“In the barn the tenant-cock,
Close to partlet, perched on high,
Briskly crows (the shepherd’s clock),
Jocund, that the morning’s nigh.”
With a yawn, a stretch, and a shake, Trimbush completed his toilet
one misty morning, just as a neighbouring cock had thrice thrown his
chivalrous challenge on the breeze, and invited me, with a crack of his
stern across my muzzle, to follow his early example of industry.
“Come,” said he, “it’s time to be awake and stirring. How do ye fare?”
“Hearty and hungry,” replied I, reluctantly arousing myself from a
dream of enjoyment.
“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed Trimbush. “You’ll have to wait, then,” continued
he, “till sunset for a meal, unless you earn a share for yourself.”
“How so?” inquired I.
“This will be the first meet o’ the season, and your first day of
regular work. Mind,” said Trimbush, admonishingly, as he showed a
long row of very white and strong teeth, “to let me see that you have
profited by my lessons and the experience you’ve had in cub-hunting, or
your jacket may be well shaken when least expected.”
“You needn’t begin to threaten,” rejoined I, somewhat indignantly,
“without any cause. A rate’s well enough,” I continued, “when a fault
is committed; but there’s no occasion to meet it half-way.”
“True,” returned Trimbush, “quite true; and your remark only proves
that a young head may sometimes correct an old tongue, despite
what may be said to the contrary. One of the greatest faults with
all whippers-in,” resumed he, “is the rating us in anticipation
of our doing wrong; or, after committing it, before soaking in the
double-thong; whereas, they should wait until the cause is given, and
then--after blistering us with the flax--proceed to lecture upon the
impropriety of the conduct. It’s quite remarkable what effect a sound
drubbing has upon the memory.”
“I shall not forget the first I received,” observed I.
“But you’ll never repeat that riot,” significantly returned Trimbush.
“It was a christening not to slip through the memory as if it had no
knots tied in it.”
“But then,” added I, “in coming across the slot of deer, the scent was
so sweet and grateful that I couldn’t refrain from carrying a head.”
“Well,” said Trimbush, “like luxuries of other descriptions, you paid
for the enjoyment.”
“And dear as the cost was,” replied I, “it’s very doubtful whether I
might not be inclined to have another flutter at the same feather.”
“What! swallow a hackle of the dog that bit ye?” rejoined my friend.
“It’s a common case, I’ve heard, with our betters,” returned I.
“Right again,” added my companion. “Fire puts out fire.”
“I suppose,” observed I, “that you’ve felt, before now, an inclination
to repeat an error, convinced as ye may have been of its impropriety.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Trimbush, drawing in the breath between his teeth with
a hissing sound; “that I have. We are as clannish as Scotsmen, and
support each other through thick and thin, in the same mortar-an’-brick
fashion. If one of us is a marked and confirmed rebel, he seldom
repeats his fault without lots of company to back him. The season
before last, a hound was sent here from the north country, and as sulky
and ill-tempered a brute as was ever seen in a kennel. We all hated
him; and yet, strange as it may appear, upon Ned Adams attempting to
drive him from the lodging-house one morning, in consequence of his
refusal to come when called, he flew at him, and, fastening upon his
shoulder, was instantly joined by half the hounds in the court.”
“I can’t understand that,” replied I.
“The cause lies in our blood and bone,” rejoined my friend. “The
impulse with us,” continued he, “is paramount--to follow the leader
however wrong he may be in his example.”
“And what was the finish of this attack on Ned Adams?” inquired I.
“But for his lusty lungs for help,” replied Trimbush, “it might have
gone hard with him. However, Will Sykes, Tom Holt, and Old Mark
quickly made their appearance, and put an end to the fray with little
difficulty. As for our new companion, we never saw him afterwards.”
“He was sent away, I suppose?” remarked I.
“Yes,” returned Trimbush, “to dance in the air with a hempen cord round
his throttle.”
“And no wonder, either,” added I, “for such an offence.”
“Breaking up a whipper-in is certainly no joke,” said my companion.
“But there was one picked as clean as ivory once, without any
unpleasant interruption to the spread.”
“Gracious powers!” ejaculated I, “what do you mean?”
“Simply what I have said,” replied Trimbush, licking his jaws with a
peculiar relish, and coolly adding, “I had a hand in the supper.”
“You?” I exclaimed.
“Listen,” returned the old hound, checking my impetuosity, “and you
shall hear. I was not bred in this kennel, but came from the west at
the end of my first season. It so happened that about the middle of
this season, and when all of us were full of fire and devilry, our
regular whipper-in died, and his place became filled by a perfect
stranger to us. His cottage being within a short distance, he could
hear any quarrel or disturbance, and was ready to quell it at a
moment’s notice. Trifles light as air, I’ve heard, will frequently
cause the most vital consequences; and such was the case that I am
alluding to. A ray of the moon, streaming through a chink in the door
of our lodging-house, occasioned a hound of the name of Restless to
bay it. This broke the sleep of all; and in a few minutes a regular
fight began, each running a-muck and attacking friend and foe with
equal want of consideration. In order to quell the row, the whipper-in
made his appearance amongst us, as he quitted his bed, undressed; but
scarcely had he lifted the latch of the entrance, when--not recognising
his voice or his person--he was seized by the throat; and, before the
morning light, there was nothing left but a cleanly picked skeleton.”
“I’m not surprised at his death, under the circumstances,” rejoined I;
“but to eat him!”
“In my opinion,” added Trimbush, “that was the most innocent part of
the affair.”
“And how,” said I, curious to learn further particulars, “how did he
taste?”
“Take my word for it,” replied the old hound, in a tone and manner
conveying much conviction of the correctness of the assertion, “take
my word for it,” repeated he, “that with a little broth, daintier food
could not be eaten.”
“Who was the first to discover the remains?”
“Our feeder,” returned he.
“And what did he say?”
“Well!” added Trimbush, scratching an ear with his off hind foot, as
if tickled with the reminiscence which the question created, “I should
observe, in the first place,” continued he, “that Harry Bolton, our
feeder, was one of the coolest fellows that ever boiled a copper
of kit, and never known to exhibit the slightest astonishment at
anything. Whenever he read an astounding piece of news in the _County
Chronicle_--natural phenomenon, accident, or offence, or anything
sufficient to cause the generality of his neighbours’ hair to stand
on end was related to him--his short unchanging observation was,
‘Shouldn’t wonder!’ However, thought I, the ice of your surprise will
be broken at last.”
“And was it?” inquired I.
“You shall hear,” resumed Trimbush. “When Harry came to the kennel, as
was his wont just at break o’ day, and his eyes fell on the white bones
of the unfortunate whipper-in spread upon the ground, he continued
puffing a short black pipe, constantly between his lips, for a few
seconds in silence, and then taking it from them with a slow deliberate
movement, ejaculated, ‘Shouldn’t wonder! D--n me if they an’t hashed
the whip.’”
“And was that all he said?” I asked.
“Every word,” returned my companion.
At this moment Will Sykes arrived mounted, accompanied by the two
whippers-in; and to his order, Mark threw back the door of the court
upon its hinges, and out we rushed with a chorus of merry tongues
ringing for our freedom, and the joy that we knew to be in store for
us.
“Unkennelling hounds,” remarked Trimbush, as we trotted along the road,
side by side, “is one great illustrative fact of the difference between
high-bred and low-bred animals. A puddle-blooded mongrel, or one of low
caste, licks and fondles only the hand that gives him _food_; but we,
and all possessing similar tendencies, love him and those who show and
give us _sport_. See the difference with which we hail our feeder’s
appearance, and that of our huntsman. We have affection for both; but
there is no comparison between either the kind or strength of the
feeling.”
“We may like Will, too, all the better,” I observed, “on account of his
not flogging us.”
“A huntsman should never use the thong,” replied my companion. “It
should be his study to be on such terms of friendship and good-will
with his pack, that each hound is ready to fly to his voice like a bird
to her nest; and among the varied tempers and dispositions which he
has to deal with, this is impossible if he unites with his office the
duties of whip.”
“I always feel inclined to head just the other way when I hear Ned
Adams,” observed I.
“To be sure,” returned Trimbush. “The thrashed hound fears the whip;
and getting away to his cry of ‘for’ard’ is as essential as obeying the
huntsman’s horn; but the feelings for the two are far from being akin.”
We now turned a sharp angle in the lane, down which we were gently
trotting: and on a large open piece of waste ground--the coarse grass,
patches of thistles and rushes, being cropped by a few donkeys and
a flock of desolate-looking geese--my eyes first saw the assembled
members of “our hunt.”
Deny it who will--it is a heart-stirring, gladsome, inspiring,
_English_ sight, to witness a country gentleman and popular master
in the field. There are his friends and neighbours, his tenants and
yeomen, stout and true, his servants and dependents, met together for
a noble amusement, and one which unites them in the bond of goodly
fellowship. It has been well observed, “What is a gentleman without his
recreations?” and, to alter the query slightly, it might be said, “What
is a _country_ gentleman unless he be a _sportsman_?” Like a fish out
of water, a bull in a china shop, a bear in a tea-garden, or anything
else strangely awkward and much out of his element.
There they were, in showy red and Lincoln green, in leather, cords, and
kersey drabs; white tops, brown, and black; hats, caps, and thatch;
some mounted and some afoot. From the high-mettled hunter with his
shot-silk and glistening coat, to the rough and shaggy tailor’s pony;
in short, all sizes, shapes, colours, and conditions, might be seen
congregated, expectant, and prepared for our arrival.
“Here they are!” shouted an urchin, perched on the topmost limb of a
tree. “Here they are!” repeated he, hallooing to the stretch of his
lungs; and then a whooping crew of his fellows took up the cry, making
the welkin echo with their din.
“Your servant, gentlemen,” said Will Sykes, touching the peak of his
cap; and during a short delay, waiting the arrival of the Squire, he
proceeded to point out the young hounds, making me an especial object
of notice.
“What’s his pedigwee?” lisped a pale-faced gentleman in spectacles,
famous for riding hard along roads and over nothing but hounds at
check.
“By Osbaldeston’s Furrier out of Crafty, sir,” replied the huntsman.
“By Fuwier out of Quafty!” repeated the interrogator.
“Yes,” rejoined Will; “and I’m much mistaken if he doesn’t equal the
celebrity of his father.”
“What do you call him?” further inquired he of the ghostly countenance.
“Ringwood, sir,” returned the huntsman.
“Wingwood, eh?” added the questioner.
“That’s one of the sort,” said Trimbush to me, “I was mentioning some
time ago. He comes out just to show himself and have an excuse for
wearing a red coat; but as for taking any interest in either the sport
or us, he fears the one and knows nothing of the other. A man, from
age, or other causes, may be unable to ride straight and live with us,
and yet take as much pleasure in joining the meet, nicking in, and
pottering on to the end of a run, as those who are in the first flight
from the find to the finish; but I am certain, from what I have seen,
that if a man is so naturally timid as to be afraid to ride to hounds,
he can never be--in the sense of the word--a foxhunter.”
“And who is he?” I asked, pointing to a thick-set and jolly-looking man
in a green coat, and occupied in the act of taking up the girths of his
saddle.
“A very different description of sportsman,” replied Trimbush; “that’s
farmer Stockdale, a tenant of the Squire’s, who has forgotten more
about hounds and hunting than the majority of men ever learn. You see,”
he continued, “that he’s making a careful examination of his horse, and
the few alterations necessary, whilst there is plenty of time; as none
but the greenhorns leave them to the last moment. I remember a man,
upon one occasion, tightening a curb-chain at the moment we unkennelled
our fox; and such were the impatient plunges of his horse, that he
could not mount him again in time to get away with us, and he never saw
an inch of the run--long and gallant as it proved.”
My attention being turned to a young man superbly mounted, and dressed
with the most scrupulous care, I inquired of my companion if he was one
of the timid school.
“No,” rejoined Trimbush; “_that_ he is not. From the delicate look
of his boots, breeches and gloves, one might feel disposed to imagine
that he was not in the habit of dirtying them; but so far from that
being the case, he is not only the boldest but the best rider in the
hunt--for the two do not always go together. It used to be thought,”
continued he, “by men of the old school, that a white top was the
certain mark of a he-haw, know-nothing, gal-drawing, watering-place
snob; but I have no hesitation in saying that the white tops of the
present day could show the dark and mahogany ones their heels without
the slightest difficulty, or more than ordinary exertion.”
“You think, then, that men ride bolder and better now?” I remarked.
“Without a doubt of it,” replied Trimbush. “The stamp of
horse--thorough-bred and up to the mark in condition--the pace we go,
and the modern style of _racing_ a fox down, require both bolder and
better riding than in the days when they found him at cock-crow and
killed him at noon. Not only is courage indispensable to be near the
‘sinking one,’ but hands, head, and heels must be exercised with the
best of judgment. I grin,” continued he, “to see a first-flight man,
after a fifteen minutes’ burst, blown to a stand-still; while farmer
Stockdale gives him the go-by with his goose-rumped, short-legged,
long-necked nag, just in the wind.”
“And does that often take place?” I inquired.
“Very frequently,” replied my companion. “Head and hands will beat
heels all the world over.”
At this moment the Squire came trotting briskly up on his hack; and as
he rode through the throng, hats were lifted and salutations exchanged.
Our master, be it remembered, although an old English gentleman, was
not a gentleman of the old school. He neither swore the roundest oaths,
nor horsewhipped those whom he dared or could afford to pay; he boasted
not of the number of bottles it took to make him oblivious of sublunary
matters, or laughed only at the practical joke and coarsest jest. His
object was not to be the oracle of grooms and stable-boys, or the
subject of discussion in the village tap-room. With an affable bearing,
he possessed a kind and generous disposition, and a heart more ready to
befriend the deserving and destitute than to check the imposter and
depraved. His house was one wherein hospitality reigned the seasons
round; and it mattered not who were the guests, a hearty welcome
awaited each and all. In the pursuit, too, of his favourite sport, he
never permitted an injury to pass unrecompensed, although careful that
no false application should succeed. Not a gate nor a bar was broken,
a head of poultry lost _suspiciously_, or the most trifling damage
done, but what, instantly and liberally, amends were made. Sternly
discountenancing all unfair riding over wheat, young grass, and layers,
he was regarded by the farmers as a friend to their interests; and so
far from objecting to a fixture in their neighbourhood, they were glad
when it came to their turn. By proper and simple judicious means the
end is always attainable; and if those masters of hounds who complain
of a dearth of foxes, and opposition to their sport, would but take a
memorandum out of the note-book of “our Squire,” many a blank day might
be rendered as fruitful as the vine “clustering with a thousand rings.”
[Illustration: “HEAD AND HANDS WILL BEAT HEELS.”]