A pleasant cheerful glass or two, Tom was wont to say, would hurt nobody, and he could toss off a horn or two of “October” without moving a muscle or winking an eye. His constitution was as sound as a roach; and whilst he could get up early and sniff the fragrant gale, they did not appear to tell. But he had a spark in his throat, as he said, and he indulged in such frequent libations to extinguish it, that, towards the end of the year 1796, he was well nigh worn out. After a while, finding himself becoming weak, and feeling that his end was approaching, he expressed a desire to see his old master, who at once gratified the wish of the sufferer, and, without thinking that his end was so near, inquired what he wanted. “I have,” said Tom, “one request to make, and it is the last favour I shall crave.” “Well,” said the Squire, “what is it, Tom?” “My time here won’t be long,” Tom added; “and when I am dead I wish to be buried at Barrow, under the yew tree, in the churchyard there, and to be carried to the grave by six earth-stoppers; my old horse, with my whip, boots, spurs, and cap, slung on each side of the saddle, and the brush of the last fox when I was up at the death, at the side of the forelock, and two couples of old hounds to follow me to the grave as mourners. When I am laid in the grave let three halloos be given over me; and then, if I don’t lift up my head, you may fairly conclude that Tom Moody’s dead.” The old whipper-in expired shortly afterwards, and his request was carried out to the letter, as the following characteristic letter from the Squire to his friend Chambers, describing the circumstances, will show:—
“On Tuesday last died poor Tom Moody, as good for rough and smooth as ever entered Wildmans Wood. He died brave and honest, as he lived—beloved by all, hated by none that ever knew him. I took his own orders as to his will, funeral, and every other thing that could be thought of. He died sensible and fully collected as ever man died—in short, died game to the last; for when he could hardly swallow, the poor old lad took the farewell glass for success to fox-bunting, and his poor old master (as he termed it), for ever. I am sole executor, and the bulk of his fortune he left to me—six-and-twenty shillings, real and bonâ fide sterling cash, free from all incumbrance, after every debt discharged to a farthing. Noble deeds for Tom, you’d say. The poor old ladies at the Ring of Bells are to have a knot each in remembrance of the poor old lad.
“Salop paper will show the whole ceremony of his burial, but for fear you should not see that paper, I send it to you, as under:—
“‘Sportsmen, attend.—On Tuesday, 29th inst., was buried at Barrow, near Wenlock, Salop, Thomas Moody, the well-known whipper-in to G. Forester, Esq.’s fox-hounds for twenty years. He was carried to the grave by a proper number of earth-stoppers, and attended by many other sporting friends, who heartily mourned for him.’
“Directly after the corpse followed his old favourite horse (which he always called his ‘Old Soul’), thus accoutred: carrying his last fox’s brush in the front of his bridle, with his cap, whip, boots, spurs, and girdle, across his saddle. The ceremony being over, he (by his own desire), had three clear rattling view haloos o’er his grave; and thus ended the career of poor Tom, who lived and died an honest fellow, but alas! a very wet one.
“I hope you and your family are well, and you’ll believe me, much yours,
“G. Forester.
“Willey, Dec. 5, 1796.”
We need add nothing to the description the Squire gave of the way in which Tom’s last wishes were carried out, and shall merely remark that the old fellow kept on his livery to the last, and that he died in his boots, which were for some time kept as relics—a circumstance which leads us to appropriate the following lines, which appeared a few years ago in the Sporting Magazine:—
“You have ofttimes indulged in a sneer
At the old pair of boots I’ve kept year after year,
And I promised to tell you (when ‘funning’ last night)
The reasons I have thus to keep them in sight.“Those boots were Tom Moody’s (a better ne’er strode
A hunter or hack, in the field—on the road—
None more true to his friend, or his bottle when full,
In short, you may call him a thorough John Bull).“Now this world you must own’s a strange compound of fate,
(A kind of tee-to-turn resembling of late)
Where hope promised joy there will sorrow be found,
And the vessel best trimm’d is oft soonest aground.“I’ve come in for my share of ‘Take-up’ and ‘Put-down,’
And that rogue, Disappointment, oft makes me look brown,
And then (you may sneer and look wise if you will)
From those old pair of boots I can comfort distil.“I but cast my eyes on them and old Willey Hall
Is before me again, with its ivy-crown’d wall,
Its brook of soft murmurs—its rook-laden trees,
The gilt vane on its dovecot swung round by the breeze.“I see its old owner descend from the door,
I feel his warm grasp as I felt it of yore;
Whilst old servants crowd round—as they once us’d to do,
And their old smiles of welcome beam on me anew.“I am in the old bedroom that looks on the lawn,
The old cock is crowing to herald the dawn;
There! old Jerry is rapping, and hark how he hoots,
‘’Tis past five o’clock, Tom, and here are your boots.’“I am in the old homestead, and here comes ‘old Jack,’
And old Stephens has help’d Master George to his back;
Whilst old Childers, old Pilot, and little Blue-boar
Lead the merry-tongued hounds through the old kennel door.“I’m by the old wood, and I hear the old cry—
‘Od’s rat ye dogs—wind him! Hi! Nimble, lad, hi!’
I see the old fox steal away through the gap,
Whilst old Jack cheers the hounds with his old velvet cap.“I’m seated again by my old grandad’s chair,
Around me old friends and before me old fare;
Every guest is a sportsman, and scarlet his suit,
And each leg ’neath the table is cas’d in a boot.“I hear the old toasts and the old songs again,
‘Old Maiden’—‘Tom Moody’—‘Poor Jack’—‘Honest Ben;’
I drink the old wine, and I hear the old call—
‘Clean glasses, fresh bottles, and pipes for us all.’”
CHAPTER XII.
SUCCESS OF THE SONG.
Dibdin’s Song—Dibdin and the Squire good fellows well met—Moody a Character after Dibdin’s own heart—The Squire’s Gift—Incledon—The Shropshire Fox-hunters on the Stage at Drury Lane.
The reader will have perceived that George Forester and Charles Dibdin were good fellows well met, and that no two men were ever better fitted to appreciate each other. Like the popular monarch of the time, each prided himself upon being a Briton; each admired every new distinguishing trait of nationality, and gloried in any special development of national pluck and daring. No one more than Mr. Forester was ready to endorse that charming bit of history Dibdin gave of his native land in his song of “The snug little Island,” or would join more heartily in the chorus:—
“Search the globe round, none can be found
So happy as this little island.”
No one could have done its geography or have painted the features of its inhabitants in fewer words or stronger colours. We use the word stronger rather than brighter, remembering that Dibdin drew his heroes redolent of tar, of rum, and tobacco. He had the knack of seizing upon broad national characteristics, and, like a true artist, of bringing them prominently into the foreground by means of such simple accessories as seemed to give them force and effect.