Market Harborough, and Inside the BarWhyte-Melville, G. J. (George John)
General
Market Harborough, and Inside the Bar
Whyte-Melville, G. J. (George John)
Country life -- England -- Fiction; English fiction -- 19th century; Fox hunting -- Fiction
The idea once having taken possession of our friend’s mind, soon found
itself cramped for room in that somewhat circumscribed area. All
dinner-time he was absent and preoccupied; even Scotch broth, a
beef-steak pudding, a damson tart, and toasted cheese, did not tend to
settle him. Two of the Laranagas were converted into smoke and ashes
before he could come to anything like a definite conclusion. Though a
temperate man habitually (for the sake of his nerves), he rang for the
old brandy labelled V.O.P., and mixed himself a real stiff one, with
boiling water and one lump of sugar. I have my suspicions that his final
decision was partly its result. The great difficulty was where to go. A
man of limited acquaintance and reserved manners has at least this
advantage—that all parts of England are equally attractive as regards
society. Then he had hunted too much to believe newspaper accounts of
sport, so that looking up the old files of _Bell’s Life_ assisted him no
whit to a conclusion; also being of an inquiring turn of mind, wherever
fox-hunting was concerned, he had amassed such a quantity of information
concerning the “flying countries,” that it took him a considerable time
and another glass of brandy-and-water to digest and classify his facts.
Altogether it was a complicated and puzzling question. First he thought
of Leamington and the Warwickshire North and South, with regular
attendance on the Atherstone and one field-day per week with the
Pytchley; but many considerations combined to render the Spa ineligible
as his head-quarters. In the first place, the evening gaieties made his
hair stand on end. Since his rejection by Miss Mexico, Sawyer was no
dancing man; and indeed even in the first flush of his courtship he was
seen to less advantage in a white neckcloth than a blue bird’s-eye. Some
men’s hands and feet are not made to fit boots and gloves as constructed
by our neighbour the fiery Gaul, and for such it is wise to abstain from
“the mazy,” and to rest their hopes of success on other and more
sterling qualities than the vapid demeanour and cool assurance which
triumph in a ball-room. Then, with all his fondness for the applause of
his fellow-creatures, he did not quite fancy making _one_ of that crowd
of irregular-horse who appear on a Wednesday at Crick or Misterton, to
the unspeakable dismay of the Pytchley _lady_ pack, who, if there is
anything _like_ a scent, scour away from them as if for their very
lives; and although it is doubtless a high compliment that two hundred
gentlemen in scarlet should patronise the same establishment, Mr. Sawyer
thought that as far as _he_ was concerned, the number might as well stop
at one hundred and ninety-nine.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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