THE GRUMBLER.
A very enthusiastic individual is Mr. Bowles, J.P., or, as he is more generally called, The Major, from his connection with the local Volunteer force, which, it may almost be said, he founded. Liberal with his money, and at heart a good fellow and keen sportsman, his one great failing is the use, or abuse, of that Englishman's acknowledged privilege—grumbling.
He is never happy unless he is finding fault with something or somebody. No matter what it is, the stars in their courses have always conspired against him personally, or some unfortunate person has done the very thing they should not have done, and so brought the matter in hand to utter grief.
Of course if they had listened to the Major everything would have progressed swimmingly; but as his opinions were seldom given until the fiasco had occurred (if occur it did), and even then were conflicting—not to say contradictory—recourse was seldom had to that fount of advice. It is generally whispered in Bullshire that when Bowles, after an infinity of trouble and expense, managed to inspire a certain amount of military enthusiasm sufficient for the formation of the corps of Bullshire Rifles, he refused to accept the command of them, in order that he might afterwards be able to say:
"Just like my luck; took all the trouble of getting the thing up, and then they go and put in a man over my head. A man, sir, who does not know his right hand from his left; a duffer, sir; a rank impostor, who calls himself Colonel, and is as ignorant of the drill-book as—— But, there; it's always the same."
As a magistrate and justice of the peace he is equally aggrieved. Witnesses somehow never can give their evidence in a straightforward manner, and the decisions of the Bench afford him vast scope for criticism. "Never heard of such a thing," he will tell you. "Man brought up for poaching. Found with a gun, going along the road. Asked what he was doing. Said he was taking it to be mended. Would you believe it? They dismissed the case, notwithstanding all I could say. Gave him the benefit of the doubt, sir; and they call that justice, by Heaven!"
It is no use pointing out that ample evidence was produced at the inquiry to show that the man's story was correct, he was taking the gun to be mended, and an over-zealous local policeman had, as is by no means unusual, exceeded his duty. The Major will reply that he knows, and if the magistrates don't choose to exercise their powers, every loafer in Bullshire will be carrying a gun to be mended.
A stranger would naturally suppose from this that Mr. Bowles was not blessed with much heart; but he would be wrong. For it is a well-known fact that often when, in his official capacity, he has been forced to fine some poor devil who had been "looking on the wine when it was red"—or rather the beer when it was amber—and the sight had been too much for him, the Major, after the bench had dispersed, would drive round to the delinquent's cottage and gladden the sorrowing wife by putting into her hand double the amount of the fine that had been inflicted.
In the hunting-field he is looked upon as a standing joke, and if there are signs of a cover being blank, or a long wait at a cold corner, there is sure to be a party made up to "draw" the Major, the best of it being that he never sees men are laughing at him, but lays down the law, and abuses, condemns, and complains with the utmost heartiness and volubility.
Though a good horseman and forward rider, he never knows one horse from another if they are anything at all alike in colour; and it is the same with dogs. If you were to put any of his own retrievers along with some others, and ask him to point out those which belonged to him, he could not do it to save his life. Two rather funny incidents happened to him from this cause, the first with a horse, and the second concerning a dog.
One season he had a particularly good-looking bay, but finding it too hot for him he determined to sell, and so sent it up to London to a dealer, whom, when old Jimmy Holden had nothing that suited, he was wont to employ, getting a hundred guineas for it. A short time after he went to town himself, and going to the same man's yard was struck with the appearance of a good-looking bay, and bought it at a hundred and forty guineas. When the horse came down to his stables the stud-groom came in and said to him: "Why, sir, you didn't tell me as how you'd bought The Prince again."
"Prince, you fool," replied the Major; "I've not bought The Prince."
But he had, and had also paid forty guineas, besides railway fares, for the animal's trip to London and back.
The other affair, though perhaps almost telling more against himself, was not so expensive. He had given his friend, Lord Acres, a black retriever with a high character and a long pedigree, and had made no little parade of the gift. A few weeks afterwards he was shooting at Home Wood (Acres' place), and the dog was out. According to his usual custom, Bowles was grumbling at everything; guns, birds, cartridges, weather, and his servant all came in for their share. At last he pitched on the dog, and turning to his host during the process of lunch, he said: "Can't think, Acres, where you manage to pick up your dogs! Look at that mongrel brute there. Never saw such a beast in my life. He's only fit to run behind a butcher's cart."
"Why, Major," replied his lordship, roaring with laughter, "that's looking a gift-horse in the mouth with a vengeance. It's your own dog that you gave me."
Bowles acknowledges now that for once in his life he wishes he had not spoken.
It is a beautiful morning for hunting. The late frost—which, though it lasted but a week, was sharp—is well out of the ground, and everybody who owns anything with four legs, besides a number who are dependent on their own, have turned out with the hounds at Mickleborough Green.
The landlord of The Three Bells, that quaint old inn—with its remains of past glories, as shown by its spacious coach-stables—which stands back from the road facing the green, is doing a roaring trade; and Lizzie the barmaid says her "arms do just ache a-drawing the beer." The hounds gathered round old Tom on the green, with pink coats dotted here and there, present as pretty a picture as one could wish to see. All are in high spirits and congratulating each other and themselves on the change in the weather and the prospects of a run. Chaff is flying thick about "the old mare's big leg," or "the lucky thing the frost was for that young horse who was pulled out on all occasions;" and old Tom comes in for his share, being told that "both the hounds and himself look as if they had been doing themselves well on those non-hunting days—waistcoat buttons a bit tight, eh Tom?" and such-like banter.
Presently, along the road the Major appears, in company with Mr. Boulter the Secretary, and young Earnshaw, who is learning farming—by hunting four days a-week—with Mr. Noble.
"Here's Bowles," say two or three sportsmen; "he can't find much to grumble at to-day, anyhow."
As he rides up they greet him with a hearty "Good-morning, Major; lovely day, isn't it?"
"Lovely day? Lovely fiddlestick!" is the reply. "Up to your neck in mud. Country so heavy you can't ride, and then of all places to pick out Mickleborough! Why, the water will be out all over the bottom. But there, it's always the same. I told Lappington he ought to meet at the Kennels; but nobody ever listens to me."
"Well, but Bowles," interrupts the Secretary; "we met at the Kennels the last fixture before the frost."
"And you ought to meet the first day after. By Heavens, I'd meet every day there till the country was fit to ride," grumbles the Major. "Look at the hounds too. Why, Tom must have got the whole pack out, and borrowed some besides. Now I ask you, can we expect any sport with such a pack as that? 'Pon my soul the Hunt's going to the devil."
"Short of work, Major; must give 'em a bit of exercise," puts in the Huntsman, as Bowles rides off to anathematise the landlord of The Three Bells, for presuming to offer him a glass of "d——d muddy home-brewed," calling, however, for a second edition of the same. By this time the Master has arrived and there is a general bustle, a tightening of girths, a shortening of stirrups, and the usual preparations for a start. The word goes round that the first draw will be Mickleborough Wood, and Tom with the hounds is already on his way there before it reaches the ear of the Major, at that moment engaged in an altercation with his servant, who, according to Bowles, has put a wrong bridle on his second horse, but, according to the man himself, has only obeyed his master's instructions.
No sooner does he hear the appointed place than he gives up the bridle argument, and making his way to where the Master and others are trotting down the lane, commences: "You don't mean to say, Lappington, you're going to put them into the Wood? Why, we shall never get away, and the rides will be impassable. My good sir, just think. Here, some of you fellows, try and persuade him, he never listens to me, nobody ever does;" adding, under his breath, "never heard such d——d folly in my life."
"Why, Bowles," replies Sir John, laughing, "you said a minute ago that the bottoms would be under water, and now you object to the high ground. Where would you go to, you old growler?"
"Growler be hanged: I never grumble. But it is a little bit too much, when one comes out for a day's hunting, to be turned loose into a forest of trees growing on a bog. The man who planted Mickleborough Wood ought to have been hung," says Bowles.
What more he might have added will never be known, for at this instant a ringing view holloa is heard, and the hounds are away full cry, a fox having jumped up in a spinney on the road to the Wood.
"Just like my luck," the Major is heard to ejaculate, as he puts his nag at the fence out of the lane. "Whenever I try and give anybody advice they tell me I am growling. Hold up, you awkward devil," to his horse, who pecks a bit on landing. "And here have I been wasting my time teaching a pack of idiots how to hunt the country, and lost my start."
After running hard for a quarter of an hour, the hounds check in a road, half the pack having flashed over the line.
Here the Major is in his glory, and holds forth. "What did I say this morning? If they will bring out every hound in the kennel, how can they expect them to hunt. Look there, now; look there. What the devil's the use of taking them up the road? The fox is for'ard, I'll wager. 'Pon my oath, I believe old Tom is getting past his work. There's that young ass, Simms, too, messing about—always in the way. I should like to know how he finds time to hunt. Every farmer seems to be able to do everything nowadays, and when they want to pay their corn-bill they cry out about the weather and ask for a reduction of rent."
"Not quite so bad as all that, Major," exclaim one or two farmers, who think it time to stick up for their characters. "Not quite so bad as all that. We likes to ride as well as anyone, and we likes to see others enjoy themselves over our land. But there, we know you don't mean it."
Just then, as if to convict the Major, Harbinger hits off the line up the road, and they are away again a cracker, Bowles coming in for plenty of chaff about the fox being for'ard and Tom being past his work.
To give him his due, he was right when he blamed the country, for it is precious heavy, and plenty of grief is the order of the day. The scent, too, improving, with every hundred yards, it becomes hard work to live with them. Sir John, as usual, is well up, and a few others are close in his wake, among them Bowles, whose coat, by-the-way, shows evident signs of contact with mother-earth—a catastrophe that was brought about, he says, "by the idiotic way that people mend their fences, with a great rail run through them."
However, when, after an hour and ten minutes, they run to ground, even he is fain to allow that they have had a real good thing, though he qualifies the admission with a few scathing remarks on the slovenly way in which the earths are stopped: "A disgrace to the country, by Heaven!"
Riding home he asks a few men to dinner the next day at his house, amongst them Sir John Lappington and Mr. Wilson the Doctor—in case of accidents, he says. His invitation is eagerly accepted, for his dinners are proverbial and his wine undeniable. To see him at his own table you would scarcely know him again for the same man. The grumbling has all been got over before the guests arrive; and as you drive home—with that comfortable feeling of having dined well, wisely, and in pleasant company—you bear away a cheerful remembrance of witty sayings and thorough good-fellowship, of a countenance beaming with fun, and stories which, if you wake in the night and think of, will cause you to laugh afresh.
Nearly all these happy feelings and memories you may safely put down to the skill of your host the Major, whose sole failing, as I have said, lies in the fact that, from habit, in the field, he has become a Grumbler.