Читать книгу Market Harborough, and Inside the Bar - G. J. Whyte-Melville - Страница 8

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London is in the way to everywhere. I have an old friend—an honest Lincolnshire squire—who, paying his sister a visit in Norfolk, always goes and returns by London. I do not think it is necessary to traverse Oxford Street in order to proceed from the Old Country to Market Harborough; and yet on the day that witnessed his faithful groom’s introduction to Mr. Tiptop, John Standish Sawyer might have been, and indeed was, seen crossing that crowded thoroughfare, with hasty steps and air of considerable preoccupation.

The fact is, Mr. Sawyer was full of business. In the first place, it is needless to observe, he had been to have his hair cut—a rite seldom neglected by the true Englishman when entering upon a new phase in his career. Also he had to purchase many articles of wearing apparel, such as are only to be procured in the Metropolis. Since his rejection by Miss Mexico (for previous to that casualty he had been rather a gaudy dresser than otherwise), our friend, although preserving an equestrian exterior, had suffered his wardrobe to run considerably to seed. In truth, there was little temptation to extravagance on that score at The Grange. But now that he was about to take his place, as he observed, amongst the sporting aristocracy of Great Britain, it would be necessary to call in the aid of such artists as consider themselves the especial providers of boots, breeches, &c., for the first flight.

When I met him he was hurrying towards the well-known emporium of Messrs. Putty & Co., now universally acknowledged to be the only firm in London at which a truly workmanlike top-boot—combining, as their advertisement expresses it, “comfort to the wearer, with satisfaction to the looker-on”—is to be obtained. I could not resist my friend’s imploring request to accompany him into the shop, and favour him with my experience on a subject which cannot be mastered without considerable observation and reflection.

Like most people from the country, Mr. Sawyer feels somewhat shy in the presence of a fashionable London tradesman. When he entered the warehouse, a languid gentleman, with one shoeless foot placed on a square of brown paper, was drawling out his directions to Messrs. Putty’s foreman, an exceedingly smart and voluble disciple of St. Crispin.

“Not too thick,” said the languid man, in a tone of utter physical exhaustion. “Man can’t ride nicely, if he don’t feel his stirrup through his boot;” and Sawyer nudged my elbow with a delighted wink, that seemed to say—“This swell, too, is a votary of Diana!”

The languid man’s silk-stockinged foot having been re-shod, he rose with great difficulty, and moved feebly in the direction of his brougham, from the window of which he adjured the shopman, in a faint voice, to forward “the tops when finished to my address at Market Harborough,” and sank back amongst the cushions, completely overcome.

The talismanic syllables raised the curiosity of my friend. “Who is it?” he whispered eagerly to the returning shopman; and that worthy, placing a chair and a fresh square of brown paper for his new customer, replied somewhat condescendingly—“That, sir? That’s the Honourable Crasher, sir; hunting gentleman, and very particular about his tops. What can I do for you, sir?”

I had now an opportunity of observing the great warmth and thickness of the worsted stockings in which my friend kept his legs encased; also the stout proportions of those useful limbs, more adapted perhaps for the Highland kilt, than any other costume. Mr. Putty’s foreman saw at a glance the difficulties he would have to contend with, and prepared to subdue them.

“Very muscular gentleman!” said he; passing his tape round my friend’s calf. “Great pedestrian powers, I should say. Inconvenient in the saddle; but will endeavour to rectify that. Excuse me, sir: take the liberty of asking whereabouts you generally hunt.”

“Hunt?” repeated the customer. “Oh! Leicestershire—Northamptonshire—all about there—in the neighbourhood of Market Harborough.” Mr. Sawyer spoke in a vague general sort of way, as if he was in the habit of pervading the whole of the grazing districts.

A cloud gathered on the foreman’s brow.

“The Shires!” he rejoined, with a perplexed air; “that increases our difficulties very much indeed. I could have made you, now, a particular neat provincial boot; but with this pattern it’s exceedingly difficult to attain the correct appearance for flying countries. I’ll show you a pair here, sir, that the Honourable Crasher sent back this very morning, because they fell away the eighth-of-an-inch at the setting-on of the leg, and the Honourable’s girth is at least two-and-a-half less than yours. You wouldn’t like a pair of Napoleons, I presume? Very fashionable just now, sir. All the gentlemen wear them in the Vale of Aylesbury.”

I confess I rather expected an outburst at this suggestion: my friend sharing with me a strong prejudice against what have been termed “Butcher-boots;” but

“Prolonged endurance tames the bold,”

and Sawyer submitted with considerable patience to the foreman’s promise, that they would do all in their power to make him two pair of top-boots, only inferior to those of the Honourable Crasher, and send them down to him in a little over a fortnight; or, “not to disappoint him, say punctually that day three weeks.”

A thorough revisal of gloves, neckcloths, &c., is soon made; and after a hearty luncheon at the railway station, I put my friend into a first-class carriage attached to the fast train, and wished him “Good sport,” and “Good-bye,” with a feeling somewhat akin to envy, as I remained in smoky London, and he was whirled away into the soft fragrant country saturated with rain, and smiling itself to sleep in the calm grey light of a mild winter’s afternoon. He had but one fellow-passenger, of whom more anon.

I wonder whether the reflections of other men in a railway-carriage, bowling through the midland counties at the rate of forty miles an hour, on such a day as I have described, are like my own. I honestly confess that a very few ideas, if they are favourite ones, are sufficient to fill my brain. As I speed along the level embankments, which give one such a commanding view of the surrounding country, I cannot help imagining myself on the back of a good horse, sailing away from field to field after a pack of hounds. How well I can see my way!—how easy the fences look!—how readily I distinguish the place I should make him take off at, and the exact spot on which he would land, choosing unhesitatingly the soundest ridge, on which I should increase my pace so confidently down to that glassy brook, that looks as if you could hop over it from here, but which memory tells me is at least fifteen feet of water! How easy to get a start from that spinny, shaped liked a cocked-hat, of which the three corners have puzzled me so often, never hitting the one the hounds came out at, though I have tried them all in turn! How contemptible the size of this woodland, in which I have yet known a fox hang for hours together! What a run I have in imagination! and how well I see it! Alas! like everything else coloured through that deceitful medium, how different from the “cold reality”!

Nevertheless, much as I sympathise in his bride’s consternation, I cannot deny a fellow-feeling with that bridegroom of whom it is related that, on a wedding-trip of many hours by the side of his late-won treasure, during which he ceased not to scan the adjacent fences with a practical eye, he uttered never a word during the entire journey, save this one remarkable sentence, “There’s my place! Where would you have it?”

Some such ruminations as the above probably engrossed the whole of my friend’s intellects, till the courteous offer of Punch—containing, as usual, one of Leech’s inimitable hunting sketches—drew his attention to his fellow-traveller, under whose multiplicity of wrappers he had no difficulty in recognising the placid features of the gentleman he had that morning noticed in the boot-shop. It was, indeed, none other than the Honourable Crasher; by this time completely worn out, and who, to do him justice, was a gentlemanlike, well-featured fellow enough, if he had not always looked so dreadfully tired.

The reply to such a courtesy, where there were no ladies in the carriage, could only be, “Have you any objection to smoking?” And as nobody ever does object nowadays to that soothing practice, and the “forty-shilling penalty” is, I trust, simply a dead-letter and a fallacy, the Laranagas were produced, and a couple of them soon got very freely under way.

No introduction from a mutual friend is equal to that of a cigar. Any two votaries of the “pleasant vice,” at least during the time they are engaged in its practice, are sure to fraternise, and in five minutes Mr. Sawyer and the Honourable Crasher were hard at it, I need scarcely observe, on the subject of fox-hunting; the former resolving, as far as possible, to pick the brains of his new acquaintance (if he could find them) on that exhaustless topic; the latter positively warming into a languid enthusiasm on the only subject to which he could direct his whole attention for ten consecutive minutes.

Racing men are bad enough. Politicians are sufficiently long-winded. A couple of agriculturists will keep the ball rolling pretty perseveringly on the congenial themes of “cake,” mangold wurzel, short-horns, reaping-machines, and guano; but I have heard ladies, who are perhaps the best judges of volubility, affirm that, for energy, duration, and the faculty of saying the same thing over and over again, a dialogue between a couple of fox-hunters beats every other kind of discussion completely out of the field.

Mr. Sawyer took the initiative by pointing to the fox’s tusk which fastened the string in his new friend’s hat.

“Done anything this last week?” said he, with that mysterious air specially affected by all individuals who are connected, however remotely, with horseflesh, and which, I believe, has much to answer for, in the impression of consummate roguery which it conveys to the uninitiated. “It’s been good scenting weather in my part of the world. Hounds must have run hard on the grass.”

The Honourable Crasher emitted a large volume of smoke, ere he roused himself for the effort, and replied: “Good thing, last Friday, with the Pytchley, from Fox Hall. Do you know that country?” he added, thinking, if his listener did not, he might save himself the trouble of detailing it.

“I am on my way down to hunt there now,” rejoined our friend, “so I take an interest, naturally, in your sport. Last Friday, you say? Ah! that was the day we had such a fine run over our country. Two hours and forty-seven minutes, and killed our fox—and killed our fox,” he repeated, as if such a climax was sufficiently rare to merit more than common attention.

Nothing but the spirit of emulation between different packs could have embarked the Honourable Crasher on a long story; but he woke up from his lethargy at this juncture, and observed,

“Two hours and forty-seven minutes? Indeed! It must have been a fine run; but slow, I conclude—slow. I never care much for anything over an hour. It’s labour and sorrow, walking after hounds, to my mind.”

“Slow!” retorted Mr. Sawyer indignantly. “Not at all; I was riding the best horse in my stable, and he had to do all he knew to live with them. Fine country, too—wild fox-hunting country—not a soul in the fields; very deep, and a good deal of fencing. I don’t know that I was ever better carried,” he added meditatively, hoping to bring the conversation round to the merits of the grey.

But the Honourable Crasher had his story to tell too, and broke in with unusual vehemence:

“Ours was about the quickest thing I ever rode to. Found in Faxton Corner; fox never hung a second, and the hounds ran him over those large grass-fields as if they were tied to him, all down by——Dear me, I forget the names of the places, and I never can describe a run; but if you don’t know the country, it don’t signify. In short, they ran him all about, you know, over a capital line, and turned him up in the open, at the end of seven-and-twenty minutes, without a check, and very straight, you know, and all that; satisfactory to everybody, and not at all bad fun, and so on.” The Honourable C. was rapidly collapsing, running down like the last notes of a musical box. Ere he arrived at this very explicit conclusion, he had become perfectly torpid again.

Finding his neighbour would not listen to his story, Mr. Sawyer thought he might as well get what he could in the way of information, and began accordingly to propound a series of questions, only interrupted by the occasional apparition, at the window, of a broad chest and ruddy bearded face belonging to the guard, who, seeing the gentlemen still smoking, vanished again incontinently. The examination proceeded much as follows, the catechumen, though waking up at intervals, becoming more and more comatose.

Mr. Sawyer: “It is very stiff, isn’t it, that Pytchley country? Large fences that won’t bear liberties being taken with them?”

The Honourable Crasher: “Yeas, I should say, it wanted a hunter to get over it.”

Mr. S.: “Do you consider it as difficult to cross as the Quorn?”

The Hon. C.: “Yeas—no—that’s to say, I ride the same horses in both; I don’t know that there’s much difference.”

“Whom do your consider your best men now, in your field?”

“Oh! there are lots of fellows who can ride, if they get a start. It’s impossible to say; there’s a good deal in luck, and a good deal in horses.” [N.B. This is hardly a sincere speech of the Hon. C.’s. He does not think either luck or horseflesh constitutes a customer, and has not the slightest doubt in his own mind as to whom he considers about the best performer in that or any other country; only modesty forbids him to name the individual.]

Mr. S., a little dissatisfied: “I suppose the Leicestershire men are splendidly mounted?”

Hon. C.: “No; I should say not. I never remember seeing so few good horses. I shouldn’t know where to get a hunter if I wanted one!”

Mr. Sawyer thought of the roan, and ran his eye over his friend’s slim figure and horsemanhorseman-like shape. “He’d carry him like a bird,” thought the owner, “and I shouldn’t mind letting him have him for two hundred, or say, if I dropped into a good thing with him, two hundred and fifty;” but he only observed, “I suppose you are very well mounted yourself?”

“So-so,” was the reply. “I’m rather short just now; only ten. Good useful brutes some of them; but I shouldn’t say my lot was quite first-class, by any means!”

Again Mr. Sawyer found subject for rumination. Ten! Only ten! and not first-class ones neither, though it was probable that a man who had ten hunters in his stable would not find it worth while to keep a bad one; and then he thought of his own three, and the severe infliction it would be to have to ride Marathon over the fences, which, as he looked from the window, loomed larger and larger in the twilight, as they approached the grazing districts. No secret, it has been said, is so close as that between a horse and his rider; and Mr. Sawyer hardly liked to confess, even to himself, the very inferior brute he had got in the bay. Somehow all the difficulties into which he had put him seemed to rise in his mind’s eye, like an accumulation of photographs, as he sat back amongst the cushions, and, withdrawing his gaze from the outward world, fixed it on the lately-lit lamp above his head.

He remembered, not without a shudder, what a cropper the brute gave him at that stile in the potato-garden, which at least he might have scrambled over, if he had only risen six inches. He recalled the famous run he lost from the Forty-acres, because no persuasion would induce Marathon to face the bullfinch enclosing that meritorious fox-covert, and which a donkey could get through, if he would only look at it. He reflected how the animal perversely

“Struck all his timber, fathomed all his ditches;”

how he had never cleared a brook with him, or gone a run to his master’s satisfaction; and how even old Isaac allowed his favourite “wur a better nag in the stable nor he wur in the field;” and so musing, he shuddered to think of their joint endeavours to get out of a fifty-acre pasture, with an ox-fence all round it, and the gate locked!

To avoid such horrible visions, he would have plunged once more into conversation, but looking at his neighbour, observed he was now deep in “The Idylls of the King,”—an epic which served at least to keep the Honourable Crasher awake, thereby substantiating a theory I have heard broached by certain philosophers, and which I am not entirely prepared to dispute, viz. that there is something of poetry in every man who rides hard across a country.

Certainly not a Knight of the Table Round could have been more daring in the saddle than the Honourable Crasher, for all his dissipated looks and languid manners; nor could he have been so engrossed in the fate of “The Lily Maid of Astolat,” nor so lost in the description of the black barge floating dreamily down with its snowy burden (perhaps the most beautiful piece of word-painting in the language), had he not acknowledged in some corner of his much-neglected intellect that divinæ particula auræ, which may often be found, like a sweet wayside flower, blooming in the most unexpected and uncultivated localities.

Though Mr. Sawyer was himself innocent of all such weaknesses, he had the grace not to interrupt his fellow-traveller, and consequently not a word more was spoken till they exchanged a courteous “Good-evening,” as they glided into the Market Harborough station, and the new arrival wondered in his own mind how it was possible for any one man to require such a quantity of clothing as must be contained in the numerous portmanteaus which the guard’s van produced, and which were claimed by the Honourable Crasher as his own.

“He can’t have been a week in town,” thought our honest friend, “for he was hunting here only last Friday, and he’s taken more clothes with him than I’ve got for my whole kit in the world!”

He had, however, his own affairs to attend to—himself and his modest luggage to stow away in a damp fly, with a broken-winded horse; his dinner to order at the principal hotel, where he meant to reside—at least, till he found out if he liked his quarters. For so old a traveller, he committed in this matter a somewhat unaccountable mistake. Dazzled by the magnificence of his manners, and the sumptuous verbal bill of fare which the waiter stated to be available, he left the details of his meal to that functionary—an oversight which produced a somewhat untoward result, inasmuch as that, after a visit to his stables, a minute inspection of his horses, and a long consultation with Isaac, concerning which of them he should ride on the morrow, interspersed with many complaints and prognostications of evil from the latter, when he returned to his apartment very hungry and in want of comfort, he found the following banquet prepared for his delectation: A slice of soft cod, one raw mutton-chop relieved by an underdone ditto, two sorts of pickles, and some exceedingly strong cheese.