particularly the delicate part relating to
      perquisites; and though he thought Sir Moses had done wrong in
      beating the boy, he was not quite sure but there might be
      something in the boy being found about the house at an
      unseasonable hour of the night. Moreover, as farming times were
      getting dull, and the lawyer was meditating a slope _à la_
      Henerey Brown & Co.? he did not wish to get mixed up in a case
      that might bring him in collision with Sir Moses or his agent, so
      he readily adopted Mrs. Margerum’s suggestion of going to consult
      Mr. George Gallon. He really thought Mr. Gallon would be the very
      man for her to see. Geordey was up to everything, and knew nicely
      what people could stand by, and what they could not; and lawyer
      Hindmarch was only sorry his old grey gig-mare was lame, or he
      would have driven her up to George’s at once. However, there was
      plenty of time to get there on foot before morning, and they
      would take care of Anthony Thom till she came back, only she must
      be good enough not to return till nightfall; for that nasty
      suspicious Nathan was always prowling about, and would like
      nothing better than to get him into mischief with Sir Moses.—And
      that point being settled, they replenished their glasses, and
      drank success to the mission; and having seen the belaboured
      Anthony Thom safe in a shakedown, Mrs. Margerum borrowed Mrs.
      Hindmarch’s second best bonnet, a frilled and beaded black velvet
      one with an ostrich feather, and her polka jacket, and set off on
      foot for the Rose and Crown beer-shop, being escorted to their
      door by her host and hostess, who assured her it wouldn’t be so
      dark when she got away from the house a bit.

      And that point being accomplished, lawyer and Mrs. Hindmarch
      retired to rest, wishing they were as well rid of Anthony Thom,
      whom they made no doubt had got into a sad scrape, in which they
      wished they mightn’t be involved.

      A sluggish winter’s day was just dragging its lazy self into
      existence as Mrs. Margerum came within sight of Mr. Gallon’s
      red-topped roof at the four lane ends, from whose dumpy chimney
      the circling curl of a wood fire was just emerging upon the pure
      air. As she got nearer, the early-stirring Mr. Gallon himself
      crossed the road to the stable, attired in the baggy velveteen
      shooting-jacket of low with the white cords and shining
      pork-butcher’s top-boots of high life. Mr. Gallon was going to
      feed Tippy Tom before setting off for the great open champion
      coursing meeting to be held on Spankerley Downs, “by the kind
      permission of Sir Harry Fuzball, Baronet,” it being one of the
      peculiar features of the day that gentlemen who object to having
      their game killed in detail, will submit to its going wholesale,
      provided it is done with a suitable panegyrick. “By the kind
      permission of Sir Harry Fuzball, Baronet,” or “by leave of the
      lord of the manor of Flatshire,” and so on; and thus every idler
      who can’t keep himself is encouraged to keep a greyhound, to the
      detriment of a nice lady-like amusement, and the encouragement of
      gambling and poaching.

      Mr. Gallon was to be field steward of this great open champion
      meeting, and had been up betimes, polishing off Tippy Tom; which
      having done, he next paid a similar compliment to his own person;
      and now again was going to feed the flash high-stepping screw,
      ere he commenced with his breakfast.

      Mrs. Margerum’s “_hie Mr. Gallon, hie!_” and up-raised hand, as
      she hurried down the hill towards his house, arrested his
      progress as he passed to the stable with the sieve, and he now
      stood biting the oats, and eyeing her approach with the
      foreboding of mischief that so seldom deceives one.

      “O Mr. Gallon! O Mr. Gallon!” cried Mrs. Margerum, tottering up,
      and dropping her feathered head on his brawny shoulder.

      “_What’s oop? What’s oop?_” eagerly demanded our sportsman,
      fearing for his fair character.

      “O Mr. Gallon! _such_ mischief! _such_ mischief!”

      “Speak, woman! speak!” demanded our publican; “say, _has he
      cotched ye?_”

      “Yes, Gerge, yes,” sobbed Mrs. Margerum, bursting into tears. “To
      devil he has!” exclaimed Mr. Gallon, stamping furiously with his
      right foot, “Coom into it hoose, woman; coom into it hoose, and
      tell us arl aboot it.” So saying, forgetting Tippy Toni’s wants,
      he retraced his steps with the corn, and flung frantically into
      the kitchen of his little two-roomed cottage.

      “Here, lassie!” cried he, to a little girl, who was frying a dish
      of bubble-and-squeak at the fire. “Here, lassie, set doon it pan
      loike, aud tak this corn to it huss, and stand by while it eats
      it so saying he handed her the sieve, and following her to the
      door, closed it upon her.

      “Noo,” said he to Mrs. Margerum, “sit doon and tell us arl aboot
      it. Who cotched ye? Nosey, or who?”

      “0 it wasn’t me! It was Anthony Thom they caught, and they used
      him most shemful; but I’ll have him tried for his life ofore my
      Lord Size, and transported, if it costs me all I’m worth in the
      world.”

      “Anthony Thom was it?” rejoined Mr. Gallon, raising his great
      eye-brows, and staring wide his saucer eyes, “Anthony Thom was
      it? but he’d ha’ nothin’ upon oi ‘ope?”

      “Nothin’, Gerge,” replied Mrs. Margerum, “nothin’—less now it
      might just appen to be an old rag of a night-eap of that nasty,
      covetous body Cuddy Flintoff; but whether it had a mark upon it
      or not I really can’t say.”

      “O dear, but that’s a bad job,” rejoined Mr. Gallon, biting his
      lips and shaking his great bull-head; “O dear, but that’s a bad
      job. you know I always chairged ye to be careful ‘boot unlawful
      goods.”

      “You did, Gerge! you did!” sighed Mrs. Margerum; “and if this old
      rag had a mark, it was a clear oversight. But, O dear!” continued
      she, bursting into tears, “how they did _beat_ my Anthony Thom!”
      With this relief she became more composed, and proceeded to
      disclose all the particulars.

      “Ah, this ‘ill be a trick of those nasty pollis fellers,”
      observed Mr. Gallon thoughtfully, “oi know’d they’d be the ruin
      o’ trade as soon as ever they came into it country loike—nasty
      pokin’, pryin’, mischievous fellers. Hoosomiver it mun be seen
      to, aud that quickly,” continued he. “for it would damage me
      desp’rate on the Torf to have ony disturbance o’ this sorrt, and
      we mun stop it if we can.

      “Here, lassie!” cried he to the little girl who had now returned
      from the stable, “lay cloth i’ next room foike, and then finish
      the fryin’; and oi’ll tell ve what,” continued he, laying his
      huge hand on Mrs. Margerum’s shoulder, “oi’ve got to go to it
      champion cooursin’ meetin’, so I’ll just put it hus into harness
      and droive ye round by it Bird-i’-the-Bush, where we’ll find
      Carroty Kebbel, who’ll tell us what te do, for oi don’t like the
      noight-cap business some hoo,” so saying Mr. Gallon took his
      silver plated harness down from its peg in the kitchen, and
      proceeded to caparison Tippy Tom, while the little girl, now
      assisted by Mrs. Margerum, prepared the breakfast, and set it on
      the table. Rather a sumptuous repast they had, considering it was
      only a way-side beer-shop; bubble-and-squeak, reindeer-tongue,
      potted game, potted shrimps, and tea strikingly like some of Sir
      Moses’s. The whole being surmounted with a glass a-piece of pure
      British gin, Mr. Gallon finished his toilette, and then left to
      put the high-stepping screw into the light spring-cart, while
      Mrs. Margerum reviewed her visage in the glass, and as the
      openworks clock in the kitchen struck nine, they were dashing
      down the Heatherbell-road at the rate of twelve miles an hour.



      CHAPTER LX. MR. CARROTY KEBBEL.


      MR. Carroty Kebbel was a huge red-haired, Crimean-bearded,
      peripatetic attorney, who travelled from petty sessions to petty
      sessions, spending his intermediate time at the public houses,
      ferreting out and getting up cases. He was a roistering ruffian,
      who contradicted everybody, denied everything, and tried to get
      rid of what he couldn’t answer with a horse-laugh. He was in good
      practice, for he allowed the police a liberal per-centage for
      bringing him prosecutions, while his bellowing bullying insured
      him plenty of defences on his own account. He was retained by
      half the ragamuffins in the country. He had long been what Mr.
      Gallon not inaptly called his “liar,” and had done him such good
      service as to earn free quarters at the Rose and Crown whenever
      he liked to call. He had been there only the day before, in the
      matter of an _alibi_ he was getting up for our old hare-finding
      friend Springer, who was most unhandsomely accused of
      night-poaching in Lord Oilcake’s preserves, and that was how Mr.
      Gallon knew where to find him. The Crumpletin railway had opened
      out a fine consecutive line of petty sessions, out of which
      Carrots had carved a “home circuit” of his own. He was then on
      his return tour.

      With the sprightly exertions of Tippy Tom, Gallon and Mrs.
      Margerum were soon within sight of the Bird-in-the-Bush Inn, at
      which Gallon drew up with a dash. Carrots, however, had left some
      half-hour before, taking the road for Farningford, where the
      petty sessions were about to be held; and though this was
      somewhat out of Gallon’s way to Spankerley Downs, yet the urgency
      of the case determined him to press on in pursuit, and try to see
      Carrots. Tippy Tom, still full of running, went away again like a
      shot, and bowling through Kimberley toll-bar with the air of a
      man who was free, Gallon struck down the Roughfield road to the
      left, availing himself of the slight fall of the ground to make
      the cart run away with the horse, as it were, and so help him up
      the opposing hill. That risen, they then got upon level ground;
      and, after bowling along for about a mile or so, were presently
      cheered with the sight of the black wide-awake crowned lawyer
      striding away in the distance.

      Carrots was a disciple of the great Sir Charles Napier, who said
      that a change of linen, a bit of soap, and a comb were kit enough
      for any one; and being only a two-shirts-a-week man, he generally
      left his “other” one at such locality as he was likely to reach
      about the middle of it, so as to apportion the work equally
      between them. This was clean-shirt day with him, and he was
      displaying his linen in the ostentatious way of a man little
      accustomed to the luxury. With the exception of a
      lavender-and-white coloured watch-ribbon tie, he was dressed in a
      complete suit of black-grounded tweed, with the purple dots of an
      incipient rash, the coat having capacious outside pockets, and
      the trousers being now turned up at the bottoms to avoid the mud;
      “showing” rhinoceros hide-like shoes covering most
      formidable-looking feet. Such was the monster who was now
      swinging along the highway at the rate of five miles an hour, in
      the full vigour of manhood, and the pride of the morning. At the
      sight of him in advance, Mr. Gallon just touched Tippy Tom with
      the point of the whip, which the animal resented with a dash at
      the collar and a shake of the head, that as good as said, “You’d
      better not do that again, master, unless you wish to take your
      vehicle home in a sack.” Mr. Gallon therefore refrained,
      enlisting the aid of his voice instead, and after a series of
      those slangey-whiney _yaah-hoo! yaah-hoo’s!_ that the
      swell-stage-coachmen, as they called the Snobs, used to indulge
      in to clear the road or attract attention, Mr. Gallon broke out
      into a good downright “Holloa, Mr. Kebbel! Holloa!”

      At the sound of his name, Carrots, who was spouting his usual
      exculpatory speech, vowing he felt certain no bench of Justices
      would convict on such evidence, and so on, pulled up; and Mr.
      Gallon, waving his whip over his head, he faced about, and sat
      down on a milestone to wait his coming. The vehicle was presently
      alongside of him.

      “Holloa, George!” exclaimed Carrots, rising and shaking hands
      with his client. “Holloa! What’s up? Who’s this you’ve got?”
      looking intently at Mrs. Margerum.

      “I’ll tell you,” said George, easing the now quivering-tailed
      Tippy Tom’s head; “this is Mrs. Margerum you’ve heard me speak
      ‘boot; and she’s loike to get into a little trooble loike; and I
      tell’d her she’d best see a ‘liar’ as soon as she could.”

      “Just so,” nodded Kebbel, anticipating what had happened. “You
      see,” continued Mr. Gallon, winding his whip thong round the
      stick as he spoke “in packing up some little bit things in a
      hurry loike, she put up a noight cap, and she’s not quoite sure
      whether she can stand by it or not, ye know.”

      “I see,” assented Carrots; “and they’ve got it, I ‘spose?”

      “I don’t know that they got it,” now interposed Mrs. Margerum;
      “but they got my Anthony Thom, and beat him most shameful. Can’t
      I have redress for my Anthony Thom?”

      “We’ll see,” said Carrots, resuming his seat on the milestone,
      and proceeding to elicit all particulars, beginning with the
      usual important inquiry, whether Anthony Thom had said anything
      or not. Finding he had not, Carrots took courage, and seemed
      inclined to make light of the matter. “The groceries you bought,
      of course,” said he, “of Roger Rounding the basket-man—Roger will
      swear anything for me; and as for the night-cap, why say it was
      your aunt’s, or your niece’s, or your sister’s—Caroline
      Somebody’s—Caroline Frazer’s, Charlotte Friar’s, anybody’s whose
      initials are C. F.”

      “O! but it wasn’t a woman’s night-cap, sir, it was a man’s; the
      sort of cap they hang folks in; and I should like to hang Old
      Mosey for beating my Anthony Thom,” rejoined Mrs. Margerum.

      “I’m afraid we can’t hang him for that,” replied Mr. Kebbel,
      laughing. “Might have him up for the assault, perhaps.”

      “Well, have him up for the assault,” rejoined Mrs. Margerum;
      “have him up for the assault. What business had he to beat my
      Anthony Thom?”

      “Get him fined a shilling, and have to pay your own costs,
      perhaps,” observed Mr. Kebbel; “better leave that alone, and
      stick to the parcel business—better stick to the parcel business.
      There are salient points in the case. The hour of the night is an
      awkward part,” continued he, biting his nails; “not but that the
      thing is perfectly capable of explanation, only the Beaks don’t
      like that sort of work, it won’t do for us to provoke an inquiry
      into the matter.”

      “Just so,” assented Mr. Gallon, who thought Mrs. Margerum had
      better be quiet.

      “Well, but it’s hard that my Anthony Thom’s to be beat, and get
      no redress!” exclaimed Mrs. Margerum, bursting into tears.

      “Hush, woman! hush!” muttered Mr. Gallon, giving her a dig in the
      ribs with his elbow; adding, “ye mun de what it liar tells ye.”

      “I’ll tell you what I can do,” continued Mr. Kebbel, after a
      pause. “They’ve got my old friend Mark Bull, the
      ex-Double-im-up-shire Super, into this force, and think him a
      great card. I’ll get him to go to Sir Moses about the matter; and
      if Mark finds we are all right about the cap, he’s the very man
      to put Mosey up to a prosecution, and then we shall make a rare
      harvest out of him,” Carrots rubbing his hands with glee at the
      idea of an action for a malicious prosecution.

      “Ay, that’ll be the gam,” said Mr. Gallon, chuckling,—“that’ll be
      the gam; far better nor havin’ of him oop for the ‘sult.”

      “I think so,” said Mr. Kebbel, “I think so; at all events I’ll
      consider the matter; and if I send Mark to Sir Moses, I’ll tell
      him to come round by your place and let you know what he does;
      but, in the meantime,” continued Kebbel, rising and addressing
      Mrs. Margerum earnestly, “_don’t you answer any questions_ to
      anybody, and tell Anthony Thom to hold his tongue too, and I’ve
      no doubt Mr. Gallon and I’ll make it all right;” so saying, Mr.
      Kebbel shook hands with them both, and stalked on to his
      petty-sessional practice.

      Gallon then coaxed Tippy Turn round, and, retracing his steps as
      far as Kimberley gate, paid the toll, and shot Mrs. Margerum out,
      telling her to make the best of her way back to the Rose and
      Crown, and stay there till he returned. Gallon then took the road
      to the right, leading on to the wide-extending Spankerley Downs;
      where, unharnessing Tippy Tom under lea of a secluded plantation,
      he produced a saddle and bridle from the back of the cart, which,
      putting on, he mounted the high-stepping white, and was presently
      among the coursers, the greatest man at the meeting, some of the
      yokels, indeed, taking him for Sir Harry Fuzball himself.

      But when Mr. Mark Bull arrived at Sir Moses’s, things had taken
      another turn, for the Baronet, in breaking open what he thought
      was one of Mrs. Margerum’s boxes, had in reality got into Mr.
      Bankhead’s, where, finding his ticket of leave, he was availing
      himself of that worthy’s absence to look over the plate prior to
      dismissing him, and Sir Moses made so light of Anthony Thom’s
      adventure that the Super had his trouble for nothing. Thus the
      heads of the house—_the_ Mr. and Mrs. in fact, were cleared out
      in one and the same day, by no means an unusual occurrence in an
      establishment, after which of course Sir Moses was so inundated
      with stories against them, that he almost resolved to imitate his
      great predecessor’s example and live at the Fox and Hounds Hotel
      at Hinton in future. To this place his mind was now more than
      ordinarily directed in consequence of the arrangements that were
      then making for the approaching Hunt Ball, to which long
      looked-for festival we will now request the company of the
      reader.



      CHAPTER LXI. THE HUNT BALL.—MISS DE GLANCEY’S REFLECTIONS.

      452m


      _Original Size_


      THE Hit-im and Hold-im shire hunt balls had long been celebrated
      for their matrimonial properties, as well for settling ripe
      flirtations, as for bringing to a close the billing and cooing of
      un-productive love, and opening fresh accounts with the popular
      firm of “Cupid and Co.” They were the greenest spot on the
      memory’s waste of many, on the minds of some whose recollections
      carried them back to the romping, vigorous Sir Roger de Coverley
      dances of Mr. Customer’s time,—of many who remembered the more
      stately glide of the elegant quadrille of Lord Martingal’s reign,
      down to the introduction of the once scandalising waltz and polka
      of our own. Many “Ask Mamma’s” had been elicited by these balls,
      and good luck was said to attend all their unions.

      Great had been the changes in the manners and customs of the
      country, but the one dominant plain gold ring idea remained fixed
      and immutable. The Hit-im and Hold-im shire hunt ball was
      expected to furnish a great demand for these, and Garnet the
      silversmith always exhibited an elegant white satin-lined morocco
      case full in his window, in juxtaposition with rows of the bright
      dress-buttons of the hunt, glittering on beds of delicate
      rose-tinted tissue paper.

      All the milliners far and wide used to advertise their London and
      Parisian finery for the occasion, like our friend Mrs.
      Bobbinette,—for the railway had broken through the once
      comfortable monopoly that Mrs. Russelton and the Hinton ones
      formerly enjoyed, and had thrown crinoline providing upon the
      country at large. Indeed, the railway had deranged the old order
      of things; for whereas in former times a Doubleimnpshire or a
      Neck-and-Crop shire sportsman was rarely to be seen at the balls,
      aud those most likely under pressure of most urgent “Ask Mamma”
      circumstances, now they came swarming down like swallows,
      consuming a most unreasonable quantity of Champagne—always, of
      course, returning and declaring it was all “gusberry.” Formerly
      the ball was given out of the Hit-im and Hold-im shire hunt
      funds; but this unwonted accession so increased the expense, that
      Sir Moses couldn’t stand it, dom’d of he could; and he caused a
      rule to be passed, declaring that after a certain sum allowed by
      the club, the rest should be paid by a tax on the tickets, so
      that the guest-inviting members might pay for their friends. In
      addition to this, a sliding-seale of Champagne was adopted,
      beginning with good, and gradually relaxing in quality, until
      there is no saying but that some of the late sitters might get a
      little gooseberry. Being, however, only a guest, we ought not
      perhaps to be too critical in the matter, so we will pass on to
      the more general features of the entertainment.

      We take it a woman’s feelings and a man’s feelings with regard to
      a ball are totally different and distinct.

      Men—unmarried men, at least—know nothing of the intrinsic value
      of a dress, they look at the general effect on the figure.
      Piquant simplicity, something that the mind grasps at a glance
      and retains—such as Miss Yammerton’s dress in the glove scene—is
      what they like. Many ladies indeed seem to get costly dresses in
      order to cover them over with something else, just as gentlemen
      build handsome lodges to their gates, and then block them out of
      sight by walls.

      But even if ball-dresses were as attractive to the gentlemen as
      the ladies seem to think them, they must remember the competition
      they have to undergo in a ball-room, where great home beauties
      may be suddenly eclipsed by unexpected rivals, and young
      gentlemen see that there are other angels in the world besides
      their own adored ones. Still balls are balls, and fashion is
      fashion, and ladies must conform to it, or what could induce them
      to introduce the bits of black of the present day into their
      coloured dresses, as if they were just emerging from mourning.
      Even our fair friends at Yammerton Grange conformed to the
      fashion, and edged the many pink satin-ribboned flounces of their
      white tulle dresses with narrow black lace—though they would have
      looked much prettier without.

      Of all the balls given by the members of the Hit-im and Hold-im
      shire hunt, none had perhaps excitcd greater interest than the
      one about to take place, not only on account of its own intrinsic
      merits as a ball, but because of the many tender emotions waiting
      for solutions on that eventful evening. Among others it may be
      mentioned that our fat friend the Woolpack, whose portrait adorns
      page 241, had confided to Mrs. Rocket Larkspur, who kept a sort
      of register-office for sighers, his admiration of the fair
      auburn-haired Flora Yammerton; and Mrs. Rocket having duly
      communicated the interesting fact to the young lady, intimating,
      of course, that he would have the usual “ten thousand a year,”
      Flora had taken counsel with herself whether she had not better
      secure him, than contend with her elder sister either for Sir
      Moses or Mr. Pringle, especially as she did not much fancy Sir
      Moses, and Billy was very wavering in his attentions, sometimes
      looking extremely sweet at her, sometimes equally so at Clara,
      and at other times even smiling on that little childish minx
      Harriet. Indeed Mrs. Rocket Larkspur, in the multiplicity of her
      meddling, had got a sort of half-admission from that young owl,
      Rowley Abingdon, that he thought Harriet very pretty, and she
      felt inclined to fan the flame of that speculation too.

      Then Miss Fairey, of Yarrow Court, was coming, and it was
      reported that Miss de Glancey had applied for a ticket, in order
      to try and cut her out with the elegant Captain Languisher, of
      the Royal Hollyhock Hussars. Altogether it was expected to be a
      capital ball, both for dancers and lookers-on.

      People whose being’s end and aim is gaiety, as they call
      converting night into day, in rolling from party to party, with
      all the means and appliances of London, can have little idea of
      the up-hill work it is in the country, getting together the
      ingredients of a great ball. The writing for rooms, the fighting
      for rooms—the bespeaking of horses, the not getting horses—the
      catching the train, the losing the train—above all, the choosing
      and ordering those tremendous dresses, with the dread of not
      getting those tremendous dresses, of their being carried by in
      the train, or not fitting when they come. Nothing but the
      indomitable love of a ball, as deeply implanted in a woman’s
      heart as the love of a hunt is in that of a man, can account for
      the trouble and vexation they undergo.

      But if ’tis a toil to the guests, what must it be to the givers,
      with no friendly Grange or Gunter at hand to supply everything,
      guests included, if required, at so much per head! Youth,
      glorious youth, comes to the aid, aud enters upon the labour with
      all the alacrity that perhaps distinguished their fathers.

      Let us now suppose the absorbing evening come; and that
      all-important element in country festivities, the moon shining
      with silvery dearness as well on the railway gliders as on the
      more patient plodders by the road. What a converging there was
      upon the generally quiet town of Hinton; reminding the older
      inhabitants of the best days of Lord Martingal and Mr. Customer’s
      reigns. What a gathering up there was of shining satins and
      rustling silks and moire antiques, white, pink, blue, yellow,
      green, to say nothing of clouds of tulle; what a compression of
      swelling eider-down and watch-spring petticoats; and what a
      bolt-upright sitting of that happy pride which knows no pain, as
      party after party took up and proceeded to the scene of hopes and
      fears at the Fox and Hounds Hotel and Posting House.

      The ball-room was formed of the entire suite of first-floor front
      apartments, which, on ordinary occasions, did duty as private
      rooms—private, at least, as far as thin deal partitions could
      make them so—and the supper was laid out in our old acquaintance
      the club-room, connected by a sort of Isthmus of Suez, with a
      couple of diminutive steps towards the end to shoot the
      incautious becomingly, headforemost, into the room.

      Carriages set down under the arched doorway, and a little along
      the passage the Blenheim was converted into a cloak-room for the
      ladies, where the voluminous dresses were shook out, and the last
      hurried glances snatched amid anxious groups of jostling
      arrivals. Gentlemen then emerging from the commercial room
      rejoined their fair friends in the passage, and were entrusted
      with fans and flowers while, with both hands, they steered their
      balloon-like dresses up the red druggetted staircase.



      455m


      _Original Size_


      Gentlemen’s balls have the advantage over those given by ladies,
      inasmuch as the gentlemen must be there early to receive their
      fair guests; and as a ball can always begin as soon as there are
      plenty of gentlemen, there are not those tedious delays and
      gatherings of nothing but crinoline that would only please Mr.
      Spurgeon.

      The large highly-glazed, gilt-lettered, yellow card of
      invitation, intimated nine o’clock as the hour; by which time
      most of the Hinton people were ready, and all the outlying ones
      were fast drawing towards the town. Indeed, there was nothing to
      interfere with the dancing festivities, for dinner giving on a
      ball night is not popular with the ladies—enough for the evening
      being the dance thereof. Country ladies are not like London ones,
      who can take a dinner, an opera, two balls, and an at-home in one
      and the same night. As to the Hinton gentlemen, they were very
      hospitable so long as nobody wanted anything from them; if they
      did, they might whistle a long time before they got it. If, for
      instance, that keeper of a house of call for Bores, Paul
      Straddler, saw a mud-sparked man with a riding-whip in his hand,
      hurrying about the town, he would after him, and press him to
      dine off, perhaps, “crimped cod and oyster sauce, and a leg of
      four year old mutton, with a dish of mince pies or woodcocks,
      whichever he preferred;” but on a ball night, when it would be a
      real convenience to a man to have a billet, Paul never thought of
      asking any one, though when he met his friends in the ball, and
      heard they had been uncomfortable at the Sun or the Fleece, he
      would exclaim, with well-feigned reproach, “Oh dash it, man, why
      didn’t you come to me?”

      But let us away to the Fox and Hounds, and see what is going on.

      To see the repugnance people have to being early at a ball, one
      would wonder how dancing ever gets begun. Yet somebody must be
      there first, though we question whether any of our fair readers
      ever performed the feat; at all events, if ever they did, we will
      undertake to say they have taken very good care not to repeat the
      performance.

      The Blurkinses were the first to arrive on this occasion, having
      only themselves to think about, and being anxious, as they said,
      to see as much as they could for their money. Then having been
      duly received by Sir Moses and the gallant circle of fox-hunters,
      and passed inwardly, they took up a position so as to be able to
      waylay those who came after with their coarse compliments,
      beginning with Mrs. Dotherington, who, Blurkins declared, had
      worn the grey silk dress she then had on, ever since he knew her.

      Jimmy Jarperson, the Laughing Hyæna, next came under his notice,
      Blurkins telling him that his voice grated on his ear like a
      file; asking if any body else had ever told him so.

      Mrs. Rocket Larkspur, who was duly distended in flaming red
      satin, was told she was like a full-blown peony; and young
      Treadcroft was asked if he knew that people called him the
      Woolpack.

      Meanwhile Mrs. Blurkins kept pinching and feeling the ladies’
      dresses as they passed, making a mental estimate of their cost.
      She told Miss Yammerton she had spoilt her dress by the black
      lace.

      A continuously ascending stream of crinoline at length so
      inundated the room, that by ten o’clock Sir Moses thought it was
      time to open the ball; so deputing Tommy Heslop to do the further
      honours at the door, he sought Lady Fuzball, and claimed the
      favour of her hand for the first quadrille.

      This was a signal for the unmated ones to pair; and forthwith
      there was such a drawing on of gloves, such a feeling of ties,
      such a rising on tiptoes, and straining of eyes, and running
      about, asking for Miss This, and Miss That, and if anybody had
      seen anything of Mrs. So-and-so.

      At length the sought ones were found, anxiety abated, and the
      glad couples having secured suitable _vis-à-vis_, proceeded to
      take up positions.

      At a flourish of the leader’s baton, the enlivening “La Traviata”
      struck up, and away the red coats and black coats went sailing
      and sinking, and rising and jumping, and twirling with the
      lightly-floating dresses of the ladies.

      The “Pelissier Galop” quickly followed, then the “Ask Mamma
      Polka,” and just as the music ceased, and the now
      slightly-flushed couples were preparing for a small-talk
      promenade, a movement took place near the door, and the elegant
      swan-like de Glancey was seen sailing into the room with her
      scarlet-geranium-festooned dress set off with eight hundred yards
      of tulle! Taking her chaperone Mrs. Roseworth’s arm, she came
      sailing majestically along, the men all alive for a smile, the
      ladies laughing at what they called her preposterous dimensions.

      But de Glancey was not going to defeat her object by any
      premature condescension; so she just met the men’s raptures with
      the slightest recognition of her downcast eyes, until she
      encountered the gallant Captain Languisher with lovely Miss
      Fairey on his arm, when she gave him one of her most captivating
      smiles, thinking to have him away from Miss Fairey in no time.

      But Miss de Glancey was too late! The Captain had just “popped
      the question,” and was then actually on his way to “Ask Mamma,”
      and so returned her greeting with an air of cordial indifference,
      that as good as said, “Ah, my dear, you’ll not do for me.”

      Miss de Glancey was shocked. It was the first time in her life
      that she had ever missed her aim. Nor was her mortification
      diminished by the cool way our hero, Mr. Pringle, next met her
      advances. She had been so accustomed to admiration, that she
      could ill brook the want of it, and the double blow was too much
      for her delicate sensibilities. She felt faint, and as soon as
      she could get a fly large enough to hold herself and her
      chaperone, she withdrew, the mortification of this evening far
      more than counterbalancing all the previous triumphs of her life.

      One person more or less at a ball, however, is neither here nor
      there, and the music presently struck up again, and the whirling
      was resumed, just as if there was no such person as Miss de
      Glancey in existence. And thus waltz succeeded polka, and polka
      succeeded quadrille, with lively rapidity—every one declaring it
      was a most delightful ball, and wondering when supper would be.

      At length there was a lull, and certain unmistakeable symptoms
      announced that the hour for that superfluous but much talked of
      meal had arrived, whereupon there was the usual sorting of
      consequence to draw to the cross table at the top of the room,
      with the pairing off of eligible couples who could be trusted
      alone, and the shirking of Mammas by those who were not equally
      fortunate. Presently a movement was made towards the Isthmus of
      Suez, on reaching which the rotund ladies had to abandon their
      escorts to pilot their petticoats through the straits amid the
      cries of “take care of the steps!” “mind the steps at the end!”
      from those who knew the dangers of the passage. And thus the
      crinoline came circling into the supper room—each lady again
      expanding with the increased space, and reclaiming her beau.
      Supper being as we said before a superfluous meal, it should be
      light and airy, something to please the eye and tempt the
      appetite; not composed of great solid joints that look like a
      farmer’s ordinary, or a rent-day dinner with “night mare”
      depicted on every dish. The Hit-im and Hold-im shire hunt balls
      had always been famous for the elegance of their supper, Lord
      Ladythorne kindly allowing his Italian confectioner, Signor
      Massaniello, to superintend the elegancies, that excited such
      admiration from the ladies as they worked their ways or wedged
      themselves in at the tables, but whose beauty did not save them
      from destruction as the evening advanced. At first of course the
      solids were untouched, the tongues, the hams, the chickens, the
      turkeys, the lobster salads, the nests of plover eggs, the
      clatter patter being relieved by a heavy salvo of Champagne
      artillery. Brisk was the demand for it at starting, for the
      economical arrangement was as well known as if it had been
      placarded about the room. When the storm of corks had subsided
      and clean plates been supplied, the sweets, the jellies, the
      confectionery were attacked, and occasional sly sorties were made
      against the flower sugar vases and ornaments of the table. Then
      perspiring waiters came panting in with more Champagne fresh out
      of the ice, and again arm-extended the glasses hailed its coming,
      though some of the Neck-and-Crop-shire gentlemen smacked their
      lips after drinking it, and pronounced it to be No. 2.
      Nevertheless they took some more when it came round again. At
      length the most voracious cormorant was appeased, and all eyes
      gradually turned towards the sporting president in the centre of
      the cross table.

      We have heard it said that the House of Commons is the most
      appalling and critical assembly in the world to address, but we
      confess we think a mixed party of ladies and gentlemen at a
      sit-down supper a more formidable audience.

      We don’t know anything more painful than to hear a tongue-tied
      country gentleman floundering for words and scrambling after an
      idea that the quick-witted ladies have caught long before he
      comes within sight of his subject. Theirs is like the sudden dart
      of the elastic greyhound compared to the solemn towl of the old
      slow-moving “southern” hound after its game.

      Sir Moses, however, as our readers know, was not one of the
      tongue-tied sort—on the contrary, he had a great flow of words
      and could palaver the ladies as well as the gentlemen. Indeed he
      was quite at home in that room where he had coaxed and wheedled
      subscriptions, promised wonders, and given away horses without
      the donees incurring any “obligation.” Accordingly at the fitting
      time he rose from his throne, and with one stroke of his hammer
      quelled the remaining conversation which had been gradually dying
      out in anticipation of what was coming. He then called for a
      bumper toast, and after alluding in felicitous terms to the happy
      event that so aroused the “symphonies” of old Wotherspoon, he
      concluded by proposing the health of her Majesty the Queen, which
      of course was drunk with three times three and one cheer more.
      The next toast, of course, was the ladies who had honoured the
      Ball with their presence, and certainly if ever ladies ought to
      be satisfied with the compliments paid them, it was on the
      present occasion, for Sir Moses vowed and protested that of all
      beauties the Hit-im and Hold-im shire beauties were the fairest,
      the brightest, and the best; and he said it would be a downright
      reflection upon the rising generation if they did not follow the
      Crown Prince of Prussia’s excellent example, and make that ball
      to be the most blissful and joyous of their recollections. This
      toast being heartily responded to, Sir Moses leading the cheers,
      Sir Harry Fuzball rose to return thanks on behalf of the ladies,
      any one of whom could have done it a great deal better; after
      which old Sir George Persiflage, having arranged his lace-tipped
      tie, proposed the health of Sir Moses, and spoke of him in very
      different terms to what Sir Moses did of Sir George at the hunt
      dinner, and this, answer affording Sir Moses another
      opportunity—the good Champagne being exhausted—he renewed his
      former advice, and concluded by moving an adjournment to the
      ball-room. Then the weight of oratory being off, the school broke
      loose as it were, and all parties paired off as they liked. Many
      were the trips at the steps as they returned by the narrow
      passage to the ball-room. The “Ask Mamma” Polka then
      appropriately struck up, but polking being rather beyond our
      Baronet’s powers he stood outside the ring rubbing his nose and
      eyeing the gay twirlers, taking counsel within himself what he
      should do. The state of his household had sorely perplexed him,
      aud he had about come to the resolution that he must either marry
      again or give up housekeeping and live at Hinton. Then came the
      question whom he should take? Now Mrs. Yammerton was a noted good
      manager, and in the inferential sort of way that we all sometimes
      deceive ourselves, he came to the conclusion that her daughters
      would be the same. Clara was very pretty—dom’d if she wasn’t—She
      would look very well at the head of his table, and just at the
      moment she came twirling past with Billy Pringle, the pearl loops
      of her pretty pink wreath dancing on her fair forehead. The
      Baronet was booked; “he would have her, dom’d if he wouldn’t,”
      and taking courage within himself as the music ceased, he claimed
      her hand for the next quadrille, and leading her to the top of
      the dance, commenced joking her about Billy, who he said would
      make a very pretty girl, and then commenced praising herself. He
      admired her and everything she had on, from the wreath to her
      ribbon, and was so affectionate that she felt if he wasn’t a
      little elevated she would very soon have an offer. Then Mammas,
      and Mrs. Rocket Larkspurs, and Mrs. Dotherington, and Mrs.
      Impelow, and many other quick-eyed ladies followed their
      movements, each thinking that they saw by the sparkle of Clara’s
      eyes, and the slight flush of her pretty face, what was going on.
      But they were prématuré. Sir Moses did not offer until he had
      mopped his brow in the promenade, when, on making the second slow
      round of the room, a significant glance with a slight inclination
      of her handsome head as she passed her Mamma announced that she
      was going to be Lady Mainchance!



      463m


      _Original Size_


      Hoo-ray for the Hunt Ball!

      Sold again and the money paid! as the trinket-sellers say at a
      fair.

      Another offer and accepted say we. Captain and Mrs. Languisher,
      Sir Moses and Lady Mainchance. Who wouldn’t go to a
      Hit-im-and-Hold-im-shire hunt ball?

      Then when the music struck up again, instead of fulfilling her
      engagements with her next partner. Clara begged to be excused—had
      got a little headache, and went and sat down between her Mamma
      and her admiring intended; upon which the smouldering fire of
      surmise broke out into downright assertion, and it ran through
      the room that Sir Moses had offered to Miss Yammerton. Then the
      indignant Mammas rose hastily from their seats and paraded slowly
      past, to see how the couple looked, pitying the poor creature,
      and young gentlemen joked with each other, saying—“Go thou and do
      likewise.” and paired off to the supper room to acquire courage
      from the well iced but inferior Champagne.

      And so the ardent ball progressed, some laying the foundations
      for future offers, some advancing their suits a step, others
      bringing them to we hope, a happy termination. Never was a more
      productive hunt ball known, and it was calculated that the little
      gentleman who rides so complacently on our first page exhausted
      all his arrows o the occasion.



      465m


      _Original Size_


      When the mortified Miss de Glancey returned to her lodgings at
      Mrs. Sarsnet the milliner’s, in Verbena Crescent, she bid Mrs.
      Roseworth good-night, and dismissing her little French maid to
      bed, proceeded to her own apartment, where, with the united aid
      of a chamber and two toilette-table candles, she instituted a
      most rigid examination, as well of her features as her figure, in
      her own hand-mirror and the various glasses of the room, and
      satisfied herself that neither her looks nor her dress were any
      way in fault for the indifference with which she had been
      received. Indeed, though she might perhaps be a little partial,
      she thought she never saw herself looking better, and certainly
      her dress was as stylish and looming as any in the ball-room.

      Those points being satisfactorily settled, she next unclasped the
      single row of large pearls that fastened the bunch of scarlet
      geraniums into her silken brown hair; and taking them off her
      exquisitely modelled head, laid them beside her massive scarlet
      geranium bouquet and delicate kid gloves upon the toilette-table.
      She then stirred the fire; and wheeling the easy-chair round to
      the front of it, took the eight hundred yards of tulle
      deliberately in either hand and sunk despondingly into the depths
      of the chair, with its ample folds before her. Drawing her dress
      up a little in front, she placed her taper white-satined feet on
      the low green fender, and burying her beautiful face in her
      lace-fringed kerchief, proceeded to take an undisturbed
      examination of what had occurred. How was it that she, in the
      full bloom of her beauty and the zenith of her experience, had
      failed in accomplishing what she used so easily to perform? How
      was it that Captain Langnisher seemed so cool, and that
      supercilious Miss eyed her with a side-long stare, that left its
      troubled mark behind, like the ripple of the water after a boat.
      And that boy Pringle, too, who ought to have been proud and
      flattered by her notice, instead of grinning about with those
      common country Misses?

      All this hurt and distressed our accomplished coquette, who was
      unused to indifference and mortification. Then from the present
      her mind reverted to the past; aud stirring the fire, she
      recalled the glorious recollections of her many triumphs,
      beginning with her school-girl days, when the yeomanry officers
      used to smile at her as they met the girls out walking, until
      Miss Whippey restricted them to the garden during the eight days
      that the dangerous danglers were on duty. Next, how the triumph
      of her first offer was enhanced by the fact that she got her old
      opponent Sarah Snowball’s lover from her—who, however, she
      quickly discarded for Captain Capers—who in turn yielded to Major
      Spankley.

      Dicer, and the grave Mr. Woodhouse all in tow together, each
      thinking himself the happy man and the others the cat’s-paw,
      until the rash Hotspur Smith exploded amongst them, and then
      suddenly dwindled from a millionaire into a mouse. Other names
      quickly followed, recalling the recollections of a successful
      career. At last she came to that dread, that fatal day, when,
      having exterminated Imperial John, and with the Peer well in
      hand, she was induced, much against her better judgment, to
      continue the chase, and lose all chance of becoming a Countess.
      Oh, what a day was that! She had long watched the noble Earl’s
      increasing fervour, and marked his admiring eye, as she sat in
      the glow of beauty and the pride of equestrianism; and she felt
      quite sure, if the chase had ended at the check caused by the
      cattle-drover’s dog, he would have married her. Oh, that the run
      should ever have continued! Oh, that she should ever have been
      lured on to her certain destruction! Why didn’t she leave well
      alone? And at the recollection of that sad, that watery day, she
      burst into tears and sobbed convulsively. Her feelings being thus
      relieved, and the fire about exhausted, she then got out of her
      crinoline and under the counterpane.



      CHAPTER LXII. LOVE AT SECOND SIGHT.—CUPID’S SETTLING DAY.


      A sudden change now came over the country.—The weather, which had
      been mild and summer-like throughout, changed to frost, binding
      all nature up in a few hours. The holes in the streets which were
      shining with water in the gas-lights when Miss de Glancey retired
      to bed, had a dull black-leaded sort of look in the morning,
      while the windows of her room glistened with the silvery spray of
      ferns and heaths and fancy flowers.—The air was sharp and bright,
      with a clear blue sky overhead, all symptomatic of frost, with
      every appearance of continuing.—That, however, is more a
      gentleman’s question than a lady’s, so we will return within
      doors.

      Flys being scarce at Hinton, and Miss de Glancey wishing to avoid
      the gape and stare of the country town, determined to return by
      the 11.30 train; so arose after a restless night, and taking a
      hurried breakfast, proceeded, with the aid of her maid, to make
      one of those exquisite toilettes for which she had so long been
      justly famous. Her sylph-like figure was set off in a
      bright-green terry-velvet dress, with a green-feathered bonnet of
      the same colour and material, trimmed with bright scarlet
      ribbons, and a wreath of scarlet flowers inside.—A snow-white
      ermine tippet, with ermine cuffs and muff, completed her costume.
      Having surveyed herself in every mirror, she felt extremely
      satisfied, and only wished Captain Languisher could see her. With
      that exact punctuality which constant practice engenders, but
      which sometimes keeps strangers sadly on the fret, the useful fly
      was at length at the door, and the huge box containing the eight
      hundred yards of tulle being hoisted on to the iron-railed roof,
      the other articles were huddled away, and Miss de Glancey
      ascending the steps, usurped the seat of honour, leaving Mrs.
      Roseworth and her maid to sit opposite to her. A smile with a
      half-bow to Mrs. Sarsnet, as she now stood at the door, with a
      cut of the whip from the coachman, sent our party lilting and
      tilting over the hard surface of the road to the rail.

      The line ran true and smooth this day, and the snorting train
      stopped at the pretty Swiss cottage station at Fairfield just as
      Mrs. Roseworth saw the last of the parcels out of the fly, while
      Miss de Glancey took a furtive peek at the passengers from an
      angle of the bay window, at which she thought she herself could
      not be seen.

      Now, it so happened that the train was in charge of the
      well-known Billy Bates, a smart young fellow, whose good looks
      had sadly stood in the way of his preferment, for he never could
      settle to anything; and after having been a footman, a
      whipper-in, a watcher, a groom, and a grocer, he had now taken up
      with the rail, where he was a great favourite with the fair, whom
      he rather prided himself upon pairing with what he considered
      appropriate partners. Seeing our lovely coquette peeping out, it
      immediately occurred to him, that he had a suitable _vis-à-vis_
      for her—a dashing looking gent., in a red flannel Emperor shirt,
      a blue satin cravat, a buff vest, aud a new bright-green cut-away
      with fancy buttons; altogether a sort of swell that isn’t to be
      seen every day.

      “This way, ladies!” now cried Billy, hurrying into the
      first-class waiting-room, adjusting the patent leather pouch-belt
      of his smart grcen-and-red uniform as he spoke. “This way,
      ladies, please!” waving them on with his clean white
      doeskin-gloved hand towards the door; whereupon Miss de Glancey,
      drawing herself up, and primming her features, advanced on to the
      platform, like the star of the evening coming on to the stage of
      a theatre.

      Billy then opened the frosty-windowed door of a carriage a few
      paces up the line; whereupon a red railway wrapper-rug with brown
      foxes’ heads being withdrawn, a pair of Bedford-corded legs
      dropped from the opposite seat, and a dogskin gloved hand was
      protruded to assist the ascent of the enterer. A pretty
      taper-fingered primrose-kidded one was presently inside it; but
      ere the second step was accomplished, a convulsive thrill was
      felt, and, looking up, Miss de Glancey found herself in the grasp
      of her old friend Imperial John!

      “O Mr. Hybrid!” exclaimed she, shaking his still retained hand
      with the greatest cordiality; “O Mr. Hybrid! I’m so _glad_ to see
      you! I’m so _glad_ to meet somebody I know!” and gathering
      herself together, she entered the carriage, and sat down opposite
      him.

      Mrs. Roseworth then following, afforded astonished John a moment
      to collect his scattered faculties, yet not sufficient time to
      compare the dread. “_Si-r-r-r!_ do you _mean to insult me!_” of
      their former meeting, with the cordial greeting of this. Indeed,
      our fair friend felt that she had a great arrear of politeness to
      make up, and as railway time is short, she immediately began to
      ply her arts by inquiring most kindly after His Highness’s sister
      Mrs. Poppeyfield and her baby, who she heard was _such_ a sweet
      boy; and went on so affably, that before Billy Bates arrived with
      the tickets, which Mrs. Roseworth had forgotten to take, Imperial
      John began to think that there must have been some mistake
      before, and Miss de Glancey couldn’t have understood him. Then,
      when the train was again in motion, she applied the artillery of
      her eyes so well—for she was as great an adept in her art as the
      Northumberland horse-tamer is in his—that ere they stopped at the
      Lanecroft station, she had again subjugated Imperial John;—taken
      his Imperial reason prisoner! Nay more, though he was going to
      Bowerbank to look at a bull, she actually persuaded him to alight
      and accompany her to Mrs. Roseworth’s where we need scarcely say
      he was presently secured, and in less than a week she had him so
      tame that she could lead him about, anywhere.

      The day after the ball was always a busy one in
      Hit-im-and-Hold-em-shire. It was a sort of settling day, only the
      parties scattered about the country instead of congregating at
      the “corner.” Those who had made up their minds overnight, came
      to “Ask Mamma” in the morning, and those who had not mustered
      sufficient courage, tried what a visit to inquire how the young
      lady was after the fatigue of the ball would do to assist them.
      Those who had got so far on the road as to have asked both the
      young lady and “Mamma,” then got handed over to the more
      business-like inquiries of Papa—when Cupid oft “spreads his light
      wings and in a moment flies.” Then it is that the terrible money
      exaggerations come out—the great expectations dwindling away, and
      the thousands a-year becoming hundreds. We never knew a reputed
      Richest Commoner’s fortune that didn’t collapse most grievously
      under the “what have you got, and what will you do?” operation.
      But if it passes Papa, the still more dread ordeal of the lawyer
      has to be encountered when one being summoned on either side, a
      hard money-driving bargain ensues, one trying how much he can
      get, the other how little he can give—until the whole nature and
      character of the thing is changed. Money! money! money! is the
      cry, as if there was nothing in the world worth living for but
      those eternal bits of yellow coin. But we are getting in advance
      of our subject, our suitor not having passed the lower, or
      “Ask-Mamma” house.

      Among the many visited on this auspicious day were our fair
      friends at Yammerton Grange, our Richest Commoner having infused
      a considerable degree of activity into the matrimonial market.
      There is nothing like a little competition for putting young
      gentlemen on the alert. First to arrive was our friend Sir Moses
      Mainchance, who dashed up to the door in his gig with the air of
      a man on safe ground, saluting Mamma whom he found alone in the
      drawing-room, and then the young ladies as they severally entered
      in succession. Having thus sealed and delivered himself into the
      family, as it were, he enlarged on the delights of the ball—the
      charming scene, the delightful music, the excellent dancing, the
      sudden disappearance of de Glancey and other the incidents of the
      evening. These topics being duly discussed, and cake and wine
      produced, “Mamma” presently withdrew, her example being followed
      at intervals by Flora and Harriet.

      Scarcely had she got clear of the door ere the vehement bark of
      the terrier called her attention to the front of the house, where
      she saw our fat friend the Woolpack tit-tup-ing up on the
      identical horse Jack Rogers so unceremoniously appropriated on
      the Crooked Billet day. There was young Treadcroft with his
      green-liveried cockaded groom behind him, trying to look as
      unconcerned as possible, though in reality he was in as great a
      fright as it was well possible for a boy to be. Having dismounted
      and nearly pulled the bell out of its socket with nervousness, he
      gave his horse to the groom, with orders to wait, and then
      followed the footman into the dining-room, whither Mrs. Yammerton
      had desired him to be shown.

      Now, the Woolpack and the young Owl (Rowley Abingdon), had been
      very attentive both to Flora and Harriet at the ball, the
      Woolpack having twice had an offer on the tip of his tongue for
      Flora, without being able to get it off.

      Somehow his tongue clave to his lips—he felt as if his mouth was
      full of claggum. He now came to see if he could have any better
      luck at the Grange.

      Mrs. Yammerton had read his feelings at the ball, and not
      receiving the expected announcement from Flora, saw that he
      wanted a little of her assistance, so now proceeded to give it.
      After a most cordial greeting and interchanges of the usual
      nothings of society, she took a glance at the ball, and then
      claimed his congratulations on Clara’s engagement, which of
      course led up to the subject, opening the locked jaw at once; and
      Mamma having assured the fat youth of her perfect approval and
      high opinion of his character, very soon arranged matters between
      them, and produced Flora to confirm her. So she gained two
      sons-in-law in one night. Miss Harriet thus left alone, took her
      situation rather to heart, and fine Billy, forgetful of his
      Mamma’s repeated injunctions and urgent entreaties to him to
      return now that the ball was over, and the hunting was stopped by
      the frost, telling him she wanted him on most urgent and
      particular business, was tender-hearted enough on finding Harriet
      in tears the next day to offer to console her with his hand,
      which we need not say she joyfully accepted, no lady liking to
      emulate “the last rose of summer and be left blooming alone.” So
      all the pretty sisters were suited, Harriet perhaps the best off,
      as far as looks at least went.

      But, when in due course the old “what have you got and what will
      you do?” inquiries came to be instituted, we are sorry to say our
      fine friend could not answer them nearly so satisfactorily as the
      Woolpack, who had his balance-sheets nearly off by heart. Billy
      replying in the vacant _negligè_ sort of way young gentlemen do,
      that he supposed he would have four or five thousand a-year,
      though when asked why he thought he’d have four or five thousand
      a-year, he really could not tell the reason why. Then when
      further probed by our persevering Major, he admitted that it was
      all at the mercy of uncle Jerry, and that his Mamma had said
      their lawyer had told her he did not think pious Jerry would
      account except under pressure of the Court of Chancery, whereupon
      the Major’s chin dropped, as many a man’s chin has dropped, at
      the dread announcement. It sounds like an antidote to matrimony.
      Even Mrs. Yammerton thought under the circumstances that the
      young Owl might be a safer speculation than fine Billy, though
      she rather leant to fine Billy, as people do lean to strangers in
      preference to those they knew all about. Still Chancery was a
      choker. Equity is to the legal world what Newmarket is to the
      racing world, the unadulterated essence of the thing. As at
      Newmarket there is none of the fun and gaiety of the great
      race-meetings, so in Chancery there is none of the pomp and
      glitter and varied incident that rivets so many audiences to the
      law courts.

      All is dull, solemn, and dry—paper, paper, paper—a redundancy of
      paper, as if it were possible to transfer the blush of perjury to
      paper. Fifty people will make affidavits for one that will go
      into a witness-box and have the truth twisted out of them by
      cross-examination. The few strangers who pop into court pop out
      again as quickly as they can, a striking contrast to those who go
      in in search of their rights—though wrestling for one’s rights
      under a pressure of paper, is very like swimming for one’s life
      enveloped in a salmon-net. It is juries that give vitality to the
      administration of justice. A drowsy hum pervades the bar, well
      calculated for setting restless children to sleep, save when some
      such brawling buffoon as the Indian juggler gets up to pervert
      facts, and address arguments to an educated judge that would be
      an insult to the mind of a petty juryman. One wonders at men
      calling themselves gentlemen demeaning themselves by such
      practices. Well did the noble-hearted Sir William Erie declare
      that the licence of the bar was such that he often wished the
      offenders could be prosecuted for a misdemeanour. We know an
      author who made an affidavit in a chancery suit equal in length
      to a three-volume novel, and what with weighing every word in
      expectation of undergoing some of the polished razors keen of
      that drowsy bar, he could not write fiction again for a
      twelvemonth. As it was, he underwent that elegant extract Mr.
      Verde, whose sponsors have done him such justice in the vulgar
      tongue, and because he made an immaterial mistake he was held up
      to the Court as utterly unworthy of belief! We wonder whether Mr.
      Verde’s character or the deponent’s suffered most by the
      performance. But enough of such worthies. Let all the bullies of
      the bar bear in mind if they have tongues other people have pens,
      and that consideration for the feelings of others is one of the
      distinguishing characteristics of gentlemen.



      CHAPTER LXIII. A STARTLING ANNOUNCEMENT.



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      HE proverbial serenity of Poodles was disturbed one dull winter
      afternoon by our old friend General Binks banging down the
      newly-arrived evening paper with a vehemence rarely witnessed in
      that quiet quarter. Mr. Dorfold, who was dosing as usual with
      outstretched leg’s before the fire, started up, thinking the
      General was dying. Major Mustard’s hat dropped off, Mr. Proser
      let fall the “Times Supplement,” Mr. Crowsfoot ceased conning the
      “Post..” Alemomh, the footman, stood aghast, and altogether there
      was a general cessation of every thing—Beedles was paralyzed.

      The General quickly followed up the blow with a tremendous oath,
      and seizing Colonel Callender’s old beaver hat instead of his own
      new silk one, flung frantically out of the room, through the
      passage and into St. James’s Street, as if bent on immediate
      destruction.

      All was amazement! What’s happened the General? Something must
      have gone wrong with the General! The General—the calmest, the
      quietest, the most, placid man in the world—suddenly convulsed
      with such a violent paroxysm. He who had neither chick nor child,
      nor anything to care about, with the certainty of an Earldom,
      what _could_ have come over him?

      “I’ll tell you,” exclaimed Mr. Bullion who had just dropped in on
      his way from the City: “I’ll tell you,” repeated he. taking up
      the paper which the General had thrown down. “_His bank’s
      failed!_ Heard some qweerish hints as I came down Cornhill:” and
      forthwith! Bullion turned to the City article, and ran his
      accustomed eye down its contents.

      “Funds opened heavily. Foreign stocks quiet. About £20,000 in bar
      gold. The John Brown arrived from China. Departure of the
      Peninsular Mail postponed,” and so on; but neither failures, nor
      rumours of failures, either of bankers or others, were there.

      Very odd—what could it be, then? must be something in the paper.
      And again the members resolved themselves into a committee of the
      whole house to ascertain what it was.

      The first place that a lady would look to for the solution of a
      mystery of this sort, is, we believe, about the last place that a
      man would look to, namely, the births, deaths, and marriages; and
      it was not until the sensation had somewhat subsided, and Tommy
      White was talking of beating up the General’s quarter in Bury
      Street, to hear what it was, that his inseparable—that “nasty
      covetous body Cuddy Flintoff,” who had been plodding very
      perseveringly on the line, at length hit off what astonished him
      as much as we have no doubt it will the reader, being neither
      more nor less than the following very quiet announcement at the
      end of the list of marriages:—

      “This morning, at St. Barnabas, by the Rev. Dr. Duff, the Right
      Hon. The Earl of Ladythorne, to Emma, widow of the late Wm,
      Pringle, Esq.”

      The Earl of Ladythorne married to Mrs. Pringle! Well done our
      fair friend of the frontispiece! The pure white camellias are
      succeeded by a coronet! The borrowed velvet dress replaced by
      anything she likes to own. Who would have thought it!

      But wonders will never cease; for on this eventful day Mr. George
      Gallon was seen driving the Countess’s old coach companion, Mrs.
      Margerum, from Cockthorpe Church, with long white rosettes flying
      at Tippy Tom’s head, and installing her mistress of the Rose and
      Crown, at the cross roads; thus showing that truth is stranger
      than fiction. “George,” we may add, has now taken the Flying
      Childers Inn at Eversley Green, where he purposes extending his
      “Torf” operations, and we make no doubt will be heard of
      hereafter.

      Of our other fair friends we must say a few parting words on
      taking a reluctant farewell.

      Though Miss Clara, now Lady Mainchance, is not quite so good a
      housekeeper as Sir Moses could have wished, she is nevertheless
      extremely ornamental at the head of his table; and though she has
      perhaps rather exceeded with Gillow, the Major promises to make
      it all right by his superior management of the property. Mr.
      Mordecai Nathan has been supplanted by our master of “haryers,”
      who has taken a drainage loan, and promises to set the
      water-works playing at Pangburn Park, just as he did at Yammerton
      Grange. He means to have a day a week there with his “haryers,”
      which, he says, is the best way of seeing a country.

      Miss de Glancey has revised Barley Hill Hall, for which place his
      Highness now appears in Burke’s “Landed Gentry,” very
      considerably; and though she has not been to Gillow, she has got
      the plate out of the drawing-room, and made things very smart.
      She keeps John in excellent order, and rides his grey horse
      admirably. Blurkins says “the grey mare is the better horse,” but
      that is no business of ours.



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      _Original Size_


      Of all the brides, perhaps, Miss Flora got the best set down; for
      the Woolpack’s house was capitally furnished, and he is far
      happier driving his pretty wife about the country with a pair of
      pyebald ponies, making calls, than in risking his neck across
      country with hounds—or rather after them.

      Of all our beauties, and thanks to Leech we have dealt in nothing
      else, Miss Harriet alone remains unsettled with her two strings
      to her bow—fine Billy and Rowley Abingdon; though which is to be
      the happy man remains to be seen.

      We confess we incline to think that the Countess will be too many
      for the Yammertons; but if she is, there is no great harm done;
      for Harriet is very young, and the Owl is a safe card in the
      country where men are more faithful than they are in the towns.
      Indeed, fine Billy is almost too young to know his own mind, and
      marrying now would only perhaps involve the old difficulty
      hereafter of father and son wanting top boots at the same time,
      supposing our friend to accomplish the difficult art of sitting
      at the Jumps.

      So let us leave our hero open. And as we have only aimed at
      nothing but the natural throughout, we will finish by proposing a
      toast that will include as well the mated and the single of our
      story, as the mated and the single all the world over, namely,
      the old and popular one of “The single married, and the married
      happy!” drunk with three times three and one cheer more! HOO-RAY!

      THE END.
    






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