Warwick Woodlands

Warwick Woodlands, by

Henry William Herbert (AKA Frank Forester) This eBook is for the use
of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
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Title: Warwick Woodlands Things as they Were There Twenty Years
Ago
Author: Henry William Herbert (AKA Frank Forester)
Release Date: November 6, 2006 [EBook #19730]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ASCII
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WARWICK
WOODLANDS ***

Produced by Jerry Kuntz

THE WARWICK WOODLANDS; or Things as They Were Twenty
Years Ago
By 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
ship-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 sunshine, 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 assiduous 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 space that worthy minister of mine host's pleasures made
his appearance, smoothing down his short black hair, clipped in the
orthodox bowl fashion, 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 Yorkshire 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
passed in the saddle than elsewhere, it was not a little characteristic of
my friend Harry to have selected this piece of Yorkshire 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,