by R S Surtees
“Oh dear! that’s nothing!” replied his Grace, taking a cursory glance at the figures. That’s nothing. “Why, Flint and Stone, of Friday-street, never notice an account until it gets into the teens of thousands.”
“True, your Grace — true, I dare say it’s very true; but then they are people in a great way of business, with the Bank of England at their backs; whereas I’m a poor lonely individual, just able by the greatest caution and prudence to keep my head above water and no more. I ‘sure your Grace,” continued the Banker, increasing in earnestness as he proceeded, “it’s with the greatest reluctance I trouble your Grace, but it really is a case of necessity, or I wouldn’t have come.”
“Well, well,” interrupted the Duke, “I’ll see what I can do for you against the rent-day — or speak to Mr. Acreage — he’s the Chancellor of the Exchequer; I only spend the money, — he finds it. Come now, let us go to the Duchess,” continued he, making another effort to disengage himself.
“Or,” continued the Banker, without noticing the invitation, “if it didn’t suit you to pay, I dare say I could get you a customer for some of those little outlying places of yours, that can be nothing but trouble and loss, and that would help to make matters square.”
“Well, then, that will be an affair for Mr. Docket,” replied the Duke, always ready to turn matters over to some one else.
“Shall I see Mr. Docket and try to arrange matters with him?” then asked the banker, coming boldly up to the point.
“With all my heart!” replied the Duke, “with all my heart! Mr. Docket and you, I dare say, will soon arrange matters; so now let us go to the Duchess.”
The Banker, however, had exhausted his mission and declined; and the Duke, seeing he had pacified him, did not press any further politeness; but, taking leave, handed him over to Mr. Garnett to reconduct to his carriage; who having tucked and buttoned him in gave the word “home!” to the coachman, who forthwith aroused his drowsy horse with a longitudinal cut of his antediluvian whip, and getting him in motion went rumbling out of the courtyard, wondering what they had “all the places se strang for.” And the Banker went jolting home, alternately sivin and fouring a speech for Mr. Docket, and building mental villas on the property — Gothic, Doric, Ionic, Dutch, and Chinese.
CHAPTER XL.
MR. DOCKET.
AN OLD BUTLER of our acquaintance used to say that his master had three sorts of malt liquor — ale, table, and lamentable; and so there may be said to be three sorts of lawyers, able, unable, and lamentable, the latter of course being the black sheep of the profession, of whom it is fortunate there is so small a proportion compared to the white. There is no greater blessing to a country — no more creditable character anywhere — than a peace-making, peace-loving lawyer, one who sacrifices his own interests rather than involve his neighbours in costs and litigation. Unfortunately such men are seldom appreciated until the parties get into the hands of the opposite sort. It may appear strange, but we believe our oft-lauded friends, the railways, have had a good deal to do in repressing the old spirit of litigation and making parties keep the peace together. People fly away from the scene of action, and it is wonderful how insignificant the obnoxious Brown or Jones becomes at the end of a railway ride. Locomotion, with the short costs of the court, which generally entail a loss even on a winner, prevent people fighting about nothing. The Scotch still contend about trifles with the sort of hereditary animosity that made old Lord Eldon inquire whether certain combatants in his court were “first cousins or neighbours in the country?” but the Scotch will soon learn that they can spend their money more profitably in excursion trains and summer trips. Still, as there will always be indifferently honest people in the world, so there will always be lamentable lawyers to aid in carrying out their endeavours. Respectable men will not have anything to do with questionable deeds, so the parties must either take the unable halfwits who will do anything they are told, or men of the lamentable order, whose employment bespeaks the character of the transaction. “Tell me your attorney, and I’ll tell you what you are,” has almost grown into an adage. So with the bar; dirty men for dirty cases. When that worthy successor of Dan Hakefield — Mr. Verde — begins twiddling his eye-glass, everybody knows there is trickery astir.
Mr. Docket, or Dicky Docket as he was generally called, was one of the dubious order, a legal tool instead of an adviser. He thought it was an honour to be employed by the Duke, who wrote him familiar letters, sealed with great butter-pat-like seals, which of course Dicky was always proud to show or to rehearse the contents of. Though Dicky had not received the Duke’s missive announcing the probable visit of the banker and telling him what to do, when Mr. Goldspink arrived at Dicky’s dingy office in the little town of Rackenford, yet he knew quite enough of affairs to entertain the question and endeavour to probe the cautious man’s mission. Of course Mr. Goldspink did not open out with his desire to purchase the Garlandale estate, but, harping on the heavy debt due to the bank, he drew one or two other places casually into notice, declaring that though he had a perfect horror of land, which he believed would go down in value, and would rather any one else should purchase than him; yet sooner than things should continue as they then were, he would take a place at a fair price — not a fancy price, but a fair price — such as would give him proper interest for his money; but the places he named being all in strict settlement, and of course as immoveable as rocks, Mr. Docket stopped the unprofitable dialogue as soon as he could by declaring that they were so. The banker then, as he thought most skilfully, worked Garlandale round; but Mr. Docket saw through the hollow device, and immediately proceeded to enhance its attractions, declaring that the Duchess was so attached to it, that he hardly thought the Duke would venture to sell it: at all events, that his Grace would require a very long price; and though they had two stiff glasses of brandy and water together at the Swan Inn, in the course of which the banker brandished the Duke’s passbook and Docket expatiated on his Grace’s riches, they could not carry the negotiation any further, and our man of money returned pretty much as he came.
Next day, however, brought the following letter from the Duke, explaining matters and telling him what to do. Thus it ran —
“DEAR DOCKET, “That drivelling old dotard from Mayfield has been over pestering about his little account, and wanting to purchase one of our detached places, and not being able to get rid of the old Philistine I referred him to you, so please, if he comes, squeeze him severely as to price, for, as you know, he has no mercy upon me or on any one else whom he gets into his clutches. He is an ungrateful old curmudgeon, for I sent him a haunch of venison only the other day, and his son used to hunt with my hounds till he found ho was safer on foot than on horseback, besides which the bank always charges me full interest up to the day so that the obligation is really on my side instead of his. However hear what he has to say, and if you can make a good bargain with him do, and let me know the result, but I don’t want to be troubled with all the pros and cons.
“Yours truly, “TERGIVERSATION.”
“Richard Docket, Esq., “Rackenford.”
One of the peculiarities of the present day is that there is no dealing for anything without a haggle. Whatever a person asks it is always inferred that he means to take less, and forthwith the purchaser applies himself to running it down, and this whether or not he considers the article worth the money asked or not. Some do it on principle, some for pleasure, but nine people out of ten do it and think nothing of the waste of time. To say that our Banker did it would be wholly superfluous, but he had better have dispensed with the ceremony, for each time he demurred Mr. Docket added a trifle to the price, till seeing the money mounting up, Mr. Goldspink was obliged to close at a hundred or two more than he might at first have had the estate for. And here leaving the transaction for the present, let us turn to the more invigorating pursuits of country life.
CHAPTER XLI.
NOVEMBER.
PEOPLE SCATTER SO far and wid
e, that it is generally November before the country gets established in the full swing of its sporting supremacy. Summer has then fairly abdicated in favour of winter, light clothes have been replaced by warm ones, red coats brought out to air, top-boots reviewed, and Pater familiae is surprised to find that he cannot read so well by candlelight as he did in the spring. The transition of nature from heat to cold, though slow and gradual at first, becomes fierce and determined afterwards. First goes the sycamore, that cheerful tree of early spring — black spots disfigure its leaves as though there had been a shower of ink. Then the hazel turns yellow, next the beech, then the birch, presently the lime showers off its leaves in volleys, and the yellow ash stands in bold relief against the sturdy oak. The charms of the garden are gone, the flowers look shabby and dull, while bottles of flies and wasps usurp the place of the late blooming peach. A sharp white frost or two, followed by drenching rains, finally settles matters; the oaks turn brown, the rivers flood their banks, the brooks roar, the country is saturated with wet, and ready for hunting.
“Society,” as contradistinguished from “company,” then commences in the pleasantest easiest form, people asking each other to their houses because it is a convenience to the visitors to come, and not because the host wants to astonish them with his splendour. If there were no other argument in favour of field-sports than the sociality they engender, it would be amply sufficient to carry them through. Contrast a country house, from which there is hunting or shooting, with one where there is nothing to do, and there will not be much doubt about the matter.
The sporting furnishes the chief dish in the bill of fare, and with plenty of good exercise, a good appetite, and good spirits, are sure to be engendered. If there is nothing to do — nothing but eat, eat, eat, a man had better pen himself up in a club, and be stall-fed like an ox. Field-sports should, therefore, be encouraged by every legitimate means, not only for the manly spirit they engender, but on account of the inducement they hold out for a resident gentry. Even if the hunting is not so good as may he got elsewhere, there is nothing like a man hunting from home. Winter is a precarious season, and if the day proves had, a man at home need not turn out, he has his books or his hills, or his farm, or his something to attend to, ‘whereas, at an inn, or elsewhere, he very likely feels constrained to go, if it is only for the sake of something to do. “Touring” is only for bachelors and men without fixed residences. The family man will find it for cheaper to subscribe to hounds at home than desert his affairs by going away, even though he gets his hunting nominally for nothing. The risk and trouble of travelling, the expenses of the journey, the grumbling of the groom, the discomforts of the inn, to say nothing of the magnitude of the bill, all tend to deter a man from moving. A shooter can put up with a much worse billet than a fox-hunter, because being a summer excursionist he has the fresh air to resort to, while a fox-hunter is housed early in the evening, and must put up with all the nuisances and annoyances so peculiarly the property of the British inn.
Shooting — shooting in moderation at least — is a sport that may be enjoyed almost anywhere. It is not necessary to have an array of keepers, and beaters, and markers, shooting made easy, in fact, for men who have the full use of their limbs, and like to see the sagacity of dogs displayed in the field. As an old writer on hunting once said, “the emulation of leading in hounds and their masters has been the ruin of many a good cry,” so as regards shooting, we have often thought that the emulation of making a big bag has been destructive of much quiet rational sport. Every one wants to beat his neighbour in point of numbers, and as everything nowadays finds its way into the papers, a perpetual rivalry is kept up throughout the country. Then the concentration of game attracts the ruffianly poachers, and those deadly conflicts ensue that are so much to be deplored. In a moderately preserved country, where men shoot instead of slaughter, poaching does not pay: at all events, it is carried on in a very limited way, by local men who are well known and easily detected. These are generally the very scum and scourings of the country, men whose least crime is that of poaching; for if a respectable man has a real turn for the trigger, he is speedily engaged as a keeper. The dregs then only remain, skulking fellows lurking about beer-shops, who carry their convictions on their faces, on their backs, on their everything about them. Moderate preserving, therefore, we think should be encouraged, and the slaughter of the battue censured and despised. So much for shooting; now for the nobler pursuit of hunting.
There are few countries now without some approximation to a pack, and the district we are describing possessed the advantage of two, namely, that kept by his Grace the Duke of Tergiversation, and a subscription pack under the auspices of Mr. Jessop, and though neither might draw many strangers from afar, they were yet amply sufficient to keep the natives at home. So, perhaps, the legitimate ends of the Chase were accomplished; those riding over the land to whom it belonged, without subjecting the farmers to irresponsible damage. The Duke’s being the oldest pack, of course claim precedence at our hands, and his huntsman being a character, we will devote an introductory chapter to him.
CHAPTER XLII.
MR. JOCK HAGGISH AND THE HOUNDS.
MR. JOCK HAGGISH, or Haggis, as Miss Rosa pronounced it, was a great muckle six foot, sixteen stone, sixty year old, grayheaded, grayeyed Scotchman, whom the Duke had taken into his service because he got him cheap, and because Jock would turn his hand to anything, which is not the case with English servants generally. Jock could hunt, and he could shoot, or shut as he called it, throw the caber, put the stone, play the pipes, or dance a reel, and would back himself to catch rats with any one. Moreover, (and this perhaps was one of his recommendations,) he was a great screw, and husbanded the Duke’s “siller” as though it were his own. He was continually exclaiming against some piece of extravagance or other. “No more green silk whopcord! no more green silk whopcord! the green silk whopcords cost the Duke eighteen pence!” exclaimed he shortly after he entered the Duke’s service, bursting into the saddle-room, among all the grooms and helpers, flourishing the terrible document frantically in his hand — and this to men who had always considered that a Duke should pay double for everything.
True, Jock was bad to mount, but then he was a great “e-eo-o-nomist” of his horses as well as of the Duke’s siller, never leaping if he could possibly circumvent a place. He would stick his great seat of honour against a stiff stake and witherings, and send the whole concern flying into the next field as if it were a bundle of straw. He rode low short-legged dray horse-like animals that would creep or screw or scramble up and down and through, the most cramped impossible looking-places, according as Jock by hand and voice indicated his desire to he doing. At leading over he was quite unique, Jock and his horse hopping over walls or gates or hog-backed stiles together, to the great discomfiture of his followers, who would come up expecting the places were nothing. As to riding for éclat or “reputation” as he called it, Jock hadn’t the slightest idea of anything of the sort, his notion of a horse being merely as an accessory to enable him to get up and down the “hulls,” and keep near to his hounds in the open. Indeed, he never rode up the “hulls” always “leading” like Mr. Briggs did at the Devil’s Dyke. Then Jock would come skating straight down with his horse almost on its haunches, leaving long railway-like lines behind him, and nearing the bottom would gradually ease out his horse, and shoot away till he came to some other obstruction.
He had but two horses, a white called Grampian, and a black called Galashiels; but as the Duke let him find his own whips, he never stood upon ceremony in dismounting either of them that happened to be up. Though more of a “Tod” than a fox-hunter, and not caring whether he killed with two couple of hounds or with ten, he yet was uncommonly keen, and rode like fury when there was any occasion.
The want of style, however, did not make much matter with the Duke, for he was a munificent supporter of the chase in everything except the main essentials, viz., hounds, bones, and men. So far as dressing
up in an orange-coloured coat, with cherry-coloured linings, collar and cuffs, with a white vest and white kerseymeres, to attend a hunt dinner or ball of an evening, his Grace was quite unexceptionable; but his exit from the smart Queen’s-coloured barouche, with the four grays and postilions at the cover ride, savoured more of the foot lights of the theatre than of the appropriate fitness of things so peculiar to fox-hunting. For the morning, the order of things was reversed, the Duke and his field appearing in scarlet coats with yellow collar and cuffs, while Jock and his men sported the orange (plush) with cherry-coloured linings and facings, and the latter’s numerical strength was sometimes increased on state occasions by two or three stablemen in plush, without the cherry-coloured facings, who galloped frantically about, taking a sly cut at a hound whenever Jock wasn’t near. These, with the Duke himself, were long Jock’s great annoyance; but Jock was a free-spoken man, and would “D—” the Duke just as soon as he would anybody else.
Now, however, Jock had got an addition to his troubles in the person of the young Earl of Marchhare whose idea of hunting consisted in riding at all the impossible places he could find. At the most critical moments of the chase, when perhaps the fox had been coursed by a cur, headed by shooter, or the already-failing scent had been rendered less by an impending storm, “Swich, crash, hang!” his lordship would come blundering head-formost through some impervious-looking place, right into the middle of the hounds, sending them right and left, laming if not killing one or two. Then Jock would rise in his stirrips and imprecate the “dighted body” as he called him, wishing him at “Jericho beyond Jordan,” or some other distant place. What made these performances more unbearable was, that the Duke was extremely parsimonious in the matter of hounds, never letting Jock buy any, though he was welcome to take what he could get in a gift; but as people do not generally give away their best hounds, the assortment was not very select. Still they made a good show at the meet, and with the aid of the extra yellow plush, and the “green silk whop-cord, were kept in tolerable subjection, while the Duke talked and criticised them to his ignorant or obsequious friends in a way that made the long gray locks protruding beneath Jock’s black velvet hunting cap shake with laughter.