CHAPTER I.

The New Forest—Sampson Stanley the gipsy—Mat and Tim—A New Forest sportsman—Braken Lodge.

About the year ’43 there had lived for a long period in the little hamlet of Burley, in the New Forest, a clan of gipsies of the name of Stanley. Sampson, the head of the tribe, had commenced life as a knife-grinder, and by tramping the Forest summer and winter, and plying his trade in the neighbouring parishes, had collected sufficient funds to purchase a good van, an old horse, and some donkeys.

He was also known, in the Forest phraseology, as a “terrible” good man with an axe, and in those days of wooden ships there was plenty of timber to be hewn.

So Sampson always found enough to do when he chose to exert himself, but he infinitely preferred going out with the keepers after deer, and these men were not sorry for his company, for he was a wonderful tracker, and could follow up a wounded buck almost like a hound.

Though nearly fifty years of age, Sampson could still hold his own at most of the sports that took place annually in the neighbourhood. His fleetness of foot was remarkable, and though occasionally beaten by younger men whilst racing, at wrestling he had never yet found his match; and so good was he in his own county of Hampshire, that one or two of the squires proposed to send him up to London to meet some of the famous north-country men who gathered there once every year to exhibit their prowess; but when they suggested this, Sampson remarked that he was “afeard he shouldn’t do no credit to the money as they proposed to lay out on him; reckoned he warn’t man enough for them north-country folk, as knew tricks he’d never larnt, but that if any of the zquires liked to get a chimpion down to t’vorest, he’d ’av a turn with ’im.”

Sampson’s appearance denoted that of an athletic wild man of the woods.

Over six feet in height, straight as a spear, a spare figure with but little flesh on him, the muscles of arms and legs showed prominently through his buckskin jacket and breeches, whilst his dark brown eyes gleamed out from under a rabbit-skin cap; eyes that took in everything around him, and were only still when fixed with a steady gaze upon the face of any one addressing him.

Such was Sampson, the gipsy, a man who spoke little, but thought much upon matters connected with his means of livelihood.

Some years before this story opens Sampson had married the daughter of one of the small forest “squatters,” a hard-working, merry-eyed woman, who owned but little gipsy blood in her veins. She had not had much “schooling” herself, but for this very reason determined to do her best for the children born to her, and, with the help of an old schoolmaster, these were taught to read and write, and learned the elements of arithmetic.

At the period of which we write there was no church in the district of Burley, but Sampson’s wife read to her children, though with difficulty, every Sunday out of her Bible, and explained what she read. She taught them to say their prayers at her knee before going to bed in the great van. Her system was not to have the young ones’ heads crammed with much learning, but, following the advice of the old schoolmaster, to “ground” them well.

Besides this careful supervision of her children, her gentle counsels often influenced her husband, and other men of the tribe, for the better, when sometimes they were inclined to challenge the forest laws, or to throw away their money by “getting on the spree;” so that the neighbours round about came to say of the tribe, “They’re a bit ‘sobererer’ since old Sampson married.”

Two sons were born to Sampson and his wife, twins—named “Mat” and “Tim”—and a daughter.

It is with Mat that our story chiefly deals.

Always recognized as the eldest, and at this time still in his teens, Mat Stanley closely resembled his father in many respects, and from having accompanied him for some years on his various expeditions he was intimately acquainted with the Forest, its woods and glades. No one knew better than he the haunts of the deer and blackgame, and he alone of all the Forest youths could climb the gigantic beeches of “Vinney Ridge” to rob the herons’ nests.

Mat could also hold his own very fairly at both boxing and wrestling with far bigger lads than himself.

Besides these achievements he made small sums now and again by breaking-in forest colts, and otherwise helping the squatters with their cattle. By nature he was always ready to help any one, who through misfortune or physical cause was not able to help himself; though possessed of a quick temper, he was never anxious to pick a quarrel, but when one was forced upon him, ready to show of what determined stuff he was made.

“Tim,” the brother, was of a more retiring disposition, by reason of his health. His constitution not being so robust, and suffering as he did sometimes acutely from rheumatism, he was not calculated either to join in the active pursuits of Mat, or accompany him or his father during their expeditions; but he stayed at the camp, where he proved useful in helping his mother and others of his tribe in looking after the animals and pitching tents, though when the proper season arrived he took his share at cutting and “rinding” timber.

The sister, Ruth, also assisted her mother in cooking, washing, and other details of camp life.

Having thus shortly described the family, we must not omit to mention the guard of the camp, a long-legged, bob-tailed, powerful, rough-coated lurcher, named “Jumper.”

As a pup he had been brought up to mind his master’s grinding-machine and tools, and his chief duty he thoroughly understood from that time, namely, never to allow a stranger to approach any property belonging to the gipsies; moreover, he would fetch in the donkeys and horse unaided, and on many occasions proved his speed by running down a wounded deer.

Just previous to the time we are writing of, Mat had made the acquaintance of a young stranger, who was shooting in the forest, and this is how it came about.

Early one morning in the month of October, Mat was looking for a colt which he had partly broken in, when his attention was arrested by a shot immediately outside the enclosure he was searching. Ever alive to the chance of sport, he ran through the intervening trees, and discovered a young man dressed in a new and rather gaudy sporting costume, who was engaged in searching a small bog with a setter.

Seeing Mat, the stranger accosted him somewhat imperiously with,—

“Come here, youngster, and find this snipe I’ve shot, look sharp.”

“Not till I’ve found a colt I’ve lost,” responded Mat, who did not appreciate this off-hand command.

“Do you know who I am?” demanded the stranger, standing up.

“No, and don’t care; however, if you’ll speak civil, I’ll give you a hand.”

And not waiting for further remarks, Mat vaulted over the rails of the enclosure, and very soon pointed out the wing of the snipe protruding from a puddle, into which the bird had been trodden by the foot of the gunner.

“Now,” said the latter, pleased with this quick find, “will you beat for me homewards to Lyndhurst?”

“I don’t mind,” answered the gipsy, “if you will come into this enclosure first, and help me to find my colt.”

“Very well, as I’m a stranger in this forest, I shall be rather curious to see how you find a pony in that thick wood.”

So they stepped in, and Mat went back to the spot where the animal had effected an entrance over a broken part of the fence, saying,—

“This ’ere colt’s been lost for the best part of three days, and I’m a bit upset about him, as he’s about as good a one as I’ve ever handled.”

“Oh! then you’re a horse-breaker?” remarked the stranger.

“Yes, and employed finding lost cattle too, as I know t’vorest; I was born not far from where we are now.”

Thus speaking, Mat took up the animal’s tracks, and strode swiftly through the underwood, carrying a small axe in his hand. This tracking was all new to the stranger, who could only admire the dexterity with which his companion kept the trail, taking no heed of numerous other tracks, which led off in various directions; these, as Mat explained subsequently, belonging to ponies whose feet were shod.

The colt had pursued a very zigzag course in his efforts to find food amongst the dry “sedge.”

In an hour’s time the searchers came to a deep dyke overgrown with heather.

“I was afeard so,” muttered Mat, as he pointed to a spot where the animal had fallen into the ditch, and a few hundred yards further on they found the poor colt standing benumbed, with his coat all staring, at the bottom of the drain.

By great efforts they induced him to walk along till the banks became less steep, and here, with his axe, Mat levelled a bit of the edge of the drain, cut down some saplings and furze, and so built a temporary roadway, up which they managed at length to push and drag the exhausted beast.

“Good work,” said the stranger, as he and Mat sat down for an instant to recover their wind. “_This_ part of the business I understand, at all events,” and taking a flask of brandy from his pocket, he poured the contents down the throat of the colt.

They then made him up a bed of “sedge,” and cutting a quantity of the best herbage they could find, placed it under his nose, and left him lying comfortably down; Mat observing that he looked brighter, and that he hoped “to get him home afore night.”

This incident occurred in Boldre Wood, and as the day was getting on, the stranger said,—

“Take a straight line to Lyndhurst, and we’ll get something to eat and then go out again.”

Mat acquiesced, and, leading the way through Mark Ash, brought his new acquaintance in an hour’s time to Braken Lodge, outside Lyndhurst.

It is now time to introduce the stranger.

His name was “Stephen Burns.”

Three months only had elapsed since he was pursuing his studies, or rather, perhaps, his sporting instincts, at Oxford, when he was suddenly summoned home to Braken Lodge, the paternal seat.

His father had long been ailing, but the end came suddenly, and Stephen was only just in time to see him before he died, and to find himself an orphan, having lost his mother during his infancy, and alone in the world, at all events the civilized world, for his only relative, an elder brother, had emigrated to Australia some years previous to this.

Braken Lodge he hardly looked upon as home, for he had left it early for a preparatory school, and his father, whose sole aim and interest in life consisted of betting and racing, was rather relieved to get his two sons comfortably disposed of, that he might the better indulge his favourite pursuits, which he continued until he left the estate heavily mortgaged, as Stephen found when he returned to the Forest.

When Burns arrived at the lodge, piloted by Mat, he showed the latter into a dilapidated smoking-room, where he told him to make himself at home, whilst he sought the housekeeper, and bidding her take in some refreshments, followed her into the room, then seating himself, he prepared to learn more of the independent young Forester. With that end in view, he remarked, “We have not much time to spare, either for eating or talking, but, by-the-bye, what’s your name, and where do you live?”

“My name’s Mat Stanley,” was the answer, “and we’re camped down to Wootton.”

“Oh! gipsies, that’s a free life, any way.”

“Yes, pretty well, but I zeem to want a freer one.”

“More liberty than gipsies have?” returned Burns, “why, how do you mean?”

“Do you know Squire Bell?” continued Mat. “No? well, he lives t’other zide of Wootton, been all his life forrin—in Australia—and he says as I should get on there well. He gave me two books, which I carries about with me, they’re all about Australia, and I know ’em pretty nigh by heart. I’ve had the whole run of his library and museum, and bin over ’em times without number. And Joe Broomfield, that’s he as the colt belongs to, he’s got a brother out there whot’s getting 1_l._ for every colt as he breaks in, and plenty of grub found him besides. Fact is, I’d like to go out if I had the money.”

The subject evidently appeared to excite the otherwise taciturn gipsy, and kindled a certain amount of enthusiasm in Burns, who, however, responded,—

“What, go and leave all your tribe, and live in the Bush amongst black fellows?”

“Oh! I don’t mind leaving my tribe, I might zee ’em again some day, and then they’re a-going to make new laws here, and not let gipsies camp in one place more’n a few days together. I’d like to get away, and the squire he says I _shall_, only I want to work a bit of money together first to pay my passage out.”