CHAPTER V

LORD LIONEL LAZYTONGS

DELIGHTED with his day with Mr. Neville, pleased with the performance of the five-year-old, in love with all the world, particularly with his sweet charmer Lydia Clifton, our friend gave his horse to Sleekpow, with an intimation that he should want Rough Robin the next afternoon, being fully determined to ride over to Snailswell, and finish the matter off hand, whether he gave up hunting or not.

“It’s time I was married,” said he, stamping the conglomerated mud off his soaked boots, and casting an eye downwards on the stained and spattered cords.

“It doesn’t follow,” continued he, as he opened the back door, and hurried into the house, “that I need give up hunting the first year at all events, or perhaps not even the second, or yet the third;” and if anything was wanting to clench his determination about matrimony, it would have been the fact of his stumbling over one of those abominable tape women’s baskets that had been left in the passage, while the owner carried on the usual promiscuous barter with the females—ribbons for rabbits’ skins, shawls for suet, tape for tea, and so on.

It’s very odd, but bachelors always use twice as much tea as married people; at least they pay for twice as much.

A letter with a large seal lay on the entrance table—a seal so large that, had it been in black, Tom would have thought all the crowned heads in Europe had demised together.

“Who can this be from?” exclaimed he, eyeing the spreading-many-quartered shield and crests, surmounted by a coronet. He broke it and read as follows:—

“Dawdle Court

“Dear Mr. Scott,—The Tear Devil hounds meet at Ecclesford Green, near here, on Tuesday next, and we shall be glad if it will suit your convenience to come on Monday and stay till Wednesday, with yours very truly,

“What the deuce can have come over him now!” exclaimed Tom, as he read it: “his lordship has been living at Dawdle Court these three seasons, and never got further than a card, or a call, or a hope that I’d come to him at that most undefined period ‘some time,’ and now he breaks out in a downright invitation to stay.”

No man is more keenly alive to the extreme absurdity of people visiting out of their own station of life, or censures it more severely in their neighbours than Tom does; after which our readers will not be surprised to learn that he looked out his best boots, etc., and wrote to say he would go.

The premature closing of a winter’s day, but little aided by the slender horn-like circle of the young and rising moon, saw him before the massive pile of Dawdle Court, whose heavy outline he, however, forsook in favour of the stables, into whose spacious yard he rode with an “at home” sort of air.

It is not every man that can face the silk-stocking smartness and lace-daubed splendour of a front-door entrance; but between the denizen of the stable and the fox-hunter, there is a something in common that prevents the latter feeling distrait. Though our walk in life has not been either lofty or extensive, we are free to confess that we have seen lackeys who looked quite as much like gentlemen as their masters. “Small blame to their masters for keeping them,” as Paddy would say; but it is inconvenient for a stranger to scrape and bow to the servant; equally disagreeable to take the lord for a lackey. We, therefore, like the stable. We like to ride quietly in and ask the groom or coachman, or the postilion, or the anybody connected with horses that we see moving about, if Sir John, or Sir George, or my lady are at home, and then, if we get an answer in the negative, we just ask them to take charge of our cards; and if they say “yes,” why, we see our horse put up ourself, and so save old Patepowder, the porter, the wickedness of the oaths he might let fall as he hobbled away with him from the front door. Seeing the horse housed oneself, also, gives one time to rectify any little derangement of dress incurred on the road, stamp off the mud sparks, pull up one’s collars, comb out one’s whiskers—all extremely proper and allowable, but which a modest man would feel a delicacy in doing at a front door, with all the eye windows of the house full upon him, and no saying how many pair of bright roguish eyes within, criticising his movements. We do not know a more nervous situation for a shy man than to place himself in the pillory of public observation, before a large house full of company in the country—luncheon time, say—when all the ladies are together, giving a loose to their tongues and their appetites. Unfortunate young man! Should you be accused of sweethearting anyone, how they would pull you to pieces, especially if you were “booked.” There wouldn’t be a feature but what they would condemn, or a sin in the whole catalogue of crime but what they would lay to your charge.

There is an advantage in riding direct to the stables, when one goes to stay all night, even though the shades of night would protect one from idle curiosity. One sees what sort of accommodation one’s horse gets; sees what sort of screws they keep of their own; and so while away an hour that might be very heavy in the house. The best ginger beer that ever was bottled won’t fiz above a certain time.

Well, Tom Scott rode into the yard, as we said, with a “rest, soldier rest,” sort of feeling, and also with the pleasing conviction that in the course of his ride he had earned an enormous appetite.

It was four o’clock, stable hour, and the horses, after being stripped, strapped, and watered, were now in the full enjoyment of their corn, standing up to their bellies in clean wheat straw, as shown by numerous lanthorns hanging from ceilings.

The trampling of his horse’s feet drew a shirt-sleeved helper or two to the doors, and one more venturesome and less afraid of fresh air than the rest, keeping his head out sufficiently long to receive the shot of a question, Tom ventured to ask “where his stable was?”

“We don’t take in ’osses ere, old boy: it ain’t a livery stable,” replied the man, taking our friend for a groom.

“Hush!” exclaimed a voice behind, pulling the speaker back, “it’ll be Mr. Scott; I’ve just sent his servant on.”

A very orthodox, roundabout, stud groom then came forward with a lanthorn, and casting the light over Tom, lest he might compromise his consequence by misplaced politeness, observed, with a touch of the hat, “Mr. Scott, I believe.”

“Yes,” replied Tom, adding, “would you have the kindness to show me my stable.”

“I sent a helper on with your servant, not half an hour since,” replied the groom, “and he’s not returned yet; but I’ll endeavour to get some one to take this,” continued he, ringing a small bell.

“Don’t you take in horses?” asked Tom, as the little tinkler ceased sounding.

“Why—no—yes—no—not exactly here,” hesitated the groom; “at the Lazytong Arms, close by, just outside the park. Excellent accommodation—kept by an old coachman of ours—Esau Broadback—two-year-old oats—sweetest hay that ever was smelt.”

“But if the park is as wide that way as it is the one I’ve come,” replied Tom, “it will be a precious distance, and how am I to manage for want of a servant? I have only a groom.”

“Oh, Mr. Lampoil, the groom of the chamber, will manage all that for you, sir,” replied he, at the same time turning to a group of helpers, whom his ring had drawn together; he inquired of one, whom he designated Mat, “What he was doing?” and receiving the usual answer, “Nothing,” he ordered him to saddle Usurper, and “lead this ere ’orse over to the Arms.”

“But if it’s close by, what’s the use of taking out a horse?” asked Tom.

“He’ll be none the worse of a little exercise,” replied the groom.

“Nor Mat, either, perhaps,” observed Tom.

Not being quite satisfied about the locality of the Arms, and the moon now giving a more available light, Tom thought he might as well consume part of the two hours and a half that still separated him from dinner, by riding the old mare to her quarters; accordingly he set off, accompanied by Mat on Usurper, a thoroughbred hack with a bang tail down to the hocks.

It was not without a longing look that Tom took leave of the Dawdle Court stables, feeling satisfied that, however good the “Arms’ ” ones might be, they could not beat the “Court.”

Taking in horses has almost become the sole perquisite of the poor, at least those that the world call “poor,” though they often have more to spend than those that the world call “rich.” Men in our friend Tom Scott’s class of life never think of separating “man and horse.” If they can’t take in both, they send word, clearly showing that “not” taking in is the exception.

There are some places of such convenient distance that they stretch or contract like telescopes, according to the wishes of the party. We have known the same place both two miles and four in the mouth of the same person. The Scotch talk of their miles and a bittick; but their miles and a bittick are not a bit more undefinable than an Englishman’s “close by.”

Although enlivened by Mat’s agreeable conversation, who, not having heard the groom’s orders to take over Tom’s mare, concluded by Tom going that he was a fellow-servant, was both inquisitive and communicative, informing Tom, “what he had,” and anxious to know Tom’s wages; our friend found the “close by,” a long way. When one expects to arrive at a journey’s end every minute, distance stretches out amazingly. Even on an ordinary beaten road, travelling the last mile is often the longest. The meanderings of the road through the park seemed as if they would never end, and views and vistas, that might be very beautiful by day, were anything but interesting on a winter night, illumined only by the fitful gleams of a crescent moon.

At last Tom and his conductor reached the noble lodge, and following the turnpike road upon which they now got, the creaking of the glittering sign containing the Fender and Fireiron Arms, as it swung to and fro in the little garden before the house, at last proclaimed Tom’s journey done.

Following Mat, he presently found himself in the soft bedding of a farmyard, the little panes of glass for windows in the encircling buildings emitting gleams of light indicative of occupants within.

“Have you bespoke a stable?” asked Mat, halting in the middle of the straw yard.

“No,” replied Tom; “I thought his lordship took in horses.”

“I fear you’ll come badly on, then,” said Mat, “for they’ve only six decent stalls, and they seem to be all full.”

“Holloa!” exclaimed he, giving a loud, shrill, shilling gallery sort of whistle, which had the effect of awakening a man in an open-doored building to a sense of their presence, who, on coming forward, proved to be Sleekpow. This worthy was in the usual state of mental depression of a groom who hasn’t got the best stable. “He was sure he didn’t know what they should do. The stable wasn’t fit to put a dog horse in, let alone such horses as ours;” and after divers lamentations he led the way into a sort of a cross between a stable and a cowhouse— not very good to be sure, but a place that might have been a great deal worse. The ceiling was very low, and formed of loose rafters for the support of hay; but that was a great deal better than no ceiling, or a roof with holes in it; and though the stalls were merely formed of swing bars, that is of little consequence with horses that know each other. The stable was warm and dry, and there was plenty of clean straw; and the hay being last year’s (1846), it was almost superfluous smelling it, for it was sure to be good.

However, having humoured Sleekpow by joining in his grumble, and admitting all his objections to be valid, Tom proceeded to worm it out if he knew whose horses were there.

“There’s Captain Tipthorn and Mr. Blobditch, Major Tinhead, and a gentleman, whose name he forgot, Squire Muffinhead, or something of that sort.

“The hounds met at Ecclesford Green, but where that was he couldn’t tell; Esau Broadback, the landlord of the Arms, who knew as much about hounds as coachmen generally do, stating it to be two miles, while Major Tinhead’s groom declared it was four.” However, two or four was no great matter; so ordering Sleekpow to bring the mare in time for the four, Tom retraced his steps through the park, and was surprised to find himself back at Dawdle Court in “no time.”

“What time do we dine?” asked he of one of the bedizened flunkeys who rushed to his assistance as he entered, and persisted in stripping him as if he hadn’t a hand of his own.

“Dinner’s ordered at seven,” replied he, with an emphasis on the “ordered.”

Having possessed himself of Tom’s hat, gloves, whip stick, and paletot, he handed him over to a pump and pantaloon gentleman in a cataract of white linen, who guided our friend along a labyrinth of passages, lighted in the true pick-up-a-pin-style, to the library.

Here Tom found his noble host, booted and breeched, in the midst of an admiring circle whose peculiar costume indicated sportsmen in mufti—cutaway coats, fancy neckcloths, striped vests, cord pantaloons, and so on. They all seemed as if they had come on horseback, and hadn’t got the straddle out of their legs yet.

His lordship, who, in addition to boots and breeches, was attired in a smart new pea-green cut-away, was exhibiting his long length before the fire, in the true British style,—a lap over each arm,—detailing for the third time the splendour of a hare hunt he had been engaged in; which narrative he was kind enough to break off—though he had nearly hunted puss to destruction again—as Tom entered, in order that he might edify him with it from the beginning.

“Gad, Mr. Scott,” said he, after mutual salutations were over, and he had moved a little to the left to give Tom a smell of the fire, “Gad, Mr. Scott,” said he, “d’ye know, I was so pleased with your account of the Goose and Pudding Hunt that I wrote up to Tattersall to buy me a pack of harriers, and I’ve been out with them to-day for the first time, and I do assure you I never enjoyed anything more. We met at Furzeydown,” continued he, “about three miles and a half from here, and found a hare by Clipstone Clump, who went as straight as an arrow to Gatley Coppice, from whence, sinking the wind all the way, she ran to Silverspring, skirting the plantations at Stover, then on to Frogley Glen, where there was a slight check—not more than five minutes, hardly so much—owing to a flock of sheep; however, we hit her off again, when the hounds flew like pigeons over those fine large pastures to Hackthorn, skirting Rookley Bog, and she was finally killed in the middle of Broadfield village, just by the blacksmith’s shop. I dare say you know it, Mr. Scott—close to the public-house—the sign of the Frugal Spinster.”

Here Tom managed to intimate that he didn’t know the country.

“Ah, if you don’t,” continued his lordship, without drawing breath, “my friend Captain Windeyhash here does,”—as if Windeyhash’s knowing it was the same as Tom; and on his lordship went again, talking of hunting, and riding, and foiling, and casting, and crashing, till the announcement of Colonel Buckskin again brought him “to.”

Having got himself settled among them, much after the fashion of a lost hound casting up, Buckskin essayed to show his perfect ease by observing on his lordship’s boots and breeches.

“At it,” his lordship went again, beginning with the find at Clipstone Clump, and hunting the hare, with variations, through all the places before mentioned, running out into a long dissertation on the comparative merits of Pelhams and snaffles, each of which he had been trying on the horses he had ridden that day. This, too, in defiance of the gong, whose last boom had long died out, and been succeeded by the light notes of a musical clock chiming a quarter to seven.

Still his lordship rattled away, talking of scent, and skirting, and nicking, and babbling, and leaping, and creeping, and flying, and bruising, and rasping, and racing, and ramming, as if there was no such thing as dinner in the wind, at all events, as if his sporting keenness had completely subdued the keenness of his appetite.

At last Lampoil, the white-breasted gentleman Tom had encountered on entering, appeared at the door, followed by a flunkey with a tray full of flaring wax lights; which appeared to draw his lordship’s attention to the fact of his not having dined, for whisking one up with a flourish that sent the accumulated wax all over his leather breeches, he transferred the rest of the company to Lampoil, and proceeded to show Tom to the “blue room.”

“Gad,” said his lordship, again sticking his back to the fire, after going through the usual evolution of showing the bell, the boot-jack, etc., “those are capital hounds of mine, and I’m very much obliged to Tattersall for buying me them.

“Suppose we take a turn with them to-morrow,” continued he, after a pause.

“We are going out with the Tear Devil hounds, aren’t we?” asked Tom, turning the airing shirt at the fire by way of giving his lordship a hint that they ought to be dressing.

“Ah, true!” replied he, with an air of a man awaking out of a reverie, “to-morrow the Devils meet at Stallington Hill, nineteen miles from here, but that’s nothing with two good hacks.”

“Ecclesford Green you told me in your letter, I think,” observed Tom.

“Ah, true!” rejoined his lordship. “Stallington’s on Saturday—you’re right; to-morrow is Ecclesford Green, and a deuced bad place it is too.”

Just as he gave Tom this pleasing piece of intelligence the tower clock chimed seven, and observing that he “supposed they ought to be dressing,” his lordship lounged out of the room, having now enlightened Tom as to the meaning of the footman in saying that dinner was “ordered” at that hour.

“What a queer bitch it is,” said Tom, as his lordship’s gaunt figure disappeared through the doorway.

“He seems to be keen about hunting too,” continued he, running his proceedings and conversation through his mind; for we should inform the reader, that though we called him “Tom’s noble friend” in a former chapter, yet Tom knew very little of him, his acquaintance having commenced by helping him out of a bog at the close of last season, when his lordship had paid Mr. Neville’s hounds a flying visit of inspection with a very liberal stud of very fine horses—nearly as many as would have done for hunting a country twice a week.

Not having a confusion of coats to bother him in a choice, Tom was not long at his toilette, thanks to the footman, who had laid all things out for him.

When he got into the spacious drawing-room, redolent of fragrance and gilt, and decorated to the highest pitch of French art, he found Lady Lazytongs with her lazytongs cocked on the sofa, who gave Tom the sort of distant bend that some ladies give their husbands’ friends.

Fortunately Sir George Stiffnecke, a neighbouring knight of immense pretension, had arrived, and was doing the polite in his usual ponderous style, in which effort he was presently aided by Captain Windeyhash, a sort of general hanger-on of the house.

The whole party having at length assembled, and some having looked at their watches more than once, his lordship at last strolled into the room with the air of a man who had had a good luncheon at three, for though the effervescence of the hare hunt was still in full froth when Tom arrived, it had been over about two, and the hounds back in kennel by three.

However remiss his lordship might be about dinner, it was gratifying to see that he was still tenacious of the character of the sportsman, for he was now elaborately got up in the full-dress uniform of the Dazzlegoose hunt. In the dress department even Lady Lazytongs seemed to take an interest, for she beckoned his lordship towards her, that she might have a nearer view of the richly braided gold fox with a silver tag on the crimson velvet collar of his beetroot coloured coat.

Having eyed him up and down, and turned him round, as a child would a doll, she again sunk on the sofa, with the observation that she supposed he “might as well ring for dinner.”

His lordship then strutted away in his rose-coloured breeches and white silk stockings, looking uncommonly like a mountebank.

Dinner was shortly after announced.

What pen could do justice to that meal? Who can describe the noble apartment, the ponderous plate, the splendid chandeliers, the glittering sideboard, the light and tasteful confectionery, the crystal-like glass, the snow-like diaper, the beautiful flowers—above all, the sparkling wines and rich and varied dainties?

Not Tom Scott, certainly. Nevertheless, he did pretty fair justice to the victuals, as who would not that had breakfasted at eight and tasted nothing since?

Indeed, to tell the truth, he ate so much, and of such variety, potage à la comtesse, or soup made of Countess, turbot à la Hollandaise, or Dutch turbot, with sauce we don’t know what, “hors-d’œuvres” of all sorts that came in the way, to say nothing of two cuts at a leg of mutton basted with devil’s tears, followed by a slice of “dindonneau à la Nelson,” or nautical turkey, a turn at a “salade de grouse, à la soyer,” in addition to Nesselrode pudding, crême à la vanille, Charlotte Russe, and other trifles, that he was dreadfully afflicted with the nightmare, and fancied that old Louis-Philippe and all his sons, with their wives, were squatting on his stomach together. But we anticipate.

When the ladies retired—for there were two or three besides Lady Lazytongs—they had another burst about hunting from his lordship, who threw back his beetroot coloured coat as though he were going to make a “clean breast of it.”

He had all the talk to himself, and never did Scott hear man run on so about horses and hounds, and the system of kennel.

“Out upon Nimrod,” said Tom, who in his swell quarterly dinner at Melton—and that, too, after a splendid run—tells us the subject of hunting was never once mentioned.

“Here have I been training myself,” continued he, “for civilised society upon a similar basis, and now I find my Lord Lionel Lazytongs, son of the Marquis of Fender and Fireirons, blazing away like an engine.”

Tom then tried to get a word in sideways, but the steam of his lordship’s eloquence was still too strong, and he resumed the position of listener.

Nor was Tom sorry; for his lordship talked well, and apparently to the purpose, and, having seen hounds and countries that Tom only knew by name, what he said had the advantage of novelty, though it might want the charm of personal participation. What runs he told them of! What leaps he described! What brooks he cleared!

As he went on, he built up places with knives, forks, and spoons, and introduced finger glasses and tumblers till he brought the very places before their eyes. Then he criticised this master and that—compared one great establishment with another, and described their respective countries, till Tom almost regretted not living nearer so great a luminary.

Like all great talkers, however, we are concerned to add that he did not circulate the liquor.

Had Captain Windeyhash, who most needlessly acted the part of showman, or trotter out, leading his lordship on to his stories, and helping him out with the lame ones, devoted himself to the circulation of the bottle instead, it would have been quite as agreeable to the guests. However, “time and the hour against the longest day,” and the same able adversary conquers the longest evening too.

When they got back into the drawing-room, the covey of company was broke, and then for the first time Tom had an opportunity of saying a few words as to the morrow.

The first person he addressed was Major Tinhead, whom he had seen out with Mr. Neville’s hounds once or twice.

“Hope you’ve brought your best horse,” said Tinhead, after a common-place or two, “for it’s a desperate country—stiffest in England, isn’t it, Blobbey?” continued he, catching that fat gentleman by the elbow, as he waddled along, coffee-cup in hand, to a sofa.

“Oh, tre-men-dious country,” replied Blobditch, giving his head a solemn shake. “I always say that the man who can ride across our country needn’t be afraid of any country in the world!” With which compliment to himself, he proceeded on his journey.

Tom got a similar account from Captain Tipthorn; indeed they all seemed bent on the usual course of frightening the stranger.

Music and cards in the drawing-room, with billiards and naps outside, filled up the evening, till at last it was bedtime, even for my lord.

The ladies had retired shortly after Sir George Stiffnecke took his departure, and wine and water having filled up the interstices of the stomach, Lampoil again made his appearance in front of an illumination.

“Good-nights” being exchanged, each man hurried off with his candle.

His lordship’s politeness induced him to accompany Tom again to his bedroom, where, having stirred the fire, he established himself in his old position, and again began “harping on his daughter.”

He forgot they were going out with the Tear Devil hounds, and talked of the Currant-jelly dogs as if they were going to have a turn with them.

“Ah, true,” replied his lordship, in answer to Tom’s observation, that it was the Ecclesford Green day. “True, I forgot. Let me see, then,” continued he, ruminating.

“You and I’ll breakfast together at half-past nine,” said he, after a pause, “and then we shall be quite independent of every one. I hate bothering and waiting for a family breakfast on a hunting morning,” added he.

“So do I,” Tom would have added, but his voluble lordship did not give him time.

“At half-past nine, then, precisely,” continued his lordship: “in Dian’s Bower, the room to the left of the library as you enter.”

“So be it,” replied Tom.

“I’ll tell Lampoil to have breakfast ready to a minute,” said he. “How is your time by mine?” asked his lordship, producing a most diminutive “Geneva” watch, about the size of a half-crown piece, from his waistcoat pocket. “I’m now half-past twelve,” said he, turning its little pale face towards Scott.

“And I am twenty-five minutes past,” said Tom, showing his grandfather’s great gold turnip.

“Au revoir, then,” said his lordship, extending a brace of fingers, repeating as he left the room, “Then MIND, half-past nine, to a minute!”

“Louis-Philippe,” as we said before, having established himself and family on Tom’s stomach during the night, in consequence of the miscellaneous dinner he had eaten, Tom did not require much calling in the morning. Indeed he heard every hour strike after three, about which time the heavy monarch and party soused themselves down. He succeeded in dislodging them about four; but between that hour and five they returned with redoubled force, and Tom dreamt that the old fat Queen Mother of Spain actually sat herself down on his mouth.

So he battled and struggled on till it was light.

It was eight before day was fairly established, and, thinking it was no use interrupting the housemaids, Tom just lay in bed until within three-quarters of an hour of the breakfast time that his lordship had appointed, which he knew would enable him to be down to the moment.

“Is his lordship up?” asked our friend of the jean-jacketed lackey who brought him up his hot water.

“I don’t know I’m sure, sir,” replied he; “I’ve not seen his lordship’s valet yet.”

“He’ll be sure to be up,” thought Tom, bounding out of bed at the recollection of the evening talk and the overnight injunctions.

“Some men are only punctual in hunting matters,” continued Tom, lathering away at his chin.

So he proceeded in his dressing.

Boots certainly don’t carry well in saddle-bags, and Tom never understood the value of the fisherman or bishop’s sort until this morning. You can take and stamp them into saddle-bags just as you would a pair of dirty stockings, and they’ll unfold as smart and bright as ever; but woe betide the tops that have not elbow room to themselves. Tom’s turned out only “so so,” when he came to inspect them by daylight, and he knew it would be worse than useless asking a six-foot figure footman if he could remedy the little irregularities of putty powder they presented. Besides, he had not calculated his time to allow of recommodes, as the French say, so he just pulled them on as they were.

Tom had some difficulty in finding the Hall of Dian; but when he did, he found that it was rightly named.

It was a comfortable-sized room, small in comparison with the magnificent entertaining ones he had been in overnight, but what would be considered a very good room in a moderate-sized house. It was square and lofty, with richly ornamented pannelled walls, and full-length portraits in each compartment.

Those who have remarked the various representations of her Majesty and Prince Albert, or indeed those of any other illustrious individual, will excuse Tom’s getting half-way through the series before he discovered that they were all Lord Lionel Lazytongs’s.

Above the richly carved white marble mantelpiece his lordship stood beside a grey horse in the morning costume of the Dazzlegoose Hunt—bright apricot-coloured coat, white cravat, striped buff vest with black binding, white cords, and longish top-boots.

Next it, on the left, he appeared in scarlet on a gallant bay, careering over an open country, which, with the exception of a couple of swallows, he seemed to have all to himself.

The third represented him about to do a little fantastic toe. Dressed in the evening dress of the Swell-boy’s Hunt—lavender-coloured coat, with rose-coloured linings, richly embroidered white satin waistcoat, with white kerseymere shorts and white silk stockings, he stood drawing on a pair of pink kid gloves before an opening door, which disclosed a cut-glass chandelier above sundry satin petticoats, whirling about with white-legged gentlemen.

In a larger piece between the windows he appeared on horseback again. He was in the act of changing a white hack for a black hunter, in the imaginary dress of Master of the Buckhounds, an office he had bespoken for himself on the coming in of the Tories. Scene—Ascot Heath—the Grand Stand crowded with ladies, perfuming the air with their pocket handkerchiefs. Artist, of course, Frank Grant.

On the door-side of the room his lordship appeared in three panels, one clearing such a gate as never was seen, in the brimstone-coloured coat of the Tear Devil Hunt, another riding like fury at a thing like an arm of the sea, and a third cantering past the statue of Achilles on his return from a day in the Vale of Aylesbury, with Baron Rothschild’s Staggers. This was by Count d’Orsay, and was done to commemorate the feat of his lordship having ridden “all the way there and back.” There were a couple of niches vacant on the side opposite the window, one of which will most likely soon be occupied by him in the pea-green cut-away, and leathers of the hare-hunter.

Altogether it was a regular sporting apartment, and only wanted breakfast, and a little knowledge of hunting on the part of some of the artists. Not but that there were symptoms of breakfast in the shape of a snug round table near the fire, garnished with a profusion of plate, but, as yet, there were no eatables.

Tom took another hasty round of the pictures, but still there was no indication of breakfast.

He then proceeded to stare out of the window to see if he could see anything in the hunting line, and again returned to the fire and began to inspect the polished ivory handle of the bell-pull.

It was now a quarter to ten, and he began to be seriously uneasy.

“Surely his lordship, so keen and precise overnight, can’t have changed his mind,” thought he. And then he began to wish his lordship had let him breakfast with the rest.

“Perhaps there would be no great harm in ringing the bell and asking if breakfast was going on elsewhere,” continued he, laying hold of the knob, when just as he was going to turn it down, the well-known “clonk, clonk, clonk” of spurs in the passage arrested his hand, and drew Tom’s eyes to the door.

It was his long lordship, who now came forward to greet him, but not in the dress Tom expected at that advanced hour of the morning.

Instead of the coat and waistcoat of the fox-hunter, he was enveloped in a long, flowing blue and silver brocade robe de chambre, confined at the waist with enormous blue and silver cords, with tassels as big as bell-pulls. He had a heap of letters in one hand, and the “Times,” “Post,” and “Morning Chronicle” tucked under his other arm.

“Gad,” said he, with a knowing look, “I really think the ministry won’t stand. It’s clear there’s a split in the cabinet. Old story—Grey and Palmerston—Grey and Palmerston—don’t like each other—don’t like each other. What do you think, Mr. Scott?”

“Hang’d if I know,” said Tom; “don’t care either, so long as it don’t come a frost.”

“Ah, true,” replied his lordship. “That reminds me we are going to hunt; better have breakfast, perhaps—better have breakfast, perhaps;” so saying, he gave our old friend the bell a hearty peal.

“Well, but,” resumed he, taking a dressing-gown lap over each arm, and placing himself in his favourite position before the fire, “you’re a Tory, ain’t you?”

“Dash’d if I know what I am,” said Tom; “it makes precious little odds what men like myself are. I was a Tory, or Conservative, or whatever you call it, and joined the gobemouches in abusing the Whigs and hooraying Sir Robert; but I’ve thrown up politics, and devote myself to draining, and d—ning him instead.”

“Ah, well,” rejoined his lordship, with a smile at the mixed occupation, “well, but you’d like to see the Whigs out, of course,” eyeing himself in the Master of the Buckhounds picture.

“Not if it was to let Peel in again,” replied Tom. “I hate the sound of his name.”

Just then in came Lampoil, followed by no end of footmen, with tea and coffee, muffins and meat, and eggs and ham, and potted game, to which Tom had hardly got a fair start before the noisy clock struck ten.

“Is that nine, or ten?” asked his lordship, as it was still on the strike.

“Ten, my lord,” replied Lampoil, who, with two footmen, were doing all but eat their breakfasts for them—handing everything that was within reach, and so on.

“The hounds meet at eleven, I presume?” said Tom, trembling for the answer.

“A quarter to,” replied his lordship; “we’re in plenty of time; they’re close by,” saying which he again had recourse to the “Post.”

A dead silence followed, broken only by the noise of their jaws, as they worked away at the viands.

“I’ll be with you in five minutes,” at last said his lordship, drawing himself slowly from under the table, and handing Tom the newspapers. “Send for the hacks,” said he to Lampoil.

“Hacks!” repeated Tom, as his lordship clonked out of the room, “I thought it was close by.”

“So it is,” replied Lampoil, “at least what his lordship calls close by—four or five miles, perhaps; his lordship thinks nothing of eighteen or twenty —desperate man on the road.”

“It’s to be hoped he finds hacks for his friends,” observed Tom, not relishing the idea of galloping the old mare to cover, and hunting her after.

It was full half-past ten ere his lordship reappeared, and then he had to get his sherry flask filled and his pocket stuffed with sandwiches and gingerbread nuts.

Just as they were crossing the great hall on their prolonged departure, her ladyship was descending the spacious staircase followed by her youngest child in the nurse’s arms.

“Oh, Lionel!” exclaimed she, without taking the slightest notice of poor Tom, “what have you got that fright of a neckcloth on for?”

“Fright!” repeated his lordship, “why Jowett sent it down as the newest fashion; he says George Ringlets wears it with the Queen’s, Beau Sarsnet with the Duke, and I don’t know who else besides.”

“Never mind who wears it,” snapped her ladyship, “yellow, with black spots, don’t become you, so pray take it off.”

“But I shall be keeping Mr. Scott waiting, my dear,” replied his lordship, intimating Tom’s presence by laying hold of his arm.

“Oh, Mr. Scott won’t mind waiting a minute or two, I’m sure,” replied her ladyship, deigning him a sort of bow at last.

“Well, if you wish to have him all spotted like a leopard,” said her ladyship, with a significant glance and shake of the head, as her spouse still hesitated, “you’ll go as you are.”

His lordship then commenced a rapid ascent of the staircase, taking three steps at a time.

We don’t know whether ladies look upon neckcloths in the same light as they do their own ribbons —things that can be changed in a minute—but we can assure them neckcloths are much more serious affairs. It was full five minutes ere the clonk of his spurs announced his lordship’s arrival on the landing in a skyblue satin cravat, instead of the proscribed yellow and black spot; and though we could have changed in half the time, yet for his lordship we don’t think it was long.

“Will this do, my dear?” asked he, buttoning his waistcoat, and adjusting his shirt collar, as he descended the staircase, and her ladyship having received the parting kiss for her assent, and the child having lisped its “ta, ta,” our sportsmen at last found themselves among the body of the servants in the outer hall.

If they had been two Daniel Lamberts they were going to hoist on to their horses by sheer strength, they could not have required more. Numerous as they were, however, the opening door disclosed more outside.

There was Tom’s plummey, overnight friend, the stud-groom, in his brown cut-away, toilanette waistcoat, drab kerseymeres and gaiters, ready to take the cover hack from an attendant in fustians the moment his lordship appeared, and there was a swell groom in leathers and livery, whose goldlaced hat alone would have furnished half an outfit for Sleekpow.

That worthy individual’s face showed the displeasure he felt at having been kept three-quarters of an hour on the gravel, his vexation being heightened, perhaps, by numerous little anecdotes he would pick up relative to his lordship’s pace on the road, and the distance they had to go.

“It’s five miles,” groaned Sleekpow, handing Tom the mare, with which dread intelligence the clock tolled the quarter.

“We haven’t much time to spare,” said his lordship, who, having now mounted a prancing grey barb, was

“Provoking the caper that he seemed to chide,”

to the admiration of her ladyship, who was pointing out “Pa’s” feats to the child, and also to the edification of sundry housemaids and dolly mops looking out of the windows above.

Having performed in a style that would have done honour to Astley, or to the Champion at a coronation, he at length kissed his kid-gloved hand, and sticking spurs into the barb, dashed off in a gallop.

“D—n the fellow! How does he ever suppose I can keep pace with him!” exclaimed Tom, gathering the old mare, who, thoroughly disgusted with her long wait, was now kicking, and imitating the feats of the barb.

“You had better get forrard, sir,” said the groom, coming up full canter, hands well down, as though he were setting to for a race.

“His lordship rides very fast,” added he, shooting past.

“Well, this is the most confounded wild-goose chase I ever rode!” exclaimed Tom, as his lordship charged a flight of rails, followed by the lad, who could now hardly get forward in time to unlock the private park door.

Having passed this and so cleared the park, they were now upon the road, a place not at all suited to Tom’s old mare’s legs, which, though sound in the soft, are only what Sleekpow calls rather “crambley” on the hard.

“Gently, old lass,” continued Tom, patting her neck, to try and get her to ease herself down to a trot, “gently, old lass; it’s no use fretting; you are both hack and hunter to-day.”

But the old mare’s monkey was up, and she clattered and battered along as if she had two or three sets of legs at home.

Finding he would take as much out in fretting as he saved in restraining her, Tom at last let her go, and Wideopen Common shortly intervening, he kept his lordship in view, and sailed away at what would have been called an “excellent pace,” had hounds been running.

After clearing the common, they again got upon the road, and meeting two or three cover hacks, Tom saw the hounds, at all events, had come.

In close shaving, either for railway time, or dinner time, or fox-hunting time, or indeed almost any time, it is bad policy stopping to ask questions, for, if one is not past time already, the stoppage may make one so. The only plan is to “keep moving,” and hug oneself at each person one gets past, without hearing, “Ah! the train’s gone!” or, that most appalling sound of all, “They’re away with him!”

Tom got past three return grooms, with a stare from two, and a touch of the hat from the third, and, following his noble friend with his eye towards the rising ground, up which their course now lay, we saw him dash among a dark crowd on the hill-top, dismount, and in the twinkling of an eye disappear on the other side.

“That’s all very well,” sighed Tom, “for a man with a stable full of horses; but I, who ride my own to cover, can’t afford to blow it on the road.”

So saying, he eased the old mare down into a trot, and just jogged up to the group on the hill with as unconcerned a face as a man in scarlet can assume, when the hounds have gone away with their fox.

“Your o’er late, sir!” said a kindly disposed horse-breaker, with a shake of the head, as he backed his three-year-old out of Tom’s way; “they fund directly they put in, and have been away with him this ten minutes.”

“The deuce they have!” exclaimed Tom, pulling up in full panoramic view of the scene—Deep Dean, where they found him, the end at which he broke, the still open gate through which the field had passed the bothering brook, the kindly bridge, and the boundless expanse of noble country over which they were now careering.

Nothing could be finer.

“’Tis distance lends enchantment to the view,” wrote the poetic Campbell, speaking of general scenery, and surely it holds good with fox-hunting scenery too, for distance reduces the leaps, so as to make all countries look pleasant and practicable. This one did so particularly, and the last brimstonecoated whip seemed to glide over the plain, as he took on the tail hounds, as though there was nothing bigger than a water furrow.

Poor Tom was never so vexed in his life! He could have cried, if no one had been there. “All that hanged neckcloth!” exclaimed he.

“There was a gentleman just before me,” observed he, as soon as he recovered his articulation.

“Ah, that’s my lord,” replied the breaker, with a sneer. “You mustn’t follow him.”

“Why not?” inquired Tom, as his lordship’s brimstone-coloured coat now appeared careering on the line.

“Hoot! he just rides after anything,” replied the man. “All he cares for’s a gallop.”

“But he rides hard,” observed Tom, looking at his lordship crashing at a big fence, with an open gate close at hand.

“Oh! he’ll ride hard enough,” replied the man, with a knowing leer, for there are few better informed persons in these matters than horse-breakers. “He’ll ride hard enough,” repeated he, “especially if there are any ladies looking on; for his great pleasure is in dressing up and showing off; and he certainly does make as good a turn-out as any nobleman in the land. He had two as fine horses here this morning as ever were seen, the one he’s riding, and the one his pad groom’s on with; and last Wednesday he had two horses with these hounds, and two with the Dazzlegoose, and managed to be with both packs without seeing a run with either. He’s a rum-uns, my lord.”