A DAY WITH LORD SHAMWELL. BY HUBERT. "Good morning, Dick," said the Squire to myself as he walked into the breakfast-room, in hunting tog, on a fine morning early in March. "So Pelican's not come yet. A nice sort of fellow he is to go hunting! Hounds meet at ten, and we have ten miles to ride; and, by Jove, it's striking nine! We'll begin breakfast at all events; I never wait for men who wont get out of their beds in time to meet hounds." Having said which, my good friend commenced laying upon his plate such a cargo of cold eatables as would have astonished any but a foxhunter of the olden time. Squire Wheatland, under whose hospitable roof I was at this time domiciled, and whose opening breakfast-speech I have given above, was a good specimen of what has now become very difficult to find-a real old country gentleman. He kept his couple of hunters, sundry brace of greyhounds, and a few well-bred and well-broke pointers; and managed to live rather without than within his moderate income. Cwrw Hall, the family residence of this worthy relic of good old times, was, if possible, more old-fashioned than himself; and, with the exception of the entertaining rooms added by its present possessor some twenty years before, it had braved the storms of two hundred winters. Its oldfashioned stone hall, with its glorious wood fire, gave a glowing reception to either the chance visitor or expected guest, and seemed to give a foretaste of the hearty welcome to be looked for from the host himself; while the facetious-looking straw chairs, with which the fire-place was garnished, invited the frozen sportsman to repose and divest himself of his snow-clad shoes ere he sought his comfortable dressing-room. Such was Cwrw Hall. Mine host was a man of fifty, but carrying his age well, and still going so well with hounds as to disappoint continually many a youngster who longed to occupy the place he had so long monopolized; but the Squire was not to be denied, and, though he used to say that hounds ran faster than some twenty or thirty years ago, he always managed to be with the hounds, but never too near. try in which his estate was situated was then hunted by Lord Shamwell, a nobleman who, after a long life of foxhunting, had learned in his old age to prefer having sport himself to seeing others enjoy it, and whose humbugging qualities, though they might not be admired, were certainly allowed and appreciated by all who had the honour of his acquaintance. On the morning on which I have introduced not only my host the Squire, but also myself (his friend Dick) to my readers, we were to meet Lord Shamwell's hounds at Parsley Wood, about ten miles from Cwrw. A friend of Wheatland's, Pompous Pelican, Esq., of Barbary Lodge, had sent his nag on over night to the Squire's stable, and was to join us at breakfast; but, as he had a knack of always being too late, we were The coun leaving the house as he drove up in his spicy dog-cart. My friend had enlightened me upon his appearance; ergo I was not astonished at seeing a he-man, at least six feet six, emerge from the vehicle, and stalk with giant strides towards the house. "Ha, Wheatland, how are ye?" exclaimed this gentleman as we "Devilish late, eh? By gad! your roads are met him at the door. so bad for wheels, I have brought a saddle to ride from here to the meet. One gets on better through your township roads." "All right," said the Squire, now being able for the first time to "We can't wait for you, for we shall be late as it is; put in a word. and, as you ride faster than we do, you will soon overtake us." So saying, he left his friend to breakfast alone, and we were soon trotting merrily along, on two rare cobby hacks, at good ten miles an hour, which, over cross-roads, is fast enough. We had travelled about a mile when we heard the sound of hoofs in our rear drawing so suddenly nearer and nearer as to make the Squire involuntarily exclaim "Here he comes !" "Who?" inquired I. 66 Why Pelican, to be sure. He always goes to cover twenty miles an hour; in fact, I think he only hunts for the sake of the exercise.' This time, however, the Squire was out, for immediately there rushed past us a young man in trousers and spectacles on a blood-like bay mare, which animal, with her nose in the air, was running away with him, in spite of all the endeavours of a powerful pair of arms to stop her. "Hold hard, Doctor!" roared Wheatland, laughing till his sides ached. "I can't," responded Barnacles, and was out of sight. who "Oh," said Wheatland, "that's Doctor Wickers; a good fellow, hunts really because he likes it: which he must do most truly, to ride He is obliged to go well, because she carries such a brute as that mare. She is certainly a very him sometimes over hounds, horses, and men. safe fencer, but no mortal man can hold her, which makes her very unpleasant in the field. He's a very good fellow is Wickers, or Barnacles, as our old Lord calls him; and we shall have some fun to-day if his mare is in her usual humour, for she's sure to carry him right through the pack at the first check. Well, Bowen, how are you?" continued he, as we overtook a respectable-looking farmer who was jogging quietly "A likely day this." along on a useful little chesnut mare. "It is indeed, sir," replied the corn-grower. some sport.' "We ought to have The agriculturist is left behind, and we near the meet. Sundry pinks are seen urging their hacks along towards the scene of action; while along the high road is seen approaching the well-known drag which conveys the noble lord and master of the pack, his sons perhaps, and a couple of tender-footed old hounds, besides a starved-looking terrier. "Good morning, gentlemen; good morning," resounds on all sides during the process of laying aside box-coats and buckling on spurs. A dozen pinks are grouped around exchanging the ordinary salutations of a hunting morning, during which I have time to scan the condition of the hounds and horses, and the appointments of the men. The hounds are strong, well-shaped animals, perhaps too well-bred for the country they hunt; while the fault, as regards the horses, seems all on the other side, for a lot of lower-bred devils I never saw three men mounted on at a cover-side, But, altogether, the turn-out is respectable for the provinces. The field is composed of people of every description; a few rather strike me. The man with the foxy whiskers, whose strong-necked chesnut horse is ornamented with a noseband, looks like a good-un, and they say he goes well. The person with whom he is conversing is evidently a gentleman, for his untrimmed black beard has failed to obliterate a certain distingué expression peculiar to the well-bred. His is a strange costume notwithstanding, for a scarlet coat is not often seen accompanied by trousers at a cover-side. The gentleman on the sporting-looking, clipped, bay horse has something in his appearance quite out of the common run, and he seems to know it. His toilette is perhaps too much studied, and his clothes may fit a little too tight to enable him to ride in comfort. His leathers and boots are perfectly correct, and the snowy whiteness of his gloves and whip-lash speak much for the attention of his groom. May-be you will say that his well-curled whiskers and glossy hat attest the presence of a little too much affectation; but, gentle reader, he is a knight and baronet, and may do things on the strength of his lordly connections which we may not do. The man in black, whose boots are not garnished with spurs, and between whose white cords and tops an interstice of an inch discloses a portion of grey worsted stocking, looks a knowing one. He has a glass in his eye, and his toes are well stuck out from his horse's sides. This is Archdeacon Morefun, the chaplain of the hunt; a capital companion at dinner, but a great rider. The chaplain is talking to two young men named Hogskin. The elder, in the pink, on the little chesnut horse, has a pretty seat, and looks very sporting; but his brother, who indulges in a green coat and well-worn leggings, and sits loosely on his horse, can beat him any day to hounds. Here comes the exquisite," says the Squire, as a new comer arrives; and an exquisite surely he is. I'll have a look at him, for such creatures are not often seen in the hunting-field. He looks like a girl in man's clothes, for his face is as pink and white as the sunny-side of a waxen peach. He is dressed in a light plum-coloured coat, leathern trousers, and boots such as Napoleon would have worn had he gone hunting; while his heron-like neck is environed by a light-blue satin scarf, ornamented with a large golden effigy of a fox. But if the tall boy is in himself a quiz, he is trebly so when inounted on his hunter; an old broken-winded animal, probably older than his rider, with hardly sufficient flesh upon his bones to prevent their protruding through his shaggy hide. His owner, doubtless, purchased him from some herringhawker or country attorney, and he probably gave about £3 10s. for him, receiving the dilapidated saddle into the bargain. I don't envy the horse, for he has already carried his master fifteen miles to the meet, and, if able, he must bear him home again in the evening. But I see not our friend of the road, Doctor Wickers; where can he be? Ha! I see him; he has wisely kept away from the hounds, and is in vain attempting to quiet his mare at some distance. Thus he has hitherto escaped notice; but as we shall move past the spot where he is in our way to the cover we are to draw, he will probably come in for his share of condescension, being one of a certain party whom the politic master is anxious to conciliate by every means. As we approach, the old lord, seeing a man in black trousers likely to ride into the middle of the pack, roars out, “D—n it, tailor! don't ride over the hounds. For Heaven's sake, sir! learn to ride before you come out again to annoy us." The Doctor was, luckily, too much occupied in steering his Rosinante to hear much, if any, of this harangue; and as he at this moment turned round and made himself known, his lordship put a new face on the matter, and, riding out of the rank, said, with much emphasis on the most emphatic words, "My good friend Wickers, how are you? Delighted to see you out. How are all at home? Your mare seems fresh; if any one else were on her back she would kill half my hounds. Not one man in a hundred could ride her." At this moment the field was augmented by the arrival of two men in pink, who came galloping up, and were greeted as Mr. Whackford and Will Bigboy. The former, a delicate-looking person, quickly exchanged his gruelled hack for a large hack mare, whose appearance pleased me much; while the latter, a very small man indeed, placed himself on the back of a little wiry grey mare, which I afterwards found out to be an extraordinary creature, though not more so than her master. "Throw 'em in, Jack!" says Tom Slide; "we can't wait any longer for Pelican." "Have at him, my darlings! That's it, my good hounds!" cheers the huntsman. A whimper is heard on the right, followed by "Get to Ranksborough; get away, get away, hounds," from the second whip. At length a distant "Tally-ho" resounds a-head, to which is instantly added, "For'ard, away, for'ard!" and now the excitement begins. Each man manoeuvres to obtain as good a place as possible for himself, and away we splash through the dirtiest of rides towards a strong wicket-gate, which, when opened, will afford room for one horseman to pass without much danger of spoiling both his knees. Lord Shamwell has managed to get tolerably forward, and urges his over-fat mare along at a good pace, calling out continually to those in his rear, Gently, my good fellow, gently! there's no hurry. We're all right; don't come too close!" 66 By this means most of the field are kept back; but Mr. Whackford, who has, by dint of splashing the very correct leathers of his friend Bigboy, and filling young Tom Hogskin's mouth with a hoofful of mud, arrived near his Lordship, seems determined to get on a little faster than the plausible old Peer would wish; and, therefore, choosing a place where the road is a little wider than usual, he sticks his spurs into his mare's sides, and rushes past the titled master at a furious pace, covering both him and his horse with a goodly coating of mud. "Thank you, my good fellow; thank you!" sings out his Lordship, at the same time internally cursing the too eager young man; but Whackford is an embryo millionnaire, and has some influence in the county for which the Honourable Mr. Shamwell will be a candidate at the next election. In due time the old Lord arrives at the gate, and calls out, "Now, my good friends, for Heaven's sake, some one open the gate!" Bigboy, who is next him, will see him d-d first, and then he won't; and at length Tom Hogskin pushes past, and performs the kind office for the antiquated sportsman, who rewards him with the following, "Thank you, Tom; thank you! I'll do as much for you some day, my good boy. You shall never want a father while I live!" The whole party now emerge from the riding into a stiff piece of plough, where the hounds are striving to carry the scent over the cold fallow, while each anxious horseman tightens his girths, in readiness for whatever may happen. "Hold hard, gentlemen; pray hold hard. Hold hard, Mr. Whackford, don't ride over the hounds!" exclaims my Lord, as the gentleman on the black mare seems anxious to hunt the fox himself. 66 "D-n it, Sir! where are you going to," roars Tom Slide, and with good reason; for our friend the Doctor is borne along upon his highbred 'un into the midst of the pack. "Who's that, Tom?" says my Lord. "D-n him," continues the old Lord; "he's always playing the devil! I wish he'd learn to ride.” "That's it, by the Lord Harry!" says Jack, as the hounds hit it off along the headland. "Hark to Juggler! there hark! for'ard, away, for'ard!" "Ware wheat, if you please, gentlemen!" holloas his Lordship, turning his mare right across a field of the said grain. "Never mind me, my good friends; that's the line, don't mind me." Meanwhile Slide, followed by Whackford and the Doctor, is sailing away at the tail of the hounds; while to the right may be seen the elder Hogskin, indulging his little thorough-bred in a steeple chase with Bigboy. My friend the Squire, like an old hand, is easing his nag through the holding plough, and the fag-enders and servants are seen nailing along a parallel road to our left, headed by a man on an old dun mare. Who can he be? Oh! that is Mr. Helvellyn Caulker, the wiseacre, the Solomon, the man who knows everything of the hunt. He sometimes manages to know a little more than everything, and he is sure to come up at the first check, having viewed a dozen foxes, or seen the hunted one headed by sheep. The country begins to improve, and with it the pace, though still the latter is anything but fast. Slide (of whom I may as well say here, that a more gentlemanly, sportsman-like fellow, I never met with) is still going well; but Whackford and the Doctor stick to him a little too close to be pleasant. The latter is in truth borne along against his will by his plucky mare; while the former goes because he knows no better, careless of hounds, horses, and his own neck to boot. "This way," says Tom Slide, turning old Mulberry away from a high newly plashed hedge, and shaping his course towards a low rail in the corner; but Whackford thinks he may for once possess himself of the lead, and with all powder he crams the big mare at the fence, calling out lustily, "This 'll do, Wickers! this 'll do very well." Whether he trusted in his own or his horse's strength, I know not, but they both failed; for hardly had he uttered the above sentence, when his mare chested the barrier, and rolled with her rider into the next field, to the no small amusement of all who were near enough to see. This exploit of Whackford's cost him dear; for his mare damaged her shoulder so much, that, as I afterwards heard, she was not fit for work |