by R S Surtees
Arrived at the Imperial Hotel, he was received by Timothy Tenpence, the head waiter, who, with a profusion of bows—” marked respect,” as the major said — passed him on to Miss Longmaide’s pretty maid, Emma Springfield, into whose little hand the major, with admirable tact and judgment, at an early day had managed, with no great difficulty perhaps, to insinuate a sovereign; and Emma had made it her business to ply her mistress with all the pleasant importance-giving stories she could raise relative to our gallant master of hounds.
Emma smiled as she saw how smart the major was, knowing full well what was coming; indeed, she thought him rather slow, and had lost half a dozen kisses to Aiderman Portsoken’s “gentleman,” whose master was staying in the house, that “Old Ginger Heckle,” as they called the major, would offer on the Tuesday, this being Thursday. However, the kisses were neither here nor there; so with an arch smile, as she answered the major’s observation about the weather — asking if her mistress was at home being now quite out of the question — she ushered him into the sitting-room, where the fair lady was already arranged with her company work to receive him. Emma then withdrew; and passing gently into the adjoining bedroom, which was only separated from the sitting-room by folding doors, with the aid of the keyhole, she saw and heard everything, just as well as if she had been in the room.
He commenced with that steady old friend to stupidity, the weather, expatiating on its favourableness to agricultural purposes, which led him to hope for an early harvest, which would enable him to begin hunting early, which was very desirable for masters of hounds, as it enabled them to get their packs in good order before the great influx of sportsmen arrived, who were sometimes rather unreasonable in their expectations, and did not make allowance for the difficulties masters had to contend with. Indeed, he sometimes wondered that gentlemen could be found willing to make the great pecuniary and other sacrifices necessary for their maintenance, for nobody knew what keeping hounds was but those who tried; that Lord Petre’s observation to Delmé Ratcliffe, that a master of hounds would never have his hand out of his pocket, and must always have a guinea in it, was most correct; and so he went maundering on, the fair lady contrasting his matter-of-fact egotism with the impassioned languishings of Captain Balmeybucke, who worshipped her eyes, and worshipped her nose, and worshipped her lips, and worshipped her teeth, and worshipped her hand, and worshipped her feet, and worshipped everything belonging to her.
Indeed, the gallant master of hounds dwelt so long on the scent that Emma Springfield began to wish he might get done before the servants’ dinner-bell rang, and she couldn’t help wondering her mistress didn’t give him a lift. Emma was a dashing little girl with her own suitors, and always brought them to book within the third day. However, the major went towl — towl — towling on, never, as he would say, with a burning, but still with a good holding scent, but making apparently very little progress. At length the lady, looking up from the broad-bordered kerchief she was hemming, touched a chord to which the major’s heart responded. Gentle reader, that word was — TURNIPS!
A gardener’s waggon was passing with a load, and Miss Longmaide observed on its height. The major went off at a tangent. He grew turnips, the finest in the country; indeed, whatever he did, or had, or grew, or bought, was always the best, the very best, far better than anybody else’s. He grew turnips, the finest, the very finest in the country; nobody could hold a candle to him in that line. He had some beautiful turnip-land at Carol Hill Green, worth three-pound-ten an acre of anybody’s money. “Three-pound-ten an acre,” he repeated, sucking his breath, as if he were kissing the land. Indeed, if Emma’s eye hadn’t been to the door, she’d have thought he was kissing her mistress. However, that was shortly to come. From the merits of the turnip-land the major proceeded to expatiate on the beauties of “his place,” Carol Hill Green: its lovely situation, its splendid avenue of ancient elms, its healthy climate, its glassy lake, its conservatories, its pleasure-grounds, its mossy slopes and purling brook — topics much more interesting and intelligible to the fair lady than either hounds or turnips. She therefore chimed in with the subject, getting up a good cry, asking many particulars about the roses, of which the major assured her he had every sort under the sun, feeling confident he could get them at short notice should circumstances favour their requirement. From the roses, the lady led him with considerable adroitness to enter upon a description of the gardens of the neighbouring gentry; whence she speedily diverged to their houses, and was assured by the major that he had the run of them all — could do what he liked with the owners of every one of them, all of whom looked up to him with the greatest respect, and arranged their parties in the winter to suit the meets of his hounds. Altogether he made himself out to be a very great man, and Miss Longmaide, being heartily tired of single blessedness, and despairing of ever cobbling up her feelings to what they were before the Balmeybucke catastrophe, decided that she might just as well invest herself with our consequential friend, and receive whatever honours and attentions he could spare from himself. She therefore encouraged him to proceed, helping him on just as he would his hounds with a failing scent.
Miss Longmaide, who had had nearly as much experience in matrimonial matters as the major, hung her head when he came to what the old Chancery lawyers used to call the “charging part,” but, being a bad hand at blushing, she gave her chair a slight wheel, so as to get her back to the light, when, clearing her sweet voice with a prefatory hem, she proceeded to recapitulate her acknowledgments of the compliment the major had paid her, punctuating them with hems and coughs. It “was, indeed, so unexpected that it had taken her quite by surprise. Though their acquaintance had only been of short duration, she might admit — candidly state, perhaps — that he was not indifferent to her”; whereupon she attempted to conceal her face in the company-kerchief, which the gallant major resisting, a slight scuffle ensued; whereupon Emma, rising from her knees, with a mental ejaculation of “Wot a couple of old fools!” proceeded to tell all she had seen downstairs, and in less than an hour the news was all over the town.
The proceedings, however, did not terminate with what Emma saw, for Miss Longmaide, having had several most promising offers, most undeniable proposals, all of which melted like snow before the fiery search of the two scrutinising lawyers, although the turnips and mastership of hounds inspired her with considerable confidence in this case, still she thought it would be well to get some more definite ideas of the major’s circumstances, were it only to enable her to make the most of him on the fine-scented, rose-coloured note-paper she had already prepared to write to her friends upon. After the first transports of joy were over, and little Flexible Back had again subsided in his seat, now drawn close to our fair friend’s, she began, in a very pretty simpering way, to banter him on his boldness in engaging with a lady he knew nothing about, intimating that she thought it only fair to give him such information as she could supply without the aid of her lawyers, Messrs Roaster and Pinner, to whom she begged to refer him for the remainder. But the gallant major, knowing full well that if he went to Roaster and Pinner’s they would not only roast and pin him as to his own affairs, but very likely give him the sack into the bargain, protested most vehemently against such a proceeding, vowing that he didn’t care a farthing about money; that he’d be too happy to take her without a copper; that he was above all mercenary considerations, as might be inferred from the fact of his keeping a pack of hounds without a subscription; and he went on at such a rate that Emma, who had now returned to her post, declared she never heard such a man, and expressed her belief that he could “talk a table off its legs.” Miss Longmaide remonstrated, but the major was staunch. He would have nothing to do with Roaster and Pinner, or any confounded parchment-faced lawyer, who, he said, were fit for nothing but spoiling sport, adding that he would like to rub half of them over with aniseed, and run them down with his hounds. To be sure, when he had driven Miss Longmaide off the lawyer line, as he thought, and got calmed down
a little, he showed a disposition to exchange Carol Hill Green information for that appertaining to her property; but he’d have “no pen, ink, and paper work — no schedules, no rent-rolls, no balance-sheets, no bankers’ books. It should be the very soul and essence of honour and confidence on both sides.”
So he kept steadily to this point, urging on the match with the greatest importunity, and refreshing the little maid with another sovereign. Circumstances favoured our friend. Miss Longmaide attributed the loss of the divine Captain Balmeybucke a good deal to the interference of her over-zealous friends, who persuaded her that the contingency which had since arisen was one of those remote possibilities it would never do to marry upon; and she began to suspect that her friends, as they called themselves, were leagued together to prevent her marrying, in order that they might share her money among them. The idea of this she couldn’t endure; and though the gallant major was as unlike any of her former lovers as anything could possibly be, still she believed him to be a worthy, warm-hearted, disinterested man, most ardently attached to her, and with whom she made no doubt she could live in comfort and respectability. So she faltered “yes” to the major, and further yielded to his urgent solicitations of an immediate marriage. Another sovereign to the maid overcame all difficulty about dresses, and Rumbleford Wells rose in repute by the match.
Great was the day when the little major, in the full uniform of the Mangelwurzelshire Militia, strutted up the flags of St Bride’s Church, looking so arrogantly bumptious that if he hadn’t been going to be tamed by matrimony, he ought to have been taken before a justice and bound over to keep the peace. He strutted, and sidled, and fumed, like a turkey-cock at the sight of a red coat. But if he went in great, how much greater did he come out! with the tall, elegant, Italian-complexioned angel leaning on his arm, thinking, perhaps, of some one far different to the pocket Adonis who now guided her steps; while amidst the merry peal of the bells, the shouts of the populace, and the silvery showers of the shillings, the little major hugged himself with his astonishing Waterloo-like victory. He had, indeed, accomplished wonders, and felt revenged for all the slights and snubbings of former times. So hooray! for Rouge and Noir, as Miss Jaundice called the happy couple, as they stepped into their travelling carriage and four. Crack go the whips, round go the wheels, and back the white favours stream.
What a pity to leave such a charming theme, to return to the dull realities of life! However, we must do it.
We are free to admit that there was a little disappointment on the part of the lady when she arrived at Carol Hill Green, for instead of approaching through a long avenue of venerable elms, as the bridegroom represented, the chaise suddenly stopped ere she was fully aware they had entered the grounds, the dozen or two trees, of which the straight avenue was composed, being all passed; neither was the mansion very imposing. Indeed, had it not been for the determined stop of the carriage, she would have thought the tidy, little, whitewashed house they stood before was the lodge. However, like a wise woman, she kept her opinions to herself, feeling, perhaps, that the disappointment would be reciprocal when the major came to find how the colliery or coal-mine near Leeds, in the county of York, kept down the rents of the Slumpington and Squashington estates in the county of Somerset, of Scratchington in the county of Salop, and of Rushington in the county of Kent.
The existence of the daughters was an after-find, and perhaps our readers will allow us to dispose of that discovery as one of those catastrophes that are more easily imagined than described. Still there was the consequence of the hounds to console the lady; and perhaps our sporting friends will do us the favour of accompanying us to the kennel. Kennel, did we say? There was no kennel — only an old root-house, with a bench in it. The following was the rise and progress of “moy establishment”: —
When Carol Hill Green descended on the auctioneer there was then in the neighbourhood a small trencherfed pack, called the “Jolly Rummagers,” from the independent way they scrimmaged over everybody’s land, and which had got into sad disrepute, as well for their trespasses as for their propensity to mutton. In fact, they were under sentence of capital punishment, when it occurred to the butchers, bakers, publicans, beershop-keepers, and people they belonged to that it would be a good thing if they could get the major (then Mr Guinea-fowle) to head them, which would give them respectability and greater liberty over the land. Accordingly they waited upon our friend, and represented to him the great advantage these hounds were of to the country in a public (house) point of view; expatiated on their anxiety to promote the sports and amusements of the people, than which there could be nothing more legitimate or more truly national than the noble pastime of the chase; and they concluded by informing our friend that if he would only consent to lend them his name — let the hounds be called his, in fact — they would indemnify him against all costs, charges, damages, and expenses whatsoever. Honour on such easy terms not falling to the lot of man every day, the auctioneer, after due consideration, acceded to their proposal, and forthwith the hounds became his. He then struck the fine gilt button, and established a uniform — green, with a red waistcoat and white breeches, — and proceeded to qualify for his high office by reading all the books he could borrow on the subject.
Before taxing time, however, came round most of the worthies had vanished, and our friend was left sole master of the establishment. They were now Mr Guineafowle’s hounds, in every sense of the word. Many men, with no more taste for hunting than our friend, would have revived the old sentence of extermination; but our Guineafowle, having tasted the sweets of office, didn’t like to lose it so soon. He therefore agreed, among his own and some of the neighbouring farmers, that if they would keep the hounds, he would pay the tax; and that his groom - cow - keeper - gardener, Jonathan Falconer, should collect them the evening before hunting, and distribute them after.
This was thought very handsome of our friend, seeing that each hound would cost him sixteen shillings, and there were seven or eight couple of them. To be sure, as between the public and the tax-gatherer, there was always a slight discrepancy; the major, when on his high horse, at market-tables and other public places, talking of them as a full pack, five-and-thirty or forty couple; while to the tax-gatherer he used to say, with an airified toss of his head, that there were only a few couple that he kept out of charity, and he wished he was rid of them altogether. Indeed, he once went so far as to try to pass them off as fox-hounds, in order to escape the then certificate duty, alleging that they only condescended to hare in the absence of fox; but this the surveyor wouldn’t stand, and our master didn’t think it prudent to risk an appeal.
A very severe contest having taken place for Mangel-wurzelshire shortly after our friend’s accession to the Carol Hill Green estate, in which he particularly distinguished himself by voting for the Whig candidate, after promising, and canvassing with, the Tory, he was rewarded by the majority of the militia, in lieu of being placed on the commission of the peace, as he wished, the justices of his petty-sessional division vowing they would all resign if he was. However, he got his majority; and then the hounds were Major Guineafowle’s, and Jonathan Falconer got a cockade and a gold band for his hat.
Many of our sporting readers, we dare say, will remember “Major Guineafowle’s, the Carol Hill Hounds,” figuring in the papers along with the packs of dukes and other great men, making quite as great a figure on paper as any of them. A pack is a pack, in the eyes of the uninitiated, just as a child thinks a cherry is a cherry when it eats a baking one. The major got leave over more land, too, though Lord Heartycheer — at the earnest solicitation of whose steward, Mr Smoothley, our friend had voted as he did — said, in his usual haughty way when applied to, that “though the man undoubtedly ought to have something for disgracing himself, he didn’t know that letting him maraud over a country was the right sort of payment.”
His lordship’s natural fox-hunter’s contempt for a hare-hunter had been greatly heightened by hearing from Dicky D
yke that the major classed their establishments together, and talked of Heartycheer and “oi” hunting the country.
Very telling, however, the major’s talk was when the first batch of daughters were emancipated from Miss Birchtwig’s, and began twisting and twirling about to the music of the watering-place bands, the major still haunting the scenes of his early career — still talking about “moy horses, and moy country, and moy hounds kept without a subscription.”
Offers came pouring in apace, each suppliant feeling satisfied that a five-and-twenty, or four-and-twenty, or three-and-twenty years’ (as the case might be) master of hounds “without a subscription” could want nothing but amiable well-disposed young men for his incomparable daughters, and that was a character they all could sustain — at least, for a time. Mrs Guineafowle, being anxious to get the first brood off before her own beauties were ready to appear, favoured all-corners, bringing men to book with amazing rapidity, and never letting one off without a thorough sifting. She took possessions, reversions, remainders, and contingencies into consideration, with all the acuteness of an assurance-office keeper. Having been done herself, she was not going to let any one do her. If the unfortunate passed the ordeal of her inquiries — the Commons of the Guineafowle constitution — he was passed on to the Lords in the person of our great little major, now “five-and-twenty years master of hounds without a subscription.”