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Updated: July 20, 2025
General Harbottle gave a minute account, for the sixth time, of the Disaster of a friend in India, who had his leg bitten off by a tiger, whilst he was hunting; and was proceeding to menace the company with a chapter or two about Tippoo Saib.
No doubt he had heard the name on the previous evening; but Hall is common, and had been forgotten. "Who is Mr Hall? Why, he is the squire of Little Alresford, and my patron. I forget you haven't heard that Mr Harbottle is dead at last. Of course I am very sorry for the old gentleman in one sense; but it is such a blessing in another.
He pondered this matter; and time went on. The Judge was growing a little morose, and less enjoying. The subject struck nearer to his thoughts than he fancied it could have done. But so it is with most undivulged vexations, and there was no one to whom he could tell this one. It was now the ninth; and Mr Justice Harbottle was glad. He knew nothing would come of it.
Dixons, an' Walkers, an' Elliotts, an' Smiths is come, said she, marking off the families on her fingers, as she looked round and called over their names; 'an' there's only Will Latham an' his two sisters, and Roger Harbottle, an' Taylor t' come; an' they'll turn up afore tea's ended.
It was a more than usually tedious campaign, and Colonel Robert Harbottle was ambushed and shot in a place where one must believe pure boredom induced him to take his men.
As it was he simply read the direction: To the Honourable The Lord Justice Elijah Harbottle, One of his Majesty's Justices of the Honourable Court of Common Pleas. It remained forgotten in his pocket till he reached home.
I've worn some leather out abroad; let out a heathen soul or two; fed this good sword with the black blood of pagan Christians; converted a few infidels with it. But let that pass. The Ordinary. The Hall was thrown into some little agitation, a few days since, by the arrival of General Harbottle.
This fellow took his pipe from his mouth on seeing the coach, stood up, and cut some solemn capers high on his beam, and shook a new rope in the air, crying with a voice high and distant as the caw of a raven hovering over a gibbet, "A robe for Judge Harbottle!" The coach was now driving on at its old swift pace.
When an hour later, the watchman brought the man in livery home, still stupid and covered with blood, Judge Harbottle cursed his servant roundly, swore he was drunk, threatened him with an indictment for taking bribes to betray his master, and cheered him with a perspective of the broad street leading from the Old Bailey to Tyburn, the cart's tail, and the hangman's lash.
Harbottle Castle would have a good deal to tell, could it only speak, of siege and assault from the day when, "with the aid of the whole county of Northumberland and the bishopric of Durham," it was built by Henry II., until, after the Union of the Crowns, it shared the fate of many of the Border strongholds, and fell into gradual decay, or was used as a quarry from which to draw building material for new and modern mansions.
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