HAWBUCK GRANGE,

&c.

CHAPTER I.

CUB-HUNTING.

"Sport in fox-hunting cannot be said to begin before October, but in the two preceding months a pack is either made or marred."-BECKFORD.

"It

"IT was the horn I heard," said Scott, as the old mare again cocked her ears to the wind. was the horn I heard, as I came over Addington Hill, though the country looks so green and gay that I never thought of such a thing as hunting."

This exclamation was elicited as, on a fine bright September day, a month in which, according to the usual course of English summers, harvest operations would be about commencing in many parts, Mr. Thomas Scott the hero of this work, whose "pedigree and performances" must work themselves out as we proceed, was taking a quiet ride "across country" to hear how things were going on at the kennel.

B

The kennel is a grand summer lounge.

One is sure to fall in with somebody to talk to; either the huntsman ingratiating himself with his entry, the whip sweeping the yards, or the feeder filling his boiler or scalding his troughs. It is privileged easiness-not idleness, but easiness-for the huntsman can "make of" a pup quite as well in the presence of a stranger as when alone, and the whip is not likely to be put off his work by answering "interrogatories," as our friend Bigbag of the Chancery bar calls his questions, nor the boiler turned from his purpose by listening to our rigmarole. Therefore a man goes to the kennel with the certainty of a smiling reception and a gossip, instead of a gruff "Well, what do you want?" or the "I'm particularly busy just now," of the man who, seeing one's approach from his window, mutters to himself, "Here's that confounded Tom Scott coming to bother me with his infernal nonsense. I wish he Ah, Tom, my dear fellow, how are

was

you?" &c.

Tom was riding his favourite old roan mare, that has carried him safely for ten good seasons, and who knows just as well what she goes out for as he does. She had gone stepping along, with the snaffle bridle rein dangling carelessly on her neck when, on reaching the summit of the aforementioned hill, she suddenly pricked her ears, giving certain indications of gaiety quite incom

patible with the sober steadiness of pace she had been pursuing.

Mr. Scott no more thought of hearing the horn in September than he did of picking gooseberries at Christmas, or of having a snowball romp in August. Indeed, how should he? Take the summer or no summer of 1845 as a "precedent," as Bigbag would say, and what was he doing in September? Shearing a bit of barley-beginning with the wheat, perhaps and the “"tartars" standing so ridiculously green as to look for all the world like next year's crop. The summers of 1845 and 1846 were not in the least like the same thing, neither were the winters. Some masters hardly got any cub-hunting at all in 1845, so late and protracted was the harvest. But, when they did begin hunting, what a season they had! Almost a surfeit-to the short stud ones, certainly a surfeit. We have not had such an early season as the one of 1846, since "Plenipo's" year, when we remember seeing a buck ride up Doncaster High-street in scarlet and boots on the Leger day. The summer was a roaster; but what a winter followed! That, however, we will deal with as we go on.

Well, old Barbara was right. At a second blast, her small pointed ears almost touched, and she stood stock still. The spot she chose was worthy the eye of a painter. It was the angle of a road, commanding as well the deep-ribbed Gothic arches of an old stone bridge, as the bend of the rapid

river above, whose rocky sides were fringed with stately trees of various sorts, in all the motley beauty of autumnal leaf. The hounds were out. Mr. Scott had not stood many seconds, ere the wellknown "Get away!" of the whip, on the one side, and the horn of the huntsman on the other, proclaimed that they had drawn the banks.

Presently he saw a scarlet-a purple, rather— then another, and shortly after a small cavalcade, among which he distinctly recognised the flaunting of a couple of habits, emerged from the wooded water-side and made for the grass field above.

The horn again twanged, and the whips cracked loud and heavily on the clear crisp atmosphere, sounding over the far country like guns.

"I'm in luck," said Mr. Scott, pretending to tickle old Barbara's sides with his spurless shooting shoe-heel. The old mare, however, wanted no persuasion. Having satisfied herself what was going on, she forthwith gathered herself together, and began showing her big black knees below her nose, as she trotted away in the line.

She knew the way as well as Scott did-in at the bridle-gate by Squire Ramrod's keeper's, across the lawn, through the brook, and at the back of Mr. Hacker's farm buildings, then a long trot along the banks, and another bridle-gate at the top lets her into the field where the hounds were. She had often gone that line, but never so early in the year--at least never for the purpose of hunting.

We have often doubted whether masters of hounds like seeing people out cub-hunting or not, and, we have about settled the question in our own mind as follows, viz. that huntsmen or masters who go out early-at day-break, for instanceare glad to see people, because they are sure that none but sportsmen will come; whereas the midday or afternoon performance favours all the idle, yammering, bothersome, chance-medley customers of the country.

Take to-day's field as a sample. There were the Misses Ogleby, beautiful girls, and full of chatter; and in their train the great Mr. Tarquinius Muff, dressed like a dancing-master, and his brother Blatheremskite Muff, who come after the girls instead of after the hounds. Then there was little Dr. Podgers, the union doctor, on his black pony, who fell in with the hounds at Gunton Gate, and is deluding himself into the idea that he is hunting; Drippinghead, the butcher's boy, with his greasy blue coat, and apron tucked round his waist, who is stealing his hour to the detriment of his unfortunate nag, who will have to gallop all the way home; an unknown gentleman in gambadoes, with an umbrella under his arm; Tom Muzroll, the horsebreaker, who is instructing a four-year-old at the expense of the pack; and two weed-riding, be-trowsered, be-whiskered young gentlemen from the neighbouring town of Scrapetin, who just may be anything or anybody.