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Handley Cross; or, Mr. Jorrocks's Hunt.

Robert Smith Surtees

 

  • PREFACE.
  • CHAPTER I. THE OLDEN TIMES.
  • CHAPTER II. THE RIVAL DOCTORS AND M.C.
  • CHAPTER III. THE RIVAL ORATORS.
  • CHAPTER IV. THE HUNT BALL.
  • CHAPTER V. THE HUNT COMMITTEE.
  • CHAPTER VI. THE CLIMAX OF DISASTER.
  • CHAPTER VII. MR. JORROCKS.
  • CHAPTER VIII. CAPTAIN DOLEFUL'S DIFFICULTIES.
  • CHAPTER IX. THE CONQUERING HERO COMES.
  • CHAPTER X. THE CONQUERING HERO'S PUBLIC ENTRY.
  • CHAPTER XI. THE ORATIONS.
  • CHAPTER XII. CAPTAIN DOLEFUL AGAIN.
  • CHAPTER XIII. A FAMILY DINNER.
  • CHAPTER XIV. MR. JORROCKS AND HIS SECRETARY.
  • CHAPTER XV. THE COCKNEY WHIPPER-IN.
  • CHAPTER XVI. SIR ARCHEY DEPECARDE.
  • CHAPTER XVII. THE PLUCKWELLE PRESERVES.
  • CHAPTER XVIII. A SPORTING LECTOR.
  • CHAPTER XIX. HUNTSMAN WANTED.
  • CHAPTER XX. JAMES PIGG.
  • CHAPTER XXI. A FRIGHTFUL COLLISION! BECKFORD v. BEN.
  • CHAPTER XXII. THE CUT-'EM-DOWN CAPTAINS.
  • CHAPTER XXIII. THE CUT-'EM-DOWN CAPTAIN'S GROOM.
  • CHAPTER XXIV. BELINDA'S BEAU.
  • CHAPTER XXV. MR. JORROCKS AT EARTH.
  • CHAPTER XXVI. A QUIET EYE.
  • CHAPTER XXVII. ANOTHER BENIGHTED SPORTSMAN
  • CHAPTER XXVIII.
  • CHAPTER XXIX. COOKING UP A HUNT DINNER.
  • CHAPTER XXX. SERVING UP A HUNT DINNER.
  • CHAPTER XXXI. THE FANCY BALL.
  • CHAPTER XXXII. ANOTHER SPORTING LECTOR.
  • CHAPTER XXXIII. THE LECTOR RESUMED.
  • CHAPTER XXXIV. MR. JORROCKS'S JOURNAL.
  • CHAPTER XXXV. THE "CAT AND CUSTARD-POT" DAY.
  • CHAPTER XXXVI. JAMES PIGG AGAIN!!!
  • CHAPTER XXXVII. MR. JORROCKS'S JOURNAL.
  • CHAPTER XXXVIII. THE WORLD TURNED UPSIDE DOWN DAY.
  • CHAPTER XXXIX. MR. MARMADUKE MULEYGRUBS.
  • CHAPTER XL. THE TWO PROFESSORS.
  • CHAPTER XLI. ANOTHER CATASTROPHE.
  • CHAPTER XLII. THE GREAT MR. PRETTYFAT.
  • CHAPTER XLIII. M.F.H. BUGGINSON.
  • CHAPTER XLIV. PINCH-ME-NEAR FOREST.
  • CHAPTER XLV. A FRIEND IN NEED, &C.
  • CHAPTER XLVI. THE SHORTEST DAY.
  • CHAPTER XLVII. JAMES PIGG AGAIN!!!
  • CHAPTER XLVIII. MR. JORROCKS'S JOURNAL.
  • CHAPTER XLIX. THE CUT 'EM DOWN CAPTAIN'S QUADS.
  • CHAPTER L. POMPONIUS EGO.
  • CHAPTER LI. THE POMPONIUS EGO DAY.
  • CHAPTER LII. A BAD CHURNING.
  • CHAPTER LIII. THE PIGG TESTIMONIAL.
  • CHAPTER LIV. THE WANING SEASON.
  • CHAPTER LV. PRESENTATION OF THE PIGG TESTIMONIAL.
  • CHAPTER LVI. SUPERINTENDENT CONSTABLES SHARK AND CHIZELER.
  • CHAPTER LVII. THE PROPHET GABRIEL.
  • CHAPTER LVIII. ANOTHER LAST DAY.
  • CHAPTER LIX. ANOTHER SPORTING LECTOR.
  • CHAPTER LX. THE STUD SALE.
  • CHAPTER LXI. THE PRIVATE DEAL.
  • CHAPTER LXII. WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR; OR, THE A.D.C.
  • CHAPTER LXIII. MR. JORROCKS'S DRAFT.
  • CHAPTER LXIV. DOLEFUL v. JORROCKS.
  • CHAPTER LXV. THE CAPTAIN'S WINDFALL.
  • CHAPTER LXVI. JORROCKS IN TROUBLE.
  • CHAPTER LXVII. THE COMMISSION RESUMED.
  • CHAPTER LXVIII. THE COURT RESUMES.
  • CHAPTER LXIX. BELINDA AT SUIT DOLEFUL.
  • CHAPTER LXX. BELINDA AT BAY.
  • CHAPTER LXXI. DOLEFUL PREPARED FOR THE SIEGE.
  • CHAPTER LXXII. MRS. JORROCKS FURIOUS.
  • CHAPTER LXXIII. MR. BOWKER'S REFLECTIONS.
  • CHAPTER LXXIV. MR. JORROCKS TAKING HIS OTIUM CUM DIGGING A TATY.
  • CHAPTER LXXV. DOLEFUL AT SUIT BRANTINGHAME.
  • CHAPTER LXXVI. THE GRAND FIELD DAY.
  • CHAPTER LXXVII. A SLOW COACH.
  • CHAPTER LXXVIII. THE CAPTAIN CATCHES IT.
  • CHAPTER LXXIX. THE CAPTAIN IN DISTRESS.
  • CHAPTER LXXX. WHO-HOOP!

    • TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE LORD JOHN SCOTT. ONE OF THE BEST OF BRITISH SPORTSMEN, This Volume is Inscribed, BY HIS OBLIGED AND FAITHFUL SERVANT,

    THE AUTHOR

    PREFACE.

    Mr. Jorrocks, having for many years maintained his popularity, it is hoped that, with the aid of the illustrations, he is now destined for longevity.

    The Author, in the present edition, not being tied to space or quantity, has had a better opportunity of developing his sporting hero than before.

    The reader will have the kindness to bear in mind, that the work merely professes to be a tale, and does not aspire to the dignity of a novel.

    London, October, 1854.

    CHAPTER I. THE OLDEN TIMES.

    "I respect hunting in whatever shape it appears; it is a manly and a wholesome exercise, and seems by nature designed to be the amusement of the Briton.—

    Beckford.

    WHEN Michael Hardey died, great was the difficulty in the Vale of Sheepwash to devise how the farmers' hunt was to be carried on. Michael, a venerable sportsman of the old school, had long been at the head of affairs, and without paying all expenses, had enjoyed an uninterrupted sway over the pack and country.

    The hounds at first were of that primitive sort, upon which modern sportsmen look down with contempt. Few in number, uneven in size, and ill-matched in speed, they were trencher-fed all the year round, and upon any particular morning that was fixed on for a hunt, each man might be seen wending his way to the meet followed by his dog, or bringing him along in a string.

    "There was Invincible Tom, and Invincible Towler, Invincible Jack, and Invincible Jowler."

    Day would hardly have dawned are the long-poled sportsmen assembled with their hounds. Then they would trail up to puss. Tipler would give the first intimation of her erratic wanderings o'er the dewy mead. Then it was, "Well done Tipler! Ah, what a dog he is!" Then Mountain would throw his tongue, and flinging a pace or two in advance, would assume the lead. "Well done, Mountain! Mountain for ever"—would be the cry. Tapster next would give a long-drawn howl, as if in confirmation of his comrades' doings in front, and receive in turn the plaudits of his master. Thus they would unravel the gordian knot of puss's wanderings.

    Meanwhile other foot-people try the turnips, cross the stubbles, and beat the hedges, in search of her—

    Yon tuft upon the rising ground seems likely for her form. Aye, Tipler points towards it. Giles Jolter's hand is raised to signal Invincible Towler, but half the pack rush towards him, and Jolter kicks puss out of her form to save her from their jaws. "Hoop! Hoop! Hoop! There she goes!" What a panic ensues! Puss lays her long ears upon her back, and starts for the hill with the fleetness of the wind. The pack, with more noise than speed, strain every nerve, and the further they go the further they are left behind. Their chance seems out altogether. The hare crosses over the summit of the hill, and the hounds are reduced to their noses for the line. "Now, Mountain! Now, Tipler! Now, Bonnets-o'-Blue. Ah, what dogs they are!"

                      

    Puff, puff, puff, go the sportsmen, running and rolling after their darlings, with little leisure for shouting. Then, having gained the summit of the hill, the panting pedestrians would stand lost in admiration at the doings of their favourites down below, while the more active follow in their wake, trusting to a check to let them in. When a check ensued, how bipeds and quadrupeds worked! While the latter were sniffling about, going over the same ground half a dozen times, the former would call their hounds to them, and either by pricking or lifting over difficult ground contrive to give them a lead. The hunt is up again, and away they all go. The hounds strain over the grass, dash through the furze, making the spinney resound with their cry, and enter upon the fallow beyond. Mountain alone speaks to the scent, and hills re-echo his voice. —Now he's silent.—She's squatted.

    The prickers are at work again, trying each furrow, and taking the rigs across. How close she lies!

                      

    "Hoop!" She jumps up in the middle of the pack, and Mountain gets a mouthful of fur. That was a close shave!—too close to be pleasant. The hill people view her, and now every move of puss and the pack is eagerly watched. "That's right! that's right! over the stubble. Tipler's just going her very line. Ah, he's taken up the hedge instead of down, and Mountain has it. Now, Mountain, my man!"

    She runs round the sheep, but Mountain hits her off beyond. Now she doubles and springs back, but they work through the problem, and again puss has nothing to trust to but her speed. Her strength begins to fail. She makes a grand effort, and again leaves her pursuers in the lurch. Slow and sure they ring her funeral knell after her, each note striking terror into her breast as she pricks her long ears and sits listening.

    She nears her own haunt but dare not enter. The hill people descend to join the tussle at the end. Poor puss! her large bright eyes are ready to start out of her head. Her clean brown fur is clotted and begrimed, and her strength is all but exhausted. Another view!

    "Poor is the triumph o'er the timid hare."

    Now what a noise of men and hounds as they view her again. It is a last chance. She passes into the next grass field, and a friendly hedge conceals her from their view. She steals up the furrow, and reaches the wall at the high end. It is high and loose, and a few stones are out in the middle. Puss jumps in.

                      

    Up come the hounds. Mountain and Tipler, and Gamester, and Bonnets-o'-blue, Merryman, and Ferryman, and then a long tail, yelping, yapping, puffing, and blowing.

    Over they go into the lane. Now up, now down, now backwards, now forwards, now round about, but no puss.

                      

    Up come the field. "Now, Mountain, my man, hit her off!" cries his master, vaulting over the wall, and stooping to prick the hare on the road. But no prints are there.

    "She must have flown!" observes one.

    "Or sunk into the ground," says another.

    "Or you tinker man's knocked her on the head," observes a third, pointing to a gipsy camp at the cross roads, and away they all go to demand the body of puss.

                      

    The tinker man shows fight on having his cauldron searched, and several stout wenches emerging from the tattered cart awning, a battle royal ensues, and further attention is completely diverted from puss.

    Well done, puss!

    To proceed—

    The next step in the Handley Cross Hunt, was getting a boy to collect the hounds before hunting.

    They lay wide, and sometimes Mountain's master couldn't come, consequently, Mountain was not there; sometimes Tipler's master was absent, and the pack lost the services of Tipler's unerring nose.

    Next, some of the farmers began to ride. At first they came out with young horses, just to let them see hounds—then as the horses got older they thought they might as well work them till they sold them, and at last it ended in their riding as a matter of course. Foremost among the riders was Michael Hardey. He had always been a great promoter of the hunt, breeding his hounds as he did his horses, for speed and substance. Some used to say they were rayther too swift for a hare. Others, however, followed his example, and in course of time the heavy towling harriers were converted into quick and dashing hounds.

    Time rolled on, and Michael at length became looked upon as the master or manager of the pack. Having been always more addicted to fox than to hare, he had infused a spirit into the country which ended in making the wily animal their quarry.

    The hounds were still kept at walks during the summer, but Michael fitted up a kennel at his farm to which they were brought towards the autumn. Peter, the pedestrian huntsman, was taken into Michacl's service, clothed and mounted.

    Of course all this was done by subscription. Some gave Michael cash, some gave him corn, some hay, others straw, and all the old horses in the country found their way to his farm.

    They were then called fox-hounds.

    The first day of the first season, after their metamorphosis, the hounds met at Handley Cross—the Godfather of our work. It was a pretty village, standing on a gentle eminence, about the middle of the Vale of Sheepwash, a rich grazing district, full of rural beauties, and renowned for the honest independence of its inhabitants. Neither factory nor foundry disturbed its morals or its quietude—steam and railroads were equally unknown. The clear curl of white smoke, that rose from its cottage chimneys, denoted the consumption of forest wood, with which the outskirts of the vale abounded. It was a nice clean country. The hazel grew with an eel-like skin, and the spiry larch shot up in a cane-coloured shoot. Wild roses filled the hedges, and fragrant woodbine clambered every where. Handley Cross was a picturesque spot: it commanded an almost uninterrupted view over the whole vale. Far, to the north, the lofty Gayhurst hills formed a soft and sublime outline, while the rich vale stretched out, dotted with village spires, and brightened with winding silvery streams, closed in on either side with dark streaks of woodland tracts. To the south, it stretched away to the sea. Handley Cross was a simple, unpretending village; the white-washed, thatched-roofed cottages formed a straggling square, round a village green, in the centre of which, encircled with time-honoured firs, on a flight of rude stone steps, stood the village cross, the scene of country hirings. Basket-making was the trade of the inhabitants; a healthy and prosperous one, if the looks of its followers, and the vine-clad and rose-covered fronts of the cottages might be taken as an index. It had but one public-house— the sign of the Fox and Grapes, and that was little frequented—had it been otherwise, there would most likely have been two.

    Thither our master brought his hounds the first day of the season in which they professedly began to hunt foxes. It was a day of interest in the vale, and people gathered from afar. The morning was beautifully fine, with a slight tinge of frost on the ground, that half-an-hour's sunshine would dissolve. A little before eight, the foot-people on the steps of the Cross descried Michael crossing the vale by a line of hand-gates from his house—the hounds clustered round his horse, and Peter bringing up the rear. On they come at an easy, steady pace, and then the tall hedges below concealed them from their view; presently they rose the hill, and entered the village-green. "The hounds! the hounds!" cried the children, and away they rushed from the Cross to meet them.

    Some of the hounds threw their tongues with delight, as they jumped and fawned on the hands that had fed them; Climbank met his master, and rushed to him with joy, while the honest fellow felt in his pocket for the accustomed crust. "Come-by-Chance" recognised his mistress, and nearly threw her down with the vehemence of his salute. All was cheerful and bright—Michael's black horse pawed the ground, and whinnied with delight, as the hounds bayed him, or leapt against his sides. His master had paid a little extra attention to his toilette that morning; his well-brushed broad-brimmed hat, pressed gently on his close-lying nut-brown curls, his whiskers were newly trimmed, and he had evidently had a keen-edged razor to shave with; health was on his brow, and a good-natured smile hovered o'er his swarthy face, displaying the brightness of his eyes and the whiteness and regularity of his teeth. Michael was then about forty; but for the fullness of his limbs one might have taken something off. The elements had rather hardened than sharpened the features of his face. He stood six feet high, with an amazing expanse of chest, and well-proportioned limbs. His hunting costume consisted of a good nut-brown coat, almost matching his complexion, a scrupulously clean white neck-cloth, with a large flap-pocketed red waistcoat, patent cord breeches, and mahogany-coloured top-boots. His undress, or home costume, was the same, with drab gaiters instead of boots; and his full, or evening costume, ditto, without the gaiters. A twisted hunting horn was slung across his shoulder, and he rode with a spare stirrup-leather round his horse's neck. This coal black steed was an animal of amazing speed and power—nearly thorough-bred, with a light, well-set on head, clean flat legs, immense loins and hocks; he stood nearly sixteen hands, though the shortness of his tail made him look somewhat bigger; he was rising seven years old, and that was his first regular season. Peter was dressed like his master—coat, waistcoat, and breeches off the same web, and rode a wiry-looking bay mare, with white hind-legs. He was then about thirty, short light, and active, barely turning nine stone—Michael weighed fourteen.

    Horsemen now began to arrive through the various openings among the cottages on the green. First came James Fairlamb, with his merry round face shining with the morning sun—he rode a crop-eared cob with a Roman nose; his dress consisted of a single-breasted plum-coloured coat, with large silver buttons, black boots, and white lambswool stockings drawn over his knees. Stephen Dumpling, the doctor, appeared at the door of the only four-windowed house on the green, followed by his maid with a foaming tankard. The contents being disposed of, he mounted his dun pony, and joined the group. He was dressed in orthodox black, with powder, and a pigtail, drab shorts, and top-boots. The plot thickened— they came by twos and threes. Peter Jewitt and Harry Jones; two Smiths and a Brown, then another Jewitt, then another Jones; Morgan Hains, and John Thomas; next a horse-breaker; after him, Mr. Giles, the brewer, followed by the Exciseman, on a mule; then Mr. Smith, the overseer, and Miss Fidget's young man with the letter-bag, a mole-catcher, and a gamekeeper.

    All his comrades having come, Michael looked at his large silver hunting-watch, and seeing it was half-past eight, prepared for throwing off. The couples were taken off the young hounds, master and man cocked forward their legs and tightened their girths, and then turned their horses' heads for the south, amid a chorus of delight from the hounds and the ill-suppressed cheers of the field.

    A hazel copse or two were tried just for the sake of the chance, and on they trotted to a warm lying cover of gorse, or brushwood, formed by the junction of two hills. Jolly-boy, Boniface, and Dexterous, feathered as they approached the spot, and the former dashing in with a whimper and a long-drawn howl, Michael took off his broad-brimmed, low-crowned hat, and waving in the pack, cheered them to the echo. His horse pricked his ears, and whinnied with delight, and could scarcely be brought to stand with his head towards the cover as Michael stood erect in his stirrups, with one hand on the cantrel of his saddle, and the other holding his whip and reins, while his eagle-eye roved over every part of the dell. "Have at him there, my jewel!" cried he to old Bonny-bell—a favourite white bitch that lived with him, and could scarcely ever be persuaded to quit his horse's heels,—as she stood whining, lifting a foot, and looking him earnestly in the face;—"Have at him there, my old lass!" re-echoed he, looking down upon her, and waving his right hand, to induce her to join cry. The old bitch dashed in, and the chorus increased. The gorse was close, or the hounds must have chopped the fox, for he had made two efforts to break up hill so as to fly for the woodland country, and had twice been driven from his point by Michael's voice and the crack of his whip. A momentary silence ensued, as they over-ran the scent, and Michael had just cried, "Look out, Peter!" to his whipper-in, who was stationed on the opposite hill, when the fox dashed over a piece of stone wall between two large ash trees in the high hedge at the bottom of the cover, and with a whisk of his brush, set his head straight down the vale, crossing over a large grazing ground of at least a hundred acres. "Silence!" cried Michael, holding up his hand to the foot people, who were congregated on the hill, as he turned his horse short, and galloped to the point at which the fox broke away, where with a twang of his bugle, he presently had the old hounds at his heels, and hat in hand he waved them over the wall. Jolly-boy feathered for a second on the grass, and then with a long-protracted howl, as if to draw his brethren to the spot, he went away with his head in the air, followed by Dexterous, Countryman, Bonny-bell, and True-boy, and after them went the body of the pack.

    "Gone away!" cried Michael, "gone away! tally-ho! tally-ho! tally-ho."

    "Get away, hounds! get away!" halloaed Peter, cracking his whip as he trotted down the steep hill; and putting his bay mare straight at the fence at the bottom, went crash through it, with a noise that resembled the outbursting of a fire in a straw-yard. Then came the rush: the black threw the stone wall behind him, as a girl would her skipping-rope; and James Fairlamb's cob came floundering after, bringing down the coping stones, with a rattle and clatter that would have been awful if hounds had not been running. The third man was the Doctor on the dun, who made it still lower; and after him came Peter Jewitt and John Jones (the latter leading over), and impeding the progress of John Thomas, the other Jewitt, the other Jones, Morgan Hains, the overseer, and the parish-clerk of Welford, who all kept holloaing and swearing away—as obstructed gentlemen in a hurry generally do. The foot-people, seeing how hopeless was the case, stood upon the hills, lost in mute astonishment, eyeing Michael on his black, careering over the meadows and hedges in a straight line with the pack, followed by Peter on his bay, and Fairlamb on his cob, until the plum-coloured coat of the latter assumed the hue of the others, and hounds, horses, and men grew "Small by degrees, and beautifully less."

    "Gently!" cried Michael, as the black horse bounded over the fifteenth fence, with all the dash and vigour with which he had cleared the wall, and the hounds threw up upon a fallow, the first check they had come to. "You way!" cried a countryman on a bean-stack, who had headed the fox, extending his arm like a telegraph; "to the left, past the hurdles." "Let them alone!" cried Michael, "let them alone! Jolly-boy has it down the furrow; hoic to Jolly-boy! hoic!" and a wave of his hat brought the pack forward, and away they go full cry, making the welkin ring with the music of their deep-toned notes.

    —"A cry more tuneable Was never holloa'd to, nor cheer'd by horn!"

    Forward they press; and Conqueror usurps the place of Jolly-boy. Poor dog, nature must not be denied, and age has slackened the vigour of his limbs! But they come to slow hunting, and the old hound's unerring nose keeps the pack upon the line. The ground is stained with sheep, which scampering in a half circle as the fox went past, complete the ring, now that they hear the hounds. Michael pulls up, Peter is at his side, Fairlamb is in the next field—crack goes a rail, and the Roman-nosed cob is over, and the doctor's dun comes up just as Michael puts his finger in his ear, and screeches the pack forward to old Bonny-bell, who speaks to the villain under the gate. It is a rotten old thing upon one hinge, formed of at least twenty spars and rails, all rattling and jingling out of concert, and is fastened with hazel-bands and pieces of knotted rope. Michael's ponderous iron-headed whip breaks through them at a blow, and, thrusting the remains back with his right leg, he passes through and enters the open common beyond the vale. They are now upon the downs! all is brightness and space; Handley Cross appears like a speck in the distance, rendered visible only by the dark firs on the Green, and the vale looks like a web of green cloth stretched out behind.

    They approach rising ground, and the pack no longer press forward in eager jealousy, but each hound seems settled in his place; in truth, the pace has told upon uneven condition, and four hounds alone carry the scent. The ground becomes steeper and steeper, and even the fox has traversed the "mountain's brow" at an angle. Now Climbank's outline stands against the blue sky, and the pack wind after him in long-drawn file. Michael jumps off his horse as he approaches the steep ascent, and runs up, leading; Peter follows his example, but Fairlamb sticks to the cob, and the Doctor begins kicking and digging the dun with his spurs.

    The heights of Ashley Downs are gained, and the scene changes. The horizon is bounded by the sea, upon whose briny bosom float some pigmy vessels, and the white breakers of the shore are just visible to the eye. It may be five miles off, and the space between is undulating and open, save towards a tract of woodland that appears to join the coast. The Doctor reaches the summit of Ashley Downs, and pulls up fairly exhausted. He takes off his hat and mops the perspiration from his brow, as he sits viewing hounds, horses, and men, swinging away down the hill like a bundle of clock pendulums into the vale below. Not a house to be seen! no, not even a cottage, and as the hounds turn to the right, and run the depths of a rocky dell, whose projecting cliffs support venerable yews and red-berried hollies, their music rends the air, "As if a double hunt were heard at once."

    "It's twenty years since I was here," said Michael to himself, wiping the perspiration from his forehead, "and the fox beat me, I recollect. If we can but press him out, we must kill. That's the very crag!" added he, "just below the crooked oak. He has tried it, but, thank goodness, Jolly-boy carries the scent beyond! Yooi on, hounds! yooi on!" holloas Michael from above, with a crack of his whip to some tail-hounds that kept snuffling at his sides; "Forrard, away, forrard!"

    The dell opens into a broader expanse of better soil, and the whole pack pour forth into the vale beyond with a chorus and a melody "of musical discord and sweet thunder," that makes even Fairlamb's cob, though somewhat distressed, snort and prick up his ears with pleasure. Forward they go, with every hound upon the scent and speaking to it, "What lengths they pass! where will the wandering chase Lead them bewilder'd?"

    "He's close afoor you!" cries a shepherd from a straw-thatched hut, whose dog having chased the fox had caused a check, and Michael cast forward at a trot. A flock of sheep wheeling round a field directed him to the line, and old Bonny-bell hits him off at the hedge-row. All the hounds then stoop to the scent and dash forward into the large wood beyond with mischief and venom in their cry. The wood is open at the bottom and they get through it like wild-fire. Michael is with them, Peter outside, with Fairlamb behind. The wood becomes studded with evergreens and gradually opens upon a lake with a bridge of costly structure at the end; Michael views the fox dead beat, with his tongue out, and brush dragging along the ground just turning the corner to cross the bridge; and dashing forward, hat in hand, in another minute ran into him on the mossy lawn by the terrace of Ongar Castle, just as the Earl of Bramber and family were sitting down to breakfast.

    Who shall describe Michael's ecstacy, as he picked up the fox and held him high above the baying pack. There he stood on the well-kept lawn, with his fox grinning in grim death in one hand and his low-crowned hat in the other, whooping and halloaing old Bonny-bell and the pack up to him, while the colt in a smoking white lather, kept moving about, stamping and pawing up the mossy bank as he went. Then Michael pulled his bugle round and sounded a blast that brought Peter and Fairlamb along at the best pace they could muster, just as the Earl of Bramber threw up the breakfast-room window, and the towers of the castle flashed upon Michael's view. All, however, was right, for his lordship having been a sportsman himself, entered into his feelings, and, stepping out upon the lawn, banished the idea of intrusion by congratulating Michael on his sport. The ladies, too, followed his example, and even forgave the trampling of the horse on their mossy carpet. The horses and hounds were then withdrawn from the terrace to a corner of the park close by, where the fox's brush, mask, and pads, being cut off, Peter climbing up a neighbouring oak, extended himself along a strong arm across which he balanced the fox, whooping and holloaing to the hounds, while Michael and Fairlamb did the same below, and the hounds being tantalised by expectation, and baying in full chorus, down went the fox crash into their mouths. "Tear him and eat him!" was the cry, and he was riven to pieces in an instant.

    Years rolled on with varying sport, but with Michael at the head of the hunt. Time slackened his pace and the pace of his field; but as they all grew fat, and old, and grey together, no one noticed the change in his neighbour. The hounds got a name, and while in their zenith none could twist up a fox sooner or in better style. With plenty of music and mettle, they seldom over-ran the scent, were never pressed upon or over-ridden. They turned like harriers. Kennel lameness was unknown.

    As a huntsman Michael was superexcellent. He knew when to lay hold of his hounds, and when to let them alone. His voice was shrill, clear, and musical, his eye quick and bright, and he saw things that others never noticed. It is told of him that one day having pressed his fox very hard, and lost him most unaccountably in a wood of some ten acres, as he was telling his hounds over preparatory to going home, he all at once rode back to the top of a hill that commanded a view of the other side of the cover and tally-ho'd away! The fox being blown, was soon after killed, and when Michael came to account for his movements, he said that knowing the hounds were all out, he heard a blackbird frightened in cover, and supposed it might be by the fox moving, after they were gone. Hundreds of similar stories were told of him.

    In his large woodlands with which the outskirts of the vale abounded, many a fox owed his death to the way Michael threw in his tail-hounds at head. He knew his country and the runs of his foxes, and where he gained an advantage one season he did not forget to repeat it in the next. His dog language was peculiar, partaking more of the nature of dialogue than the short monosyllabic cheering and rating of the present day. His hounds were strongly attached to him; and if by any chance he did not accompany them to cover, they would rush full cry from Peter and his boy to meet him on the road.

    Peter was a capital coadjutor, and master and man played into each other's hands with keenness untinctured with jealousy. The whipper-in's nerve continued after his master's began to fail, and he might often be seen boring through a bullfinch to clear the way for old Michael, or stopping at a brook to give him a help over.

    Peace to Michael's manes! He died at the good old age of eighty without a groan or struggle. The lamp of life gradually flickered out, and his spirit passed away almost imperceptibly.

    "His memory is cherished yet; and many people say, With this good old English man good old times are gone for aye."

    CHAPTER II. THE RIVAL DOCTORS AND M.C.

    WELL, as we said before, when Michael Hardey died, great was the difficulty in the Vale of Sheepwash to devise how the farmer's hunt was to be carried on.

    The difficulty was increased by the change that had come over the country itself. After upwards of thirty years' occupancy of it, Michael witnessed one of those magical revolutions that appear to belong rather to fiction than reality.

    One Roger Swizzle, a roystering, red-faced, round-about apothecary, who had somewhat impaired his constitution by his jolly performances while walking the hospitals in London, had settled at Appledove, a small market town in the vale, where he enjoyed a considerable want of practice in common with two or three other fortunate brethren. Hearing of a mineral spring at Handley Cross, which, according to usual country tradition, was capable of "curing everything," he tried it on himself, and either the water or the exercise in walking to and fro had a very beneficial effect on his somewhat deranged digestive powers. He analysed its contents, and finding the ingredients he expected, he set himself to work to turn it to his own advantage. Having secured a lease of the spring, he took the late Stephen Dumpling's house on the green, where at one or other of its four front windows a numerous tribe of little Swizzles might be seen flattening their noses against the panes. Roger possessed every requisite for a great experimental (qy. quack) practitioner,—assurance, a wife and large family, and scarcely anything to keep them on.

    Being a shrewd sort of fellow, he knew there was nothing like striking out a new light for attracting notice, and the more that light was in accordance with the wishes of the world, the more likely was it to turn to his own advantage. Half the complaints of the upper classes he knew arose from over-eating and indolence, so he thought if he could originate a doctrine that with the use of Handley Cross waters people might eat and drink what they pleased, his fortune would be as good as made. To this end, therefore, he set himself manfully to work. Aided by the local press, he succeeded in drawing a certain attention to the water, the benefit of which soon began to be felt by the villagers of the place; and the landlord of the Fox and Grapes had his stable constantly filled with gigs and horses of the visitors. Presently lodgings were sought after, and carpeting began to cover the before sanded staircases of the cottages. These were soon found insufficient; and an enterprising bricklayer got up a building society for the erection of a row of four-roomed cottages, called the Grand Esplanade. Others quickly followed, the last undertaking always eclipsing its predecessor, until that, which at first was regarded with astonishment, was sunk into insignificance by its more pretending brethren.

    The Doctor's practice "grew with the growth" of Handley Cross.

    His rosy face glowed with health and good living, and his little black eyes twinkled with delight as he prescribed for each patient, sending them away as happy as princes.

    "Ah, I see how it is," he would say, as a gouty alderman slowly disclosed the symptoms of his case. "Shut up your potato trap! I see how it is. Soon set you on your legs again. Was far worse myself. All stomach, sir—all stomach, sir—all stomach—three-fourths of our complaints arise from stomach;" stroking his corpulent protuberancy with one hand, and twisting his patient's button with the other. "Clean you well out and then strengthen the system. Dine with me at five and we will talk it all over."

    With languid hypochondriacs he was subtle, firm, and eminently successful. A lady who took it into her head that she couldn't walk, Roger had carefully carried out of her carriage into a room at the top of his house, when raising a cry of "Fire!" she came spinning down stairs in a way that astonished herself. He took another a mile or two out of town in a fly, when, suddenly pulling up, he told her to get out and walk home, which she at length did, to the great joy of her husband and friends. With the great and dignified, and those who were really ill, he was more ceremonious. "You see, Sir Harry," he would say, "it's all done by eating! More people dig their graves with their teeth than we imagine. Not that I would deny you the good things of this world, but I would recommend a few at a time, and no mixing. No side dishes. No liqueurs—only two or three wines. Whatever your stomach fancies give it! Begin now, to-morrow, with the waters. A pint before breakfast —half an hour after, tea, fried ham and eggs, brown bread, and a walk, Luncheon—another pint—a roast pigeon and fried potatoes, then a ride. Dinner at six, not later mind; gravy soup, glass of sherry, nice fresh turbot and lobster sauce—wouldn't recommend salmon —another glass of sherry—then a good cut out of the middle of a well-browned saddle of mutton, wash it over with a few glasses of iced champagne; and if you like a little light pastry to wind up with, well and good.—A pint of old port and a devilled biscuit can hurt no man. Mind, no salads, or cucumbers, or celery, at dinner, or fruit after. Turtle soup is very wholesome, so is venison. Don't let the punch be too acid though. Drink the waters, live on a regimen, and you'll be well in no time."

    With these and such like comfortable assurances, he pocketed his guineas, and bowed his patients out by the dozen. The theory was pleasant both to doctor and patient, and peculiarly suited the jolly air of the giver. We beg pardon for not having drawn a more elaborate sketch of Mr. Swizzle before. In height he was exactly five feet eight, and forty years of age. He had a long fat red face, with little twinkling black eyes, set high in his forehead, surmounted by fullish eyebrows and short bristly iron-grey hair, brushed up like a hedgehog's back. His nose was snub, and he rejoiced in an ample double chin, rendered more conspicuous by the tightness of an ill-tied white neckcloth, and the absence of all whisker or hair from his face. A country-made snuff-coloured coat, black waistcoat, and short greenish drab trousers, with high-lows, were the adjuncts of his short ungainly figure. A peculiarly good-natured smile hovered round the dimples of his fat cheeks, which set a patient at ease on the instant. This, with his unaffected, cheery, free and easy manner and the comfortable nature of his prescriptions, gained him innumerable patients. That to some he did good, there is no doubt. The mere early rising and exercise he insisted upon, would renovate a constitution impaired by too close application to business and bad air; while the gourmand, among whom his principal practice lay, would be benefited by abstinence and regular hours. The water no doubt had its merits, but, as usual, was greatly aided by early rising, pure air, the absence of cares, regular habits, and the other advantages, which mineral waters invariably claim as their own. One thing the Doctor never wanted—a reason why he did not cure. If a patient went back on his hands, he soon hit off an excuse—"You surely didn't dine off goose, on Michaelmas-day?" or "Hadn't you some filberts for dessert?" &c., all of which information he got from the servants or shopkeepers of the place. When a patient died on his hands, he used to say, "He was as good as dead when he came."

    The Handley Cross mania spread throughout the land! Invalids in every stage of disease and suffering were attracted by Roger's name and fame. The village assumed the appearance of a town. A handsome Crescent reared its porticoed front at the north end of the green, to the centre house of which the Doctor removed from his humble whitewashed cottage, which was immediately rased, to make way for a square of forty important houses. Buildings shot up in all directions. Streets branched out, and markets, and lawns, and terraces, stretched to the right and the left, the north, the south, the east, and the west. The suburbs built their Prospect Houses, Rose Hill Villas, Hope Cottages, Grove Places, Gilead Terraces, and Tower View Halls. A fortune was expended on a pump room, opening into spacious promenade and ball rooms, but the speculators never flagged, and new works were planned before those in hand were completed.

    A thriving trade soon brings competition—another patientless doctor determined to try his luck in opposition to Roger Swizzle. Observing the fitness of that worthy's figure for the line he had taken, Dr. Sebastian Mello considered that his pale and sentimental countenance better became a grave and thoughtful character so determined to devote himself to the serious portion of the population. He too was about forty, but a fair complexion, flowing sandy locks, and a slight figure, would let him pass for ten years younger. He had somewhat of a Grecian face, with blue eyes, and regular teeth, vieing the whiteness of his linen.

    Determined to be Swizzle's opposite in every particular, he was studiously attentive to his dress. Not that he indulged in gay colours, but his black suit fitted without a wrinkle, and his thin dress boots shone with patent polish; turned-back cambric wristbands displayed the snowy whiteness of his hand, and set off a massive antique ring or two. He had four small frills to his shirt, and an auburn hair chain crossed his broad roll-collared waistcoat, and passed a most diminutive Geneva watch into its pocket. He was a widower with two children, a boy and a girl, one five and the other four. Mystery being his object, he avoided the public gaze. Unlike Roger Swizzle, who either trudged from patient to patient, or whisked about in a gig, Dr. Sebastian Mello drove to and fro in a claret-coloured fly, drawn by dun ponies. Through the plate glass windows a glimpse of his reclining figure might be caught, lolling luxuriously in the depths of its swelling cushions, or musing complacently with his chin on a massive gold-headed cane. With the men he was shy and mysterious; but he could talk and flatter the women into a belief that they were almost as clever as himself.

    As most of his fair patients were of the serious, or blue-stocking school, he quickly discovered the bent of each mind, and by studying the subject, astonished them by his genius and versatility. In practice he was also mysterious. Disdaining Roger Swizzle's one mode of treatment, he professed to take each case upon its merits, and kept a large quarto volume, into which he entered each case, and its daily symptoms. Thus, while Roger Swizzle was inviting an invalid to exhibit his tongue at the corner of a street—lecturing him, perhaps, with a friendly poke in the ribs, for over-night indulgence, Dr. Mello would be poring over his large volume, or writing Latin prescriptions for the chemists. Roger laughed at Sebastian, and Sebastian professed to treat Roger with contempt—still competition was good for both, and a watering-place public, ever ready for excitement, soon divided the place into Swizzleites and Melloites.

    Portraits appeared at the windows, bespeaking the character of each— Swizzle sat with a patient at a round table, indulging in a bee's-winged bottle of port, while Mello reclined in a curiously carved chair, one beringed hand supporting his flowing-locked head, and the other holding a book. Swizzle's was painted by the artist who did the attractive window-blind at the late cigar shop in the Piccadilly Circus, while Sebastian was indebted to Mr. Grant for the gentlemanly ease that able artist invariably infuses into his admirable portraits.

    Just as the rival doctors were starting into play, a third character slipped into Handley Cross, without which, a watering-place is incomplete. A tall, thin, melancholy-looking man made his appearance at the Spa, and morning after morning, partook of its beverage, without eliciting from widow, wife, or maid, an inquiry as to who he was. He might be a methodist preacher, or a music-master, or a fiddler, or a fencer, or a lawyer, or almost anything that one chose to fancy—he might also be any age, from five-and-thirty to fifty, or even more, for strongly indented lines furrowed the features of a square and cadaverous countenance, while intrusive grey hairs appeared among his thin black hair, plastered to advantage over a flat low forehead—straggling whiskers fringed his hollow cheeks, growing into a somewhat stronger crop below the chin.

    His costume consisted of an old well-brushed hat, lined throughout with black, a mohair stock, with a round embroidered shirt-collar, an old white-elbowed, white-seamed black dress coat, while a scrimpy, ill-washed buff waistcoat exposed the upper buttons of a pair of much puckered Oxford-grey trowers, and met, in their turn, a pair of square-cut black gaiters and shoes.

    The place being yet in its infancy, and many of the company mere birds of passage, the "unnoticed" held on the even tenor of his way, until he eat himself into the President's chair of the Dragon Hotel. He then became a man of importance. The after comers, having never known him in any other situation, paid him the deference due to a man who daily knocked the table with a hammer, and proposed the health of "Her Majesty the Queen," while mutual convenience connived at the absurdity of being introduced by a man who knew nothing of either party. Being of a ferreting disposition, he soon got acquainted with people's histories, and no impediment appearing in the way, he at length dubbed himself Master of the Ceremonies, and issued his cards,

    "Captain Doleful, M.C."

    Who, or what he was, where he came from, or anything about him, no one ever cared to inquire. He was now "Master of the Ceremonies," and Masters of Ceremonies are not people to trifle with. The visitors who witnessed his self-installation having gone, and feeling his throne pretty firm under him, he abdicated the chair at the Dragon, and retiring to lodgings at Miss Jelly's, a pastry-cook and confectioner, at the corner of two streets, opened books at the libraries for the reception and record of those complimentary fees that prudent mammas understand the use of too well for us to shock the delicacy of either party by relating.

    This much, however, we should mention of Captain Doleful's history, for the due appreciation of his amiable character. He was pretty well off, that is to say, he had more than he spent; but money being the darling object of his heart, he perhaps saved more than others would have done out of the same income. He had been in the militia—the corps we forget—but he had afterwards turned coal-merchant (at Stroud, we believe), an unprosperous speculation, so he sold the good-will of a bad business to a young gentleman anxious for a settlement, and sunk his money in an annuity. There are dozens of such men at every large watering-place. In this case, a master of the ceremonies was as much wanted as anything else, for the Pump and Promenade Rooms were on the eve of completion, and there would be no one to regulate the music in the morning, the dances in the evening, or the anticipated concerts of the season. It was out of Roger Swizzle's line, and, of course, Sebastian Mello disapproved of such frivolities.

    Handley Cross had now assumed quite a different character. Instead of a quiet, secluded village, rarely visited by a stranger, and never by any vehicle of greater pretensions than a gig, it had become a town of some pretension, with streets full of shops, large hotels, public buildings, public houses, and promenades. The little boys and girls left their labour in the fields, to become attendants on leg-weary donkeys, or curtseying-offerers of wild flowers to the strangers. A lovers' walk, a labyrinth, a waterfall, grottoes, and a robber's cave, were all established; and as the controversy between the doctors waxed warmer, Sebastian Mello interdicted his patients from the use of Swizzle's Spa, and diluting a spring with Epsom salts and other ingredients, proclaimed his to be the genuine one, and all others spurious. He then, under the signature of "Galen," entered into a learned and rather acrimonious argument with himself, in the great London Medical Mediator, as to the wonderful virtues of the Handley Cross New Spa.

    Galen, who led the charge, while admitting Dr. Mello's great talents, had described the waters as only so so; while Dr. Sebastian Mello, disdaining the paltry subterfuge of an anonymous signature, boldly came forward and stated facts to prove the contrary.

    Galen, nothing daunted, quoted other places as superior; but his vehemence diminishing in the ratio of the doctor's eloquent confidence, he gradually died out, leaving the doctor the undisputed champion of a water capable of curing every disease under the sun. Parliament being up, and news scarce, the doctor contrived, through the medium of a brother, a selector of shocking accidents, to get sundry extracts inserted in a morning paper, from whence the evening ones gladly transplanting them, and the country ones rehashing them for their Saturday customers, the name of the waters, and the fame of the doctor, spread throughout the land, and caused a wonderful sensation in his favour.

    The effects were soon felt, for lodgings and houses were written for from all parts, and a crowning piece of luck a railway was just then opened out to Silverley, some twenty miles beyond, for the purpose of supplying London with lily-white sand, which was soon converted into a passenger line, with a station for our rising Spa.

    CHAPTER III. THE RIVAL ORATORS.

    Thus, then, matters stood at Michael Hardey's death. A great town had risen in the centre of his country, the resort of the rich, the healthy, the sick, and the idle of the land. Rival doctors divided the medical throne, and Captain Doleful was the self-appointed arbiter elegantiarum. The hounds, though originally hardly a feature, had lately been appended to the list of attractions both in the way of newspaper encomiums, and in the more open notice of "Houses to Let." Indeed, such was the fame of Michael and his pack, that several corpulent cob-riding bachelors had taken up their quarters at Handley Cross, for the purpose of combining morning exercise and evening amusements, and several young gentlemen had shown such an anxiety to get the horses out of the flys, that Duncan Nevin, the livery-stable-keeper, had begun to think seriously of keeping a hack hunter or two.

    This worthy—a big, consequential, dark-haired, dark-eyed, butler-marrying-housekeeper, having run the gauntlet of inn, public-house, and waiter, since he left service, had set up in Handley Cross, as spring-van luggage remover, waiter at short notice, and owner of a couple of flys and three horses, an establishment that seemed more likely to do good than any of his previous speculations. Not that he knew any thing about horses, but having resolved that ten pounds was an outside price, he could not easily lose much. As a seller he was less contracted in his estimates.

    He it was who first heard of the death of Michael Hardey, and quickened by self-interest he was soon at Miss Jelly's with Captain Doleful. Roger Swizzle being seen feeling a patient's pulse in a donkey gig, was invited to the consultation, and though none of them saw how the thing was to be accomplished—they agreed that it would be a great feature to have the hounds at Handley Cross, and that a public meeting should be called to take the matter into consideration. Of course, like sensible people, the land-owners would take their tone from the town, it being an established rule at all watering-places, that the visitors are the lords paramount of the soil.

    The meeting, as all watering-place meetings are, was most numerously attended; fortunately some were there who could direct the line of proceeding. On the motion of Captain Doleful, Augustus Barnington, Esq., a rich, red-headed, Cheshire squire, took the chair, and not being a man of many words, contented himself by stammering something about honour, and happy to hear observations. We do not know that we need introduce Mr. Barnington further at present, save as the obedient husband of a very imperious lady, the self-appointed Queen of Handley Cross.

    Captain Doleful then squared himself into attitude, and after three or four ghastly simpers and puckers of his mouth, complimented the husband of his great patron, upon the very able manner in which he had opened the business of the meeting. "It would be superfluous in him to waste their valuable time in dilating upon the monstrous advantages of a pack of hounds, not only in a health-giving point of view, but as regarded the prosperity of their beautiful and flourishing town. To what was the prosperity of other inferior places to be ascribed, but to their hunting establishments, for it was well known their waters were immeasurably inferior to what they enjoyed, not only in sulphuretted hydrogen, but also in iodine and potash. But that was beside the question. For his own part, he stood there upon public grounds alone (hear, hear). His numerous and arduous duties of regulating the Spas in the mornings, the promenades at noon, and the balls and concerts of an evening, left him but too little leisure as it was to pay those polite attentions to the fashionable world which were invariably expected from a well-bred master of ceremonies. Many of the aristocratic visitors to be sure, he observed by the subscription book at the library, had kindly overlooked his remissness, unintentional and scarcely to be avoided as it was— and he trusted others would extend him a similar indulgence. With respect to the maintenance of the fox-hounds, he confessed he was incompetent to offer any suggestion; for though he had long worn a scarlet coat, it was when in the army—a Militia captain—and hunting formed no part of their exercise. Perhaps some gentleman who understood something about the matter, would favour the meeting with his ideas upon the number of dogs and foxes they should keep (laughter); the probable expense of their maintenance (renewed laughter); and then they might set about seeing what they could raise by way of subscription." The conclusion of his speech was greeted with loud applause, amid which the Captain resumed his seat with a long-protracted, mouth-stretching, self-satisfied grin.

    Mr. Dennis O'Brian, a big broad-shouldered, black-whiskered, card-playing, fortune-hunting Irishman, after a short pause rose to address the meeting. "Upon his honour," said he, throwing open his coat, "but the last spoken honourable jontleman had made a mighty nate introduction of the matter in its true light, for there was no denying the fact that money was all that was wanted to carry on the war. He knew the Ballyshannon dogs in the county of Donegal, kept by Mr. Trodennick, which cost half nothing at all and a little over, which showed mighty nate sport, and that was all they wanted. By the powers! but they were the right sort, and followed by rale lovers of the sport from a genuine inclination that way and not for mere show sake, like many of the spalpeens of this country (applause). If the company would appoint him manager-gineral, and give him a couple of hundred in hand, and three or four more at the end of the season, by the holy piper! he would undertake to do all that was nadeful and proper, and make such an example of everything that came in his way, as would astonish his own and their wake minds for iver. He would have foxes' pates by the dozen. He had no fear; faith none at all. By the great gun of Athlone he would ride in and out of the Ballydarton pound, or fly at a six-foot brick and mortar wall, dashed, spiked, and coped with broken bottles! He had a horse that he would match against any thing that iver was foaled, a perfect lump of elasticity from his shoulder to the tip of his tail—the devil be with him! but when you got on his back it was ten to one but he sprung you over his head by the mere contraction of his muscles! Faith! at his castle in Connaught, he had many such, and he would give any jontleman or man of fortune in the company that would fetch a few over to England one for his trouble." Thus Mr. Dennis O'Brian rattled on for ten minutes or more without producing any favourable effect upon the meeting, for having won or borrowed money from most of them, no one felt inclined to allow him to increase his obligations.

    When he had exhausted himself, Mr. Romeo Simpkins, a pert, but simple-looking, pink-and-white, yellow-haired youth, studying the law in Hare Court, in the Temple, being anxious to train his voice for the bar, came forward from the crowd that had congregated behind the chair, and looking very sheepish, after casting his eye into his hat, where he had a copious note of his speech, set off at a hand gallop with the first sentence as follows:—"Mr. Chairman and gentlemen, in presuming to introduce myself upon the notice of the meeting, I assure you I am actuated by no motive but an anxious desire, such as must pervade the breast of every free-born Englishman, every lover of his country—every—I mean to say every—every"—here he looked imploringly round the room, as much as to say, "What a mess I'm in!" and then casting his eyes into his hat again, attempted to read his notes, but he had made them so full, and the novelty of his situation had so bewildered him, that they were of no use, and, after a long string of stutters, he slunk back into the crowd amid the laughter and applause of the company. As he left the room, he dropped his notes, which, as the reader will see from the following specimen, were framed for rather a serious infliction: "Presume to address—love of country—of all out-of-door amusements, nothing like hunting—encouraged by best authorities—practised by greatest men— Sacred history—Nimrod of Babylon—Venus took the field—Adonis killed in chase—Persians fond of hunting—Athenians ditto—Solon restrained ardour—Lacedemonians and their breed of speedy dogs—Xenophon— Olympic games—Romans—Aristotle—Oppian—Adrian—Ascanius— Somerville—Beckford—Meynell—Colonel Cook—Nimrod of Calais— Thanks—Attentive hearing."

    Mr. Abel Snorem next addressed the meeting. He was a grey-headed, sharp-visaged, long-nosed, but rather gentlemanly-looking, well-dressed man, who was notorious for addressing every meeting he could get to, and wearying the patience of his audiences by his long-winded orations. Throwing back his coat, he gave the table a thump with his knuckles, and immediately proceeded to speak, lest the Chairman should suffer anyone else to catch his eye—"Mr. Chairman and gentlemen," said he, "" if I am rightly informed—for I have not a copy of the proclamation with me— this meeting has been convened for the purpose of taking into consideration a very important question connected with the prosperity of this salubrious spot,—a spot, I may say, unrivalled both for its health-giving properties, and for those rural beauties that nature has so bountifully lavished around. In bringing our minds to the calm and deliberate consideration of the subject—fraught, as I may say it is, with the welfare, the happiness, the recreation, the enjoyment, of many of those around— I feel assured that it would be wholly superfluous in me to point out the propriety of exercising a sound, impartial, unbiassed judgment—dismissing from our minds all political bias, all party feeling, all invidious comparison, all speculative theories, and of looking at the question in its single capacity, weighing it according to its true merits, apart from all personal consideration, and legislating upon it in such a manner as we shall conceive will be most conducive to the true interest of this town, and to the honour and welfare of the British dominions. (Laughter and loud coughing, with cries of "question.") The question appeared to him to be one of great simplicity, and whether he regarded it in the aggregate, or considered it in detail, he found none of those perplexing difficulties, those aggravating technicalities, those harrowing, heart-burning jealousies, that too frequently enveloped matters of less serious import, and led the mind insensibly from the contemplation of the abstract question that should engage it, into those loftier fields of human speculation that better suited the discursive and ethereal genius of the philosopher, than the more substantial matter-of-fact understanding of sober-minded men of business (loud coughing and scraping of feet). Neither was it tinctured with any considerations that could possibly provoke a comparison between the merits of the agricultural and manufacturing interests, or excite a surmise as to the stability of the lords,or the security of the Church, or yet the constitution of the commons; it was, in short, one of those questions upon which contending parties, meeting on neutral ground, might extend the right hand of fellowship and friendship, when peace and harmony might kiss each other, truth and justice join the embrace, and the lion and the lamb lie down together"— ("Cock a doodle doo!" crowed some one, which produced a roar of laughter, followed by cheers, whistles, coughs, scraping of feet, and great confusion.) Mr. Snorem, quite undaunted and with features perfectly unmoved, merely noticed the interruption by a wave of the right hand, and silence returning, in consequence of the exhaustion of the "movement" party, he drew breath and again went off at score.

    "The question, he would repeat, was far from being one of difficulty— nay, so simple did it appear to his mind, that he should be greatly surprised if any difference of opinion existed upon it. He rejoiced to think so, for nothing was more conducive to the success of a measure than the unanimous support of all parties interested in it; and he did hope and trust, that the result of that meeting would show to the world how coinciding in sentiment had been the deliberation of the distinguished assembly which he then had the honour of addressing (applause with loud coughing, and renewed cries of "question," question," "shut it up," "order, order.")—He was dealing with it as closely, and acutely, as logic and the English language would allow (renewed uproar). It appeared to him to be simply this—Divest the question of all superfluous matter, all redundant verbiage, and then, let the meeting declare that the establishment respecting whose future maintenance they had that day assembled, had been one of essential service to the place—upon that point, he had no doubt they would be unanimous—("yes, yes, we know all that)." Secondly; they should declare that its preservation was one of paramount importance to the place and neighbourhood, and then it would necessarily resolve itself into this ("Cock a doodle doo!" with immense laughter)— those who were of opinion that the establishment was of importance would give it their countenance and support, while on the other hand those, who were of a contrary opinion, would have nothing whatever to say to it. He regretted the apparent reluctance of some of the company to grant him a fair and extended hearing, because, without vanity, he thought that a gentleman like himself in the habit of attending and addressing public meetings (laughter) was likely to clear away many of the cobwebs, films, mystifications, and obstructions that hung in the way of a clear and unprejudiced view and examination of the question; but such unfortunately being the case, he should content himself by simply moving the resolution which he held in his hand and would read to the company.

    "That it is the opinion of this meeting, that the hounds which have hitherto hunted the vale of Sheepwash and adjacent country, have contributed very materially to the amusement of the inhabitants and visitors of Handley Cross Spa." Mr. Hookem, the librarian, seconded the resolution, which was put, and carried unanimously.

    Mr. Fleeceall, the solicitor, a violent Swizzleite, then stood forward to address the meeting.—He was a tallish, middle-aged, very sinister-looking, bald-headed gentleman, with a green patch over one eye, and a roguish expression in the other. He was dressed in a claret-coloured duffle-jacket, a buff kerseymere waistcoat with gilt buttons, drab trousers, with shoes and stockings. After two or three hems and haws, he began— "Very few countries," he said, "were now without hounds—certainly none in the neighbourhood of a town of the size, importance, and population of Handley Cross; a population too, he should observe, composed almost entirely of the aristocracy and pleasure and health-hunting portions of society.—A couplet occurred to his recollection, which he thought was not inapplicable to the question before them, though he must observe that he introduced it without reference to any quarrel he might have had with a certain would-be medical man in the place, and without any intention of injuring that individual in the estimation of those who were inclined to place confidence in his prescriptions; he merely quoted the lines in illustration of his position, and as being better than his great and increasing business, not only as an Attorney at law, and Solicitor in the High Court of Chancery, but also as a Conveyancer, and Secretary of the Board of Guardians, and Clerk of the Mount Zion turnpike road, would allow him time to pen. They were these: "'Better to rove in fields for health unbought, Than fee the doctor for a nauseous draught;' and he was sure no one there would deny that hunting, of all pursuits, was best calculated to restore or produce health and drive away dull care, the ills and evils of life, whether in mind or body (applause). Exercise, he would say, without invidious allusion, was the best of all medicines. They were standing in the garden of England. On every side Nature's charms were displayed around; and Handley Cross was the capital of Beauty's empire (applause). Within her bounds an unrivalled Spa had burst into existence, the health-giving qualities of whose gushing waters would draw people from all nations of the earth cheers). Air, water, and exercise, he contended, would cure anything that was capable of relief (cheers). Let them, then, take measures for inducing people to enjoy the pure atmosphere from other motives than mere change of air, and the day could not be far distant when quackery would fail and hunting flourish. His business, as he said before, was great—almost overpowering; but such was his devotion to the place—such his detestation of humbug and knavery, that he would not hesitate to accept the situation of secretary to the hunt in addition to his other numerous and arduous appointments, and accept it too upon terms much lower than any other man could afford to take it at."

    Mr. Smith, a Hampshire gentleman, one of the earliest patrons of Handley Cross Spa, who, from the circumstance of his lodging round the corner of Hookem's library, had acquired the name of "Round-the-corner Smith," next presented himself to the notice of the meeting. He was a smart, genteelly dressed man, apparently about five-and-thirty, or forty, with a tremendous impediment in his speech—so troublesome was it indeed, that it was hard to say whether it was most distressing to his hearers or himself. After opening a very natty single-breasted blue surtout, so as to exhibit a handsome double-breasted shawl waistcoat hung with Venetian chains, he coughed, and commenced—not a speech but a long string of stutters. "He felt con-sid-did-did-did-rable di-di-di-difficulty in pro-no-no-no-no-nouncing an o-p-p-p-p-pinion upon the matter under con-sid-did-did-de-ration, because he was not co-co-co-co-conversant with the c-c-country, b-b-but he t-t-took it to be an establish-lish-lished rule, that all men who h-h-hun-hunted regularly with a p-p-pack of ho-ho-ho-hounds, ought to contribute to their sup-sup-sup-port. He knew something about h-h-h-hun-hunting, and if his hu-hu-hu-humble services would be of any avail, the co-co-co-country might command them. At the same time he thought, that the h-h-h-hunt would be more li-li-likely to pros-pros-prosper if there were more ma-managers than one, and that a co-co-co-committee would be the likeliest thing under existing cir-cir-cir-cumstances to give sa-tis-tis-faction—He therefore be-be-begged to move the following resolution.—That it is expe-pe-pedient that the Vale of She-she-sheepwash ho-ho-ho-hounds should in fu-fu-future be carried on by subscription, by a co-co-co-committee of management, under the name of the Ha-ha-ha-handley Cross ho-ho-ho-hounds."

    Captain Doleful begged to "propose as a fit and proper person to be associated with the honourable gentleman who had just addressed them, in the future management of the pack, his worthy, excellent, public-spirited, and popular friend, Augustus Barnington, Esq., of Barnington Hall, Cheshire, who, he felt convinced, would prove a most valuable ally not only in the field but also in superintending the home department, and arrangements, such as hunt dinners, hunt balls, and other entertainments to the ladies, which he felt assured, it would be equally the pride of the hunt to offer, and the pleasure of the fair sex to accept." (Applause.)

    Some one then proposed, that Stephen Dumpling, son of the dun-pony riding doctor, should form the third.

    Old Dumpling was dead, leaving Stephen a nice farm, and somewhat independent, but the latter had a soul above the plough, and having got a cornetcy in the yeomanry, had started a gig and horse, and drove about with a clown at his side, with a cockade in his hat. Stephen was a goodish-looking, half-buck, half-hawbuck, sort of fellow. He was of middle stature, dark-complexioned, with dark eyes and hair; but there was an unfinished style about him that marred the general effect. If his hat was good, his boots were bad, and a good coat would be spoilt by a vulgar waistcoat, or misfitting trousers. He grew whiskers under his chin—smoked cigars—and rode steeple-chases. Still he was an aspiring youth, and took, as a matter of right, that which was only done to keep the farmers and landowners quiet—namely, adding him to the committee.

    All this being carried nem. con., the uniform was next discussed, and great was the diversity of opinion as to colour. Some wanted yellow, some wanted green, others blue, some both blue and green; in short, all gay colours had their supporters, but the old scarlet at length carried it, with the addition of a blue collar.

    But the resolutions will best describe the result of the meeting.

    The following is a copy:—

    At a meeting of the visitors and inhabitants of Handley Cross Spa, held at the Dragon Hotel, in Handley Cross, to take into consideration the circumstances arising out of the lamented death of Michael Hardey, Esq., the late master of the hounds:

    Augustus Barnington, Esq., in the Chair:

    It was resolved,

    That it is highly expedient to continue the hunt, and remove the hounds to Handley Cross.

    That Augustus Barnington, Henry Smith, and Stephen Dumpling, Esquires, be appointed a committee of management.

    That a club be formed, called the Handley Cross Hunt Club, the subscription to be three guineas, to be paid annually in November, to which the first twenty members shall be elected by the committee, and the subsequent members by the club at large—one black ball in ten excluding.

    That, in order to meet the wishes of gentlemen desirous of contributing more than the annual subscription of three guineas, the treasurer be fully authorised to take as much as any one will give.

    That the morning or undress uniform be a scarlet coat, with a blue collar, and such a button as the masters may appoint, breeches and waistcoat ad libitum.

    That the evening or dress uniform be a sky-blue coat, lined with pink silk, canary-coloured shorts, and white silk stockings.

    That any member appearing at the cover side, or at an evening meeting of the members, in any other dress, be fined one pound one, for the good of the hunt.

    Signed, A. Barnington, Chairman.

    CHAPTER IV. THE HUNT BALL.

    "Then round the room the circling Dowagers sweep, Then in loose waltz their thin-clad daughters leap; The first in lengthened line majestic swim, The last display the free unfettered limb."

    Joy, universal joy, prevailed at Handley Cross, when it became known that a committee of management had undertaken to hunt the Vale of Sheepwash. The place had not had such a fillip before—Farmers looked at their fields and their stacks, and calculated the consumption of corn.

    Duncan Nevin took a six-stalled stable, and putting a splendid sign of a fox peeping over a rock at some rabbits, christened it the

    "NIMROD MEWS' LIVERY AND BAIT STABLES. HUNTERS, HACKS, AND PERFECT LADIES' PADS. N.B. A GLASS COACH."

    Emboldened by success, he scraped together five-and-twenty pounds, and asked everybody he met, if he could tell him of a horse for the field. No one with money need long want a horse, but Duncan saw so differently when purchasing, to what he did when selling, that he seemed to have two pair of eyes. To be sure, he was a good judge of a tail, and that, for a watering-place job-master, is something—"Dont tell me what Tattersall says about rat-tails," he used to observe, "I like them full, fine, and long. A horse with a full tail looks well in the field, on the road, or in harness, and will always bring his price."

    His first purchase was an old Roman-nosed, white-faced, white-stockinged, brown horse, that had carried the huntsman of a pack of harriers for many a year, and was known by the distinguished name of Bull-dog. He was a little, well-shaped, but remarkably ugly horse, and had a rheumatic affection in one of his hind legs, that caused him to limp, and occasionally go on three legs. He was never fast, and sixteen or seventeen years had somewhat slackened the pace of his youth; but he was a remarkably hard-constitutioned animal, that no one could drive beyond his speed, and he could creep through or leap almost anything he was put to.

    The harriers being done up, the subscribers had handsomely presented the huntsman with his horse, which he came to offer Duncan Nevin for his stud. "He's varrar like the field," observed Nevin, eyeing him, "but his tail's shocking shabby, more like a worn-out whitenin-brush than anything else—our customers require them handsome—I fear he would only do for the field—I want them generally useful."

    The huntsman declared he would go twice a-week all the season, and offered to leap him over a gate. This he did so well, that Duncan Nevin priced him—fifteen pounds was all he asked, and he bought him for ten.

    A sixteen hands bad bay mare, with a very large head, very light middle, and tail down to the hocks, was his next purchase for the field. She was a showy, washy, useless beast, that could caper round a corner, or gallop half-mile heats, if allowed plenty of breathing time, but invariably pulled off her shoes at her leaps, and was a whistler to boot—she cut behind and dished before—still she had an undeniable tail, and her size, and great hocks, as she stood well-clothed and littered, gave her the appearance of a hunter. She was six years old, had never done any work—because she never could, and in all probability never would. The wags christened her Sontag, on account of her musical powers.

    Fair Rosamond, a little cantering up and down white hack, stood in the third stall; and when all the three fly-horses were in, which was never except at night, the six-stall stable was full. The news of the purchases flew like lightning; the number was soon magnified into ten—crowds besieged the mews to learn the terms, and the secretary wrote to know what Nevin meant to give to the hunt.

    Everything now looked cheerful and bright—the hounds were the finest playthings in the world—they furnished occupation morning, noon, and night. Every man that was ever known to have been on horseback was invited to qualify for wearing the unrivalled uniform. Names came rolling in rapidly—the farmers, to the number of fifteen; sent in their five and ten pound notes, while the visitors were extremely liberal with their names, especially on a representation from Fleeceall, that payment might be made at their convenience—their names, the honour of their names, in short, being the principal thing the committee looked to. Dennis O'Brian put his down for five-and-twenty guineas, Romeo Simpkins did the same for five, Abel Snorem promised "to see what he could do," and all wrote, either promisingly, encouragingly, or kindly.

    Duncan Nevin converted a stable into a kennel and feeding-house, and gave up his wife's drying ground for an airing yard, into which the poor hounds were getting constantly turned from their comfortable benches, by one or other of the committee showing them off to his friends. Then the make, shape, and colour of every hound was discussed, and what some thought defects, others considered beauties. The kennel was pretty strong in numbers, for all the worn-out, blear-eyed hounds were scraped together from all parts of the Vale, to make a show; while a white terrier, with a black patch on his eye—who was re-christened "Mr. Fleeceall"— and an elegantly-clipped, curled, dressed, and arranged black French poodle, were engaged to attract the ladies, who seldom have any taste for fox-hounds. Every allurement was resorted to, to draw company.

    Poor Peter soon began to feel the change of service. Instead of Michael Hardey's friendly intercourse, almost of equality, he was ordered here, there, and everywhere, by his numerous masters; it was Peter here-Peter there, and Peter everywhere, no two masters agreeing in orders. Smith would have the hounds exercised by day-break; Barnington liked them to go out at noon, so that he could ride with them, and get them to know him; and Dumpling thought the cool of the evening the pleasantest time. Then Barnington would direct Peter to go on the north road, to make the hounds handy among carriages, while Dumpling, perhaps, would write to have them brought south, to trot about the downs, and get them steady among mutton; while Smith grumbled, and muttered something about "blockheads"—"knowing nothing about it." Each committee-man had his coterie, with whom he criticised the conduct of his colleagues.

    Autumn "browned the beech," but the season being backwardly, and the managers not exactly agreeing in the choice of a whipper-in, the ceremony of cub-hunting was dispensed with, and Peter, with the aid of Barnington's groom, who had lived as a stable-boy with a master of hounds, was ordered to exercise the pack among the deer parks and preserves in the neighbourhood. November at length approached; the latest packs began to advertise; and Kirby-gate stood forth for the Melton hounds on the Monday. All then was anxiety! Saddlers' shops were thronged at all hours. Griffith, the prince of whip-makers, opened an establishment containing every possible variety of hunting-whip; and Latchford appointed an agent for the sale of his "persuaders." Ladies busied themselves with plaiting hat-cords for their favourites, and the low green chair at the boot-maker's was constantly occupied by some gentleman with his leg cocked in the air, as if he had taken a fit, getting measured for "a pair of tops."

    How to commence the season most brilliantly was the question, and a most difficult one it was. Dumpling thought a "flare-up" of fireworks over night would be a flash thing; Round-the-corner Smith was all for a hunt dinner; and after due discussion and the same happy difference of opinion that had characterised all their other consultations, Captain Doleful recommended a ball, in the delusive hope that it would have the effect of making friends and getting subscribers to the hounds, and be done, as all contemplated acts are, at a very trifling expense. There was no occasion to give a supper, he said; refreshments—tea, coffee, ices, lemonade, and negus, handed on trays, or set out in the anteroom, would be amply sufficient, nor was there any necessity for asking any one from whom they did not expect something in the way of support to the hounds. Round-the-corner Smith did not jump at the proposal, having been caught in a similar speculation of giving a ball to a limited party at Bath, and had been severely mulcted in the settling; but Barnington stood in too wholesome a dread of his wife to venture any opposition to such a measure; and Stephen Dumpling merged his fears in the honour and the hopes of making it pay indirectly by gaining subscribers to the hounds. The majority carried it; and Captain Doleful spread the news like wildfire —of course, taking all the credit of the thing to himself.

    What a bustle it created in Handley Cross! The poor milliner-girls stitched their fingers into holes, and nothing was seen at the tailors' windows but sky-blue coats lined with pink silk, and canary-coloured shorts. The thing looked well, for fourteen candidates appeared all ready to owe their three guineas for the honour of wearing the uniform, or for the purpose of getting their wives and daughters invited to the ball. It was fixed for the first Monday in November, and it was arranged that the hounds should meet in the neighbourhood on the following day.

    Meanwhile the committee of management and Doleful met every morning for the purpose of making arrangements, sending invitations, and replying to applications for tickets. The thing soon began to assume a serious aspect; the names which at first amounted to fifty had swelled into a hundred and thirteen, and each day brought a more numerous accession of strength than its predecessor. Round-the-corner Smith's face lengthened as the list of guests increased, and Dumpling began to have his doubts about the safety of the speculation. Barnington took it very easily, for he had plenty of money, and the excitement kept his peevish wife in occupation; and she, moreover, had plenty of friends, whom she kept showering in upon them at a most unmerciful rate. Every morning a footman in red plush breeches and a short jacket arrived with names to be put down for invitations. Doleful was in great favour with her, and by her request he took his place every morning at the table of the committee-room to keep her husband "right," as she called it. Of course, with such incongruous materials to work with, the thing was not arranged without great difficulty and dissension. Dumpling put down his cousins, the three Miss Dobbses, whose father was a farmer and brewer; and making pretty good stuff, "Dobbs's Ale" was familiar at Handley Cross, and his name occupied divers conspicuous signs about the town. To these ladies Mrs. Barnington demurred, having no notion of "dancing in a hop-garden;" and it was with the greatest difficulty, and only on the urgent representation of Doleful, that their rejection would cause the secession of Dumpling, that she consented to their coming. To divers others she took similar objections, many being too low, and some few too high for her, and being the daughter of a Leeds manufacturer, she could not, of course, bear the idea of anything connected with trade.

    At the adjournment of each meeting, Doleful repaired to her and reported progress, carrying with him a list of invitations, acceptances, and refusals, with a prospectus of those they thought of inviting. These latter underwent a rigid scrutiny by Mrs. Barnington, in aid of which all Doleful's local knowledge, together with Mrs. Fribble's millinery knowledge, Debrett's Baronetage, and Burke's Landed Gentry of England, were called together, and the list was reduced by striking out names with an elegant gold pencil case with an amethyst seal, as she languished out her length on a chaise-longue. One hundred and fifty-three acceptances, and nineteen invitations out, were at length reported the strength of the party; and Mrs. Barnington, after a few thoughtful moments passed in contemplating the ceiling, expressed her opinion that there ought to be a regular supper, and desired Doleful to tell Barnington that he must do the thing as it ought to be, if it were only for her credit. Poor Doleful looked miserable at the mention of such a thing, for Smith and Dumpling had already began to grumble and complain at the magnitude of the affair, which they had expected would have been a mere snug party among the members of the hunt and their friends, instead of beating up for recruits all the country round. Doleful, however, like a skilful militia-man, accomplished his object by gaining Dumpling over first, which he did by pointing out what an admirable opportunity it was for a handsome young man like himself, just beginning life, to get into good society, and perhaps marry an heiress; and Dumpling, being rather a pudding-headed sort of fellow, saw it exactly in that light, and agreed to support Doleful's motion, on the assurance that it made very little difference in the expense whether the eatables were set out lengthways on a table and called "supper," or handed about all the evening under the name of "refreshments." Indeed, Doleful thought the supper might be the cheaper of the two, inasmuch as it would prevent the pilfering of servants, and the repeated attacks of the hungry water-drinking guests.

    This matter settled, then came the fluttering and chopping-off of chickens' heads, the wringing of turkeys' necks, the soaking of tongues, the larding of hams, the plucking of pheasants, the skewering of partridges, the squeezing of lemons, the whipping of creams, the stiffening of jellies, the crossing of open tarts, the colouring of custards, the shaping of blanc-mange, the making of macaroons, the stewing of pears— all the cares and concomitants of ball making and rout giving; and Spain, the "Gunter" of the place, wrote off to London for four-and-twenty sponge cake foxes, with canary-coloured rosettes for tags to their brushes.

    The great, the important night at length arrived. The sun went down amidst a brilliant halo of purple light, illuminating the sky with a goodly promise of the coming day, but all minds were absorbed in the events of the evening, and for once the poet's "gay to-morrow of the mind" was disregarded. Every fly in the town was engaged nine deep, and Thompson and Fleuris, the opposition London and Parisian perruquiers, had dressed forty ladies each before five. Towards dusk, young gentlemen whose hair "curled naturally" came skulking into their shops to get the "points taken off;" after which, quite unconsciously, the irons were "run through," and the apprentice boys made door-mats of their heads by wiping their dirty hands upon them under pretence of putting a little "moisture in;" while sundry pretty maids kept handling little pasteboard boxes over the counter, with whispered intimations that "it was wanted in time to dress for the ball." Master-tailors sat with their workmen, urging their needles to the plenitude of their pace; and at dinner time there were only three gentlemen in all the place minus the canary-coloured inexpressibles, and one whose sky-blue coat could not be lined until the Lily-white-sand train brought down a fresh supply of pink silk from town.

    Doleful began dyeing his hair at three, and by five had it as dark as Warren's blacking. Mrs. Barnington did not rise until after the latter hour, having breakfasted in bed; and young ladies, having taken quiet walks into the fields with their mammas in the morning to get up complexions and receive instructions whom to repress and whom to encourage, sat without books or work, for fear of tarnishing the lustre of their eyes.

    Night drew on—a death-like stillness reigned around, broken only by the occasional joke of a stationary fly-man, or the passing jibe of a messenger from the baker's, tailor's, or milliner's. The lower rooms of all the houses at length became deserted, and light glimmered only in the upper stories, as though the inhabitants of Handley Cross were retiring to early rest.

                

    Again, as if by general consent, the lights descended, and in drawing-rooms where the blinds had not been drawn or curtains closed, those who stood in the streets might see elegantly dressed young ladies entering with flat candlesticks in their hands, and taking their places before the fire, with perhaps a satin-slippered foot on the fender, waiting with palpitating hearts for their flys, anxious for the arrival of the appointed time, dreading to be early, yet afraid to be late. Wheels had been heard, but they had only been "taking up," none as yet having started for the ball. At length the clatter of iron steps, the banging of doors, and the superfluous cry of "Rooms!" resounded through the town, and the streets became redolent of animal life.

    A line of carriages and flys was soon formed in Bramber-street, and Hector Hardman, the head constable, with his gilt-headed staff in his hand, had terrible difficulty in keeping order, and the horses' heads and carriage poles in their places. Vehicles from all quarters and of every description came pouring in, and the greeting of the post-boys from a distance, the slangings of the flymen, with the dictatorial tones of gentlemen's coachmen and footmen, joined with the cries of the rabble round the door, as the sky-blue coats with pink silk linings popped out, resembled the noise and hubbub of the opera colonnade when a heavy shower greets the departing company.

    The "Ongar Rooms" were just finished, and, with the exception of a charity bazaar for the purpose of establishing a Sunday school at Sierra Leone, had never been used. They were a handsome suite of rooms on the ground floor, entered from the street by two or three stone steps, under a temporary canopy, encircled with evergreens and variegated lamps. From the entrance-hall, in which at each end a good fire blazed, two rooms branched off, one for gentlemen's cloaks, the other for ladies. Immediately in front of the entrance, scarlet folding-doors with round panes opened into a well-proportioned anteroom, which again led into the ball-room.

    Ranged in a circle before the folding doors, stood Barnington, Smith, Doleful, and Dumpling, all grinning, and dressed in sky-blue coats with pink linings, white waistcoats, canary-coloured shorts, and white silk stockings, except Doleful, who had on a crumpled pair of nankeen trousers, cut out over the instep, and puckered round the waist. Dumpling's dress was very good, and would have been perfect, had he not sported a pair of half dirty yellow leather gloves, and a shabby black neckcloth with red ends. There they all stood grinning and bowing as the entrances were effected, and Doleful introduced their numerous friends with whom they had not the happiness of a previous acquaintance. The plot soon thickened so much, that after bowing their heads like Chinese mandarins to several successive parties who came pushing their way into the room without receiving any salutation in return, and the blue coats with pink linings becoming too numerous to afford any distinguishing mark to the visitors, our managers and master of the ceremonies got carried into the middle of the room, after which the company came elbowing in at their case making up to their mutual friends as though it were a public assembly.

    The fiddlers next began scraping their instruments in the orchestra of the ball-room like horses anxious to be off, and divers puffs of the horn and bassoon sounded through the building, but still the doors remained closed, and Doleful cast many a longing anxious eye towards the folding doors. Need we say for whom he looked?—Mrs. Barnington had not arrived. The music at length burst forth in good earnest, and Doleful, after numerous inquiries being made of him why the ball did not commence, at length asked Barnington if he thought his good lady was coming; when most opportunely, a buzz and noise were heard outside—the folding doors flew open, and in Mrs. Barnington sailed, with her niece, Miss Rider, on her arm.

    Mrs. Barnington was a fine, tall, languishing-looking woman, somewhat getting on in years, but with marked remains of beauty, "sicklied o'er with the pale cast" of listlessness, produced by a mind unoccupied, and bodily strength unexercised. Her features were full-sized, good, and regular, her complexion clear, with dark eyes that sparkled when lighted with animation, but more generally reposed in a vacant stare whether she was engaged in conversation or not. She wore a splendid tiara of diamonds, with costly necklace and ear-rings of the same. Her dress of the richest and palest pink satin, was girdled with a diamond stomacher, and a lengthening train swept majestically along the floor. Across her beautifully moulded neck and shoulders, in graceful folds, was thrown a white Cachmere shawl, and her ungloved arm exhibited a profusion of massive jewellery. Her entrance caused a buzz followed by silence throughout the room, and she sailed gracefully up an avenue formed by the separation of the company,— "A queen in jest, only to fill the scene." Doleful and the managers came forward to receive her, and she inclined herself slightly towards them and the few people whom she deigned to recognise.

    Having, after infinite persuasion, consented to open the ball with Dumpling, and having looked round the company with a vacant stare, and ascertained that there was no one who could vie with her in splendour, she resignedly took his arm, and the ball-room door being at length thrown open, she sailed up to the top of the room, followed by countless sky-blue coated and canary-legged gentry, escorting their wives, daughters, or partners, with here and there a naval or military uniform mingling among the gay throng of sportsmen and variously clad visitors. Most brilliant was the scene! The room was a perfect blaze of light, and luckless were the wearers of second-hand shoes or ball-stained gloves. There was Dennis O'Brian, towering over the head of every body else, with his luxuriant whiskers projecting from his cheeks, like cherubs' wings on church corners, with an open shirt collar, confined by a simple blue ribbon and a superabundant display of silk stocking and calf from below his well-filled canary-coloured shorts,—for smalls would be a libel on the articles that held his middle man. His dark eyes sparkled with vivacity and keenness—not the keenness of pleasure, but the keenness of plunder, for Dennis had dined off chicken broth and lemonade to be ready to "Cut the light pack or call the rattling main," as occasion might offer towards the morning. Snorem, too, had decked himself out in the uniform of the hunt, and this being his usual bed-time, he walked about the room like a man in a dream, or a tired dog looking where to lie down. Then there was Romeo Simpkins, who had just arrived by the last Lily-white-sand train, and had all his friends and acquaintances to greet, and to admire his own legs for the first time protruding through a pair of buff shorts. Fleeceall stood conspicuous with a blue patch on his eye, pointing out his new friends to his wife, who was lost in admiration at the smartness of her spouse, and her own ingenuity in applying the rose-coloured lining of an old bonnet to the laps of his sky-blue coat.

    Now the music strikes up in full chorus, and Doleful walks about the room, clapping his hands like a farmer's boy frightening crows, to get the company to take their places in a country dance; and Mrs. Barnington, having stationed herself at the top, very complacently leads off with "hands across, down the middle, and up again," with Stephen Dumpling, who foots it away to the utmost of his ability, followed by Round-the-corner Smith with her niece, Barnington with Miss Somebody-else, Romeo Simpkins, with Miss Trollope, Dennis O'Brian, who looks like a capering light-house, with little old Miss Mordecai, the rich money-lender's daughter, and some thirty or forty couples after them. Mrs. Barnington's train being inconvenient for dancing, and having been twice trodden upon, upon reaching the bottom on the third time down the middle, she very coolly takes Dumpling's arm, and walks off to the sofa in the bay window, where, having deposited herself, she dispatches Dumpling to desire her husband not to exert himself too much, and to come to her the moment the dance is done. The country dance being at length finished, a quadrille quickly followed; after which came a waltz, then a galop, then another quadrille, then another waltz, then a reel; until the jaded musicians began to repent having been so anxious for the start.

    Towards one o'clock, the supper-room door was heard to close with a gentle flap, and Doleful was seen stealing out, with a self-satisfied grin on his countenance, and immediately to proceed round the room, informing such of the company as he was acquainted with, from having seen their names in his subscription book at the library, that the next would be the "supper dance;" a dance that all persons who have "serious intentions" avail themselves of, for the interesting purpose of seeing each other eat. Accordingly Dennis O'Brian went striding about the ball-room in search of little Miss Mordecai; Captain Doleful usurped Stephen Dumpling's place with Mrs. Barnington; Round-the-corner Smith started after the niece, and each man invested his person, in the way of a "pair-off," to the best of his ability. Barnington, was under orders for Dowager Lady Turnabout, who toadied Mrs. Barnington, and got divers dinners and pineapples for her trouble; and Stephen Dumpling, being now fairly "let into the thing," was left to lug in the two Miss Dobbses on one arm, and old mother Dobbs on the other.

    The simple-minded couples then stand up to dance, and as soon as the quadrilles are in full activity, Doleful offers his arm to Mrs. Barnington and proceeds into the supper-room, followed by all the knowing-ones in waiting. But what a splendid supper it is! A cross table with two long ones down the centre, all set out with turkeys, chickens, hams, tongues, lobster salads, spun sugar pyramids, towers, temples, grottoes, jellies, tarts, creams, custards, pineapples, grapes, peaches, nectarines, ices, plovers' eggs, prawns, and four-and-twenty sponge-cake foxes, with blue, red, and canary-coloured rosettes for tags to their brushes! Green bottles with card labels, and champagne bottles without labels, with sherry, &c., are placed at proper intervals down the table,—the champagne yielding a stronger crop upon the more fruitful soil of the cross table. Who ordered it, nobody knows, but there it is, and it is no time for asking.

    Shortly after the first detachment have got comfortably settled in their places, the music stops, and the dancers come crowding in with their panting partners, all anxious for lemonade or anything better. Then plates, knives, and forks are in request; the "far gone" ones eating with the same fork or spoon, those only "half gone" contenting themselves with using one plate. Barnington is in the chair at the cross table, with a fine sporting device of a fox, that looks very like a wolf, at his back, on a white ground with "Floreat Scientia" on a scroll below, the whole tastefully decorated with ribbons and rosettes. Dumpling and Smith are Vice-Presidents. Hark to the clatter! "Miss Thompson, some turkey? allow me to send you a little ham with it?" "Mrs. Jenkins, here's a delicious lobster salad." "Now, Fanny, my dear, see you're dropping the preserve over your dress!" "Oh dear! there goes my knife!" "Never mind, ma'am, I'll get you another." "Waiter! bring a clean glass—two of them!" "What will you take?" "Champagne, if you please." "Delightful ball, isn't it?" "How's your sister?" "Who'll take some pineapple punch?" "I will, with pleasure." "I've burst my sandal, and my shoe will come off." "Dear, that great awkward man has knocked the comb out of my head," "Go to see the hounds in the morning!" "Susan, mind, there's mamma looking." "Waiter! get me some jelly." "Bachelors' balls always the pleasantest." "Barnington is married." "Oh, he's nobody!" "Dumpling does it and stuttering Smith, there's no Mister Barnington." "There's the captain—I wonder if he sees us." "Oh the stoopid! he won't look this way. Should like to break his provoking head!" "How's your horse? Has it learned to canter?" "Take some tongue." "Champagne, if you please."

    Thus went the rattle, prattle, jabber, and tattle, until Mr. Barnington, who had long been looking very uneasy, being unable to bear the further frowns of his wife, at length rose from his seat for the most awful of all purposes, that of monopolising all the noise of the room,—a moment that can only be appreciated by those who have filed the unhappy situation of chairman in a company of ladies and gentlemen, when every eye is pointed at the unfortunate victim, and all ears are open to catch and criticise what he says. "Barnington! Barnington! chair! chair! order! order! silence!" cried a hundred voices, in the midst of which Mr. Barnington tried to steal away with his speech, but had to "whip back" and begin again.

    "Gentlemen and ladies (order! order!), I mean to say, Mr. Vice-Presidents, ladies, and gentlemen (hear, hear), I beg to propose the health of the Queen—I mean to say, the ladies who have honoured us with their presence this evening." Great applause, and every man drank to his sweetheart.

    Mrs. Barnington looked unutterable things at her spouse as he sat down, for women are all orators or judges of oratory, and well poor Barnington knew the vigour of her eloquence. Beckoning Doleful to her side, she desired him to tell Barnington not to look so like a sheepish schoolboy, but to hold himself straight, and speak out as if he were somebody. This Doleful interpreted into a handsome compliment, which so elated our unfortunate, that he immediately plucked up courage, and rising again, gave the table a hearty thump, and begged the company would fill a bumper to the health of the strangers who had honoured the Handley Cross hunt ball with their company. The strangers then began fidgetting and looking out an orator among themselves, but were put out of suspense by the rising of Dennis O'Brian, who returned thanks in one of his usual felicitous and appropriate speeches, and concluded by proposing the health of the chairman. Barnington was again on his legs, thanking them and giving "Success to fox-hunting," which was acknowledged by Snorem, who, being half asleep, mistook it for the time when he had to propose the healths of Smith and Dumpling, to whom he paid such lengthy compliments that the ladies cut him short by leaving the room. All restraint now being removed, the gentlemen crowded up to the cross table, when those who had been laying back for supper until they got rid of the women, went at it with vigorous determination,—corks flew, dishes disappeared, song, speech, and sentiment, were huddled in together, and in a very short time the majority of the company were surprised to find themselves amazingly funny.

    CHAPTER V. THE HUNT COMMITTEE.

    "It is our opening day."

    HANDLEY CROSS had a very debauched look the morning after the hunt ball. The Ongar rooms being lighted with windows round the top, with covered galleries outside, for the accommodation of milliners, ladies' maids, and such as wish to criticise their masters and mistresses, had no protecting blinds; and a strong party having settled themselves into "threesome" reels—the gentlemen for the purpose of dancing themselves sober, the ladies, like Goldsmith's clown, to try and tire out the orchestra—the ball seemed well calculated to last for ever, when the appearance of day-light in the room made the wax-lights look foolish, and caused all the old chaperons to rush to their charges and hurry them off, before bright Phoebus exposed the forced complexions of the night. All then was hurry-skurry; carriages were called up, and hurried off as though the plague had broken out, and Johns and Jehus were astonished at the bustle of their "mississes."

    The last fly at length drove off; the variegated lamps round the festooned porch began glimmering and dying in succession, as Doleful and the remaining gentlemen stood bowing, grinning, and kissing their hands to their departing partners, while their blue coats and canary-coloured shorts exhibited every variety of shade and complexion that the colours are capable of. Doleful's hair, too, assumed a vermilion hue. The town was clear, bright, and tranquil; no sound disturbed the quiet streets, and there was a balmy freshness in the morning air that breathed gratefully on the feverish frames of the heated dancers. The cock, "the trumpet of the morn," had just given his opening crow, in farmer Haycock's yard behind the rooms, and the tinkling bells of the oxen's yoke came softened on the air like the echoing cymbals of the orchestra.

    St. George's chapel clock strikes! Its clear silvery notes fall full upon the listeners' ears. "One! two! three! four! five! six!—six o'clock!" and youths say it is not worth while going to bed, while men of sense set off without a doubt on the matter. Some few return to the supper-room to share the ends of champagne bottles and lobster salads with the waiters.

    Morning brought no rest to the jaded horses and helpers of the town. No sooner were the Rosinantes released from the harness of the flys, than they were led to the stable-doors and wisped and cleaned in a manner that plainly showed it was for coming service, and not for that performed. Bill Gibbon, the club-footed ostler of the "Swan Hotel and Livery Stables," had eight dirty fly-horses to polish into hunters before eleven o'clock, and Tom Turnbinn, and his deaf and dumb boy, had seven hunters and two flys ordered for the same hour. There was not a horse of any description but what was ordered for the coming day, and the donkeys were bespoke three deep.

    If Duncan Nevin had had a dozen Bull-dogs and Sontags, they would all have been engaged, and on his own terms too.

    "Oh sir!" he would say to inquirers, "that Bull-dog's a smart horse —far too good for our work—he should be in a gentleman's stable—Did you ever see a horse so like the field, now? I'm only axin thirty pound for him, and it's really givin' of him away—I couldn't let him go out under two guineas a day, and then only with a very careful rider, like yourself. Cost me near what I ax for him, in the summer, and have had to put him into condition myself. Oats is very dear, I assure you. Perhaps you'd have the kindness not to say that he's hired, and save me the duty?"

    A little before eleven the bustle commenced; the first thing seen was Peter leaving the kennel with the hounds, Abelard, the black poodle, and "Mr. Fleeceall," the white terrier with a black eye. Peter was dressed in a new scarlet frock-coat with a sky-blue collar, buff striped toilanette waistcoat, black cap, new leathers and boots. His whip, spurs, gloves, bridle, and saddle were also new, and he was riding a new white horse. Barnington's groom followed, similarly attired; and this being his first appearance in the character of a whipper-in, he acted fully up to the designation by flopping and cracking the hounds with his whip, and crying "Co'p, co'p, hounds!—Go on, hounds—go on!—Drop it!—Leave it! To him, to him!" and making sundry other orthodox noises.

    Lamp-black was that morning in great request. Broken knees, collar, and crupper marks had to be effaced, and some required a touch of lampblack on their heads, where they had knocked the hair off in their falls. The saddling and bridling were unique! No matter what sort of a mouth the horse had, the first bridle that came to hand was put into it.

    Stephen Dumpling's horse, having travelled from home, was the first of the regulars to make his appearance in the street. He was a great, raking, sixteen hands chesnut, with "white stockings," and a bang tail down to the hocks. He was decorated with a new bridle with a blue silk front, and a new saddle with a hunting horn. Stephen's lad, dressed in an old blue dress-coat of his master's, with a blue and white striped livery waistcoat, top-boots, and drab cords, and having a cockade in his hat, kept walking the horse up and down before the Dragon Hotel, while Stephen, with a feverish pulse and aching head, kept sipping his coffee, endeavouring to make himself believe he was eating his breakfast. At last he lighted a cigar, and appeared, whip in hand, under the arched gate-way. He had on a new scarlet coat with a blue collar, the same old red-ended neck-cloth he had worn at the ball, and an infinity of studs down an ill-fitting, badly-washed shirt, a buff waistcoat, and a pair of make-believe leathers—a sort of white flannel, that after the roughings of many washings give gentlemen the appearance of hunting in their drawers. His boots had not been "put straight" after the crumpling and creasing they had got in his "bags;" consequently there were divers patches of blacking transferred to the tops, while sundry scrapings of putty, or of some other white and greasy matter, appeared on the legs. Independently of this, the tops retained lively evidence of their recent scouring in the shape of sundry up and down strokes, like the first coat of white-washing, or what house-painters call "priming," on a new door.

    Dumpling's appearance in the street was the signal for many who were still at their breakfasts to bolt the last bits of muffin, drink up their tea, and straddle into the passage to look for hats, gloves, and whips. Doors opened, and sportsmen emerged from every house. Round-the-corner Smith's roan mare, with a hunting horn at the saddle-bow, had been making the turn of Hookem's library for ten minutes and more; and the stud of Lieutenant Wheeler, the flash riding-master—seven "perfect broke horses for road or field," with two unrivalled ponies—had passed the Dragon for the eight Miss Mercers, and their brother Tom to go out upon to "see the hounds." Then sorry steeds, with sorrier equipments, in the charge of very sorry-looking servants, paced up and down High Street, Paradise Row, and the Crescent; and a yellow fly, No. 34, with red wheels, drove off with Dumpling's nondescript servant on the box, and the three Miss Dobbses, and Mother Dobbs, in scarlet silk pelisses, with sky-blue ribbons and handkerchiefs, inside. Jaded young ladies, whose looks belie their assertions, assure their mammas that they are not in the "least tired," step into flys and drive away through High Street, kissing their hands, bowing and smiling, right and left, as they go.

    Abel Snorem, having purchased a pair of new top-boots, appears in the sky-blue coat, lined with pink silk, and the canary-coloured shorts of the previous evening, looking very much like a high-sheriff's horse foot-man going out to meet the judges. Not meaning to risk his neck, although booted, he makes the fourth in a fly with Mr. and Miss Mordecai, and fat old Mr. Guzzle, who goes form watering-place to watering-place, trying the comparative merits of the waters in restoring appetite after substantial meals: he looks the picture of health and apoplexy. Mrs. Barnington's dashing yellow barouche comes hurrying down the street, the bays bearing away from the pole, and the coachman's elbows sticking out in a corresponding form. Of course all the flys, horses, and passengers that are not desirous of being driven over by "John Thomas," the London coachman, are obliged to get out of the way as fast as they can, and he pulls up with a jerk, as though he had discovered the house all of a sudden. Out rush two powdered flunkeys in red plush breeches, pink silk stockings, and blue coatees, when, finding it is only their own carriage, a dialogue ensues between them and Mr. Coachman, as the latter lounges over the box and keeps flanking his horses to make them stand out and show themselves.

    A few minutes elapse, and out comes the portly butler, with a "Now then! Missis coming down!" whereupon the Johnnies rush to their silver-laced hats on the hall table, seize their gold-headed canes, pull their white Berlins out of their pockets, and take a position on each side of the barouche door. Mrs. Barnington sails majestically down stairs, dressed in a sky-blue satin pelisse, with a sky-blue bonnet, lined with pink, and a splendid white feather, tipped with pink, waving gracefully over her left shoulder. She is followed by Barnington and Doleful, the former carrying her shawl and reticule in one hand, and his own hunting-whip in the other. Barnington, as usual, is well-dressed, having on a neat-fitting, single-breasted scarlet coat, with a blue collar, and rich gilt buttons, sky-blue cravat, canary-coloured waistcoat, well-cleaned leathers and gloves, and exquisitely polished boots, with very bright spurs. Doleful, who is rather in disgrace, for having introduced a partner to one of the three Miss Dobbses over night, and has just had a wigging for his trouble, sneaks behind, attired in a costume that would have astonished Tom Rounding himself, at the Epping Hunt. It consists of an old militia coat, denuded of its facings and trappings, made into a single-breasted hunting coat, but, for want of cloth, the laps are lined, as well as the collar covered, with blue; his waistcoat is pea-green, imparting a most cadaverous hue to his melancholy countenance, and he has got on a pair of old white moleskin breeches, sadly darned and cracked at the knees, Hessian boots, with large tassels, and black heel spurs. He carries his hat in one hand, and a black gold-headed opera cane in the other, and looks very like an itinerant conjuror. What strange creatures fine women sometimes fancy!

    Mrs. Barnington steps listlessly into the carriage, throws herself upon the back seat, while Barnington and Doleful deposit themselves on the front one; the door is shut with a bang, the "Johnnies" jump up behind, "whit" cries the coachman to his horses, off they go, the fat butler, having followed them up the High Street with his eyes, closes the door, and away they bowl at the rate of twelve miles an hour, round the Crescent, through Jireth Place, Ebenezer Row, Apollo Terrace, past the Archery Ground, and Mr. Jackson's public gardens, and along the Appledove road, as far as the Mount Sion turnpike-gate—leaving pedestrians, horsemen, and vehicles of every kind immeasurably in the distance.

    At the gate a crowd is assembled—Jones Deans, the "pikeman," has wisely closed the bar, and "No trust" stands conspicuously across the road. As the carriage approaches, it is thrown wide open, off goes Jones's hat. Mrs. Jones Deans drops a hasty curtsey, that almost brings her knees in contact with the ground, and the little urchins on the rails burst into an involuntary huzza. John Thomas cuts on, and turns at a canter into the grass-field on the left of the road, where poor Peter has been walking his hounds about for the last hour or more. What a crowd! Grooms of every description, with horses of every cut and character, moving up and down, and across and around the field; some to get their horses' coats down, others to get their legs down, a few to get their horses' courage down, others to try and get them up: some because they see others do it, and others because they have nothing else to do.

    There are thirteen flys full of the young ladies from Miss Prim's and Miss Prosy's opposition seminaries, the former in sky-blue ginghams, the latter in pink; Mrs. Fleeceall driven by her dear Fleecey with a new hunting whip, in a double-bodied one-horse "chay" with four little Fleecealls stuck in behind; Mr. Davey, the new apothecary, with his old wife, in a yellow dennet drawn by a white cart mare; Mr. and Mrs. Hookem of the library in Jasper Green the donkey driver's best ass-cart; farmer Joltem in his untaxed gig, with his name, abode, and occupation painted conspicuously behind; old Tim Ricke