Part 1 (1/2)
Warwick Woodlands.
by Henry William Herbert (AKA Frank Forester).
MY FIRST VISIT, DAY THE FIRST
It was a fine October evening when I was sitting on the back stoop of his cheerful little bachelor's establishment in Mercer street, with my old friend and comrade, Henry Archer. Many a frown of fortune had we two weathered out together; in many of her brightest smiles had we two reveled--never was there a stauncher friend, a merrier companion, a keener sportsman, or a better fellow, than this said Harry; and here had we two met, three thousand miles from home, after almost ten years of separation, just the same careless, happy, dare-all do-no-goods that we were when we parted in St. James's street,--he for the West, I for the Eastern World--he to fell trees, and build log huts in the backwoods of Canada,--I to shoot tigers and drink arrack punch in the Carnatic. The world had wagged with us as with most others: now up, now down, and laid us to, at last, far enough from the goal for which we started--so that, as I have said already, on landing in New York, having heard nothing of him for ten years, whom the deuce should I tumble on but that same worthy, snugly housed, with a neat bachelor's menage, and every thing s.h.i.+p-shape about him?--So, in the natural course of things, we were at once inseparables.
Well--as I said before, it was a bright October evening, with the clear sky, rich suns.h.i.+ne, and brisk breezy freshness, which indicate that loveliest of the American months,--dinner was over, and with a pitcher of the liquid ruby of Latour, a brace of half-pint beakers, and a score --my contribution--of those most exquisite of smokables, the true old Manila cheroots, we were consoling the inward man in a way that would have opened the eyes, with abhorrent admiration, of any advocate of that coldest of comforts--cold water--who should have got a chance peep at our snuggery.
Suddenly, after a long pause, during which he had been stimulating his ideas by a.s.siduous fumigation, blowing off his steam in a long vapory cloud that curled a minute afterward about his temples,--”What say you, Frank, to a start tomorrow?” exclaimed Harry,--”and a week's right good shooting?”
”Why, as for that,” said I, ”I wish for nothing better--but where the deuce would you go to get shooting?”
”Never fash your beard, man,” he replied, ”I'll find the ground and the game too, so you'll find share of the shooting!--Holloa! there--Tim, Tim Matlock.”
And in brief s.p.a.ce that worthy minister of mine host's pleasures made his appearance, smoothing down his short black hair, clipped in the orthodox bowl fas.h.i.+on, over his bluff good-natured visage with one hand, while he employed its fellow in hitching up a pair of most voluminous unmentionables, of thick Yorks.h.i.+re cord.
A character was Tim--and now I think of it, worthy of brief description.
Born, I believe--bred, certainly, in a hunting stable, far more of his life pa.s.sed in the saddle than elsewhere, it was not a little characteristic of my friend Harry to have selected this piece of Yorks.h.i.+re oddity as his especial body servant; but if the choice were queer, it was at least successful, for an honester, more faithful, hard-working, and withal, better hearted, and more humorous varlet never drew curry-comb over horse-hide, or clothes-brush over broad-cloth.
His visage was, as I have said already, bluff and good-natured, with a pair of hazel eyes, of the smallest--but, at the same time, of the very merriest--twinkling from under the thick black eyebrows, which were the only hairs suffered to grace his clean-shaved countenance. An indescribable pug nose, and a good clean cut mouth, with a continual dimple at the left corner, made up his phiz. For the rest, four feet ten inches did Tim stand in his stockings, about two-ten of which were monopolized by his back, the shoulders of which would have done honor to a six foot pugilist,--his legs, though short and bowed a little outward, by continual horse exercise, were right tough serviceable members, and I have seen them bearing their owner on through mud and mire, when straighter, longer, and more fair proportioned limbs were at an awful discount.
Depositing his hat then on the floor, smoothing his hair, and hitching up his smalls, and striving most laboriously not to grin till he should have cause, stood Tim, like ”Giafar awaiting his master's award!”
”Tim!” said Harry Archer.
”Sur!” said Tim.
”Tim! Mr. Forester and I are talking of going up to-morrow--what do you say to it?”
”Oop yonner?” queried Tim, in the most extraordinary West-Riding Yorks.h.i.+re, indicating the direction, by pointing his right thumb over his left shoulder--”Weel, Ay'se nought to say aboot it--not Ay!”
”Soh! the cattle are all right, and the wagon in good trim, and the dogs in exercise, are they?”
”Ay'se warrant um!”
”Well, then, have all ready for a start at six to-morrow,--put Mr.
Forester's Manton alongside my Joe Spurling in the top tray of the case, my single gun and my double rifle in the lower, and see the magazine well filled--the Diamond gunpowder, you know, from Mr. Brough's. You'll put up what Mr. Forester will want, for a week, you know--he does not know the country yet, Tim;--and, hark you, what wine have I at Tom Draw's?”
”No but a case of claret.”
”I thought so, then away with you! down to the Baron's and get two baskets of the Star, and stop at Fulton Market, and get the best half hundred round of spiced beef you can find--and then go up to Starke's at the Octagon, and get a gallon of his old Ferintosh--that's all, Tim--off with you!--No! stop a minute!” and he filled up a beaker and handed it to the original, who, shutting both his eyes, suffered the fragrant claret to roll down his gullet in the most scientific fas.h.i.+on, and then, with what he called a bow, turned right about, and exit.
The sun rose bright on the next morning, and half an hour before the appointed time, Tim entered my bed-chamber, with a cup of mocha, and the intelligence that ”Measter had been oop this hour and better, and did na like to be kept waiting!”--so up I jumped, and scarcely had got through the business of rigging myself, before the rattle of wheels announced the arrival of the wagon.
And a model was that shooting wagon--a long, light-bodied box, with a low rail--a high seat and dash in front, and a low servant's seat behind, with lots of room for four men and as many dogs, with guns and luggage, and all appliances to boot, enough to last a month, stowed away out of sight, and out of reach of weather. The nags, both nearly thorough-bred, fifteen two inches high, stout, clean-limbed, active animals--the off-side horse a gray, almost snow-white--the near, a dark chestnut, nearly black--with square docks setting admirably off their beautiful round quarters, high crests, small blood-like heads, and long thin manes--spoke volumes for Tim's stable science; for though their ribs were slightly visible, their muscles were well filled, and hard as granite. Their coats glanced in the suns.h.i.+ne--the white's like statuary marble; the chestnut's like high polished copper--in short the whole turn-out was perfect.
The neat black harness, relieved merely by a crest, with every strap that could be needed, in its place, and not one buckle or one thong superfluous; the bright steel curbs, with the chains jingling as the horses tossed and pawed impatient for a start; the tapering holly whip; the bear-skins covering the seats; the top-coats spread above them-- every thing, in a word, without bordering on the slang, was perfectly correct and gnostic.