IT is all very well for people to affect the magnificent, to give
general invitations, and say “Come whenever it suits you; we
shall always be happy to see you,” and so on; but somehow it is
seldom safe to take them at their word. How many houses has the
reader to which he can ride or drive up with the certainty of not
putting people “out,” as the saying is. If there is a running
account of company going on, it is all very well; another man
more or less is neither here nor there; but if it should happen
to be one of those solemn lulls that intervene between one set of
guests going and another coming, denoted by the wide-apart
napkins seen by a side glance as he passes the dining-room
window, then it is not a safe speculation. At all events, a
little notice is better, save, perhaps, among fox-hunters, who
care less for appearances than other people.
It was Saturday, as we said before, and our friend the Major had
finished his week’s work:—paid his labourers, handled the heifers
that had left him so in the lurch, counted the sheep, given out
the corn, ordered the carriage for church in case it kept dry,
and as day closed had come into the house, and exchanged his
thick shoes for old worsted worked slippers, and cast himself
into a semicircular chair in the druggeted drawing-room to wile
away one of those long winter evenings that seem so impossible in
the enduring length of a summer day, with that best of all
papers, the “Hit-im and Hold-im shire Herald.” The local paper is
the paper for the country gentleman, just as the “Times” is the
paper for the Londoner. The “Times” may span the globe, tell what
is doing at Delhi and New York, France, Utah, Prussia, Spain,
Ireland, and the Mauritius; but the paper that tells the squire
of the flocks and herds, the hills and dales, the births and
disasters of his native district, is the paper for his money. So
it was with our friend the Major. He enjoyed tearing the
half-printed halfwritten envelope off his “Herald,” and holding
its damp sides to the cheerful fire until he got it as crisp as a
Bank of England note, and then, sousing down in his easy chair to
enjoy its contents, conscious that no one had anticipated them.
How he revelled in the advertisements, and accompanied each
announcement with a mental commentary of his own.
We like to see country gentlemen enjoying their local papers.
Ashover farm to let, conjured up recollections of young Mr.
Gosling spurting past in white cords, and his own confident
prediction that the thing wouldn’t last.
Burlinson the auctioneer’s assignment for the benefit of his
creditors, reminded him of his dogs, and his gun, and his manor,
and his airified looks, and drew forth anathemas on Burlinson in
particular, and on pretenders in general.
Then Mr. Napier’s announcement that Mr. Draggleton of Rushworth
had applied for a loan of four thousand pounds from the Lands
Improvement Company for draining, sounded almost like a triumph
of the Major’s own principles, Draggleton having long derided the
idea of water getting into a two-inch pipe at a depth of four
feet, or of draining doing any good.
And the Major chuckled with delight at the thought of seeing the
long pent-up water flow in pure continuous streams off the
saturated soil, and of the clear, wholesome complexion the land
would presently assume. Then the editorial leader on the state of
the declining corn markets, and of field operations (cribbed of
course from the London papers) drew forth an inward opinion that
the best thing for the land-owners would be for corn to keep low
and cattle to keep high for the next dozen years or more, and so
get the farmers’ minds turned from the precarious culture of corn
to the land-improving practice of grazing and cattle-feeding.
And thus the Major sat, deeply immersed in the contents of each
page; but as he gradually mastered the cream of their contents,
he began to turn to and fro more rapidly; and as the rustling
increased, Mrs. Yammerton, who was dying for a sight of the
paper, at length ventured to ask if there was anything about the
Hunt ball in it.
“Hunt ball!” growled the Major, who was then in the hay and straw
market, wondering whether, out of the twenty-seven carts of hay
reported to have been at Hinton Market on the previous Saturday,
there were any of his tenants there on the sly; “Hunt ball!”
repeated he, running the candle up and down the page; “No,
there’s nothin’ about it here,” replied he, resuming his reading.
“It’ll be on the front page, my dear,” observed Mrs. Yammerton,
“if there is anything.”
“Well, I’ll give it you presently,” replied the Major, resuming
his reading; and so he wens on into the wool markets, thence to
the potato and hide departments, until at length he found himself
floundering among the Holloway Pills, Revalenta Food, and
“Sincere act of gratitude,” &c., advertisements; when, turning
the paper over with a wisk, and an inward “What do they put such
stuff as that in for?” he handed it to his wife: while, John Bull
like, he now stood up, airing himself comfortably before the
fire.
No sooner was the paper fairly in Mamma’s hands, than there was a
general rush of the young ladies to the spot, and four pairs of
eyes were eagerly glancing up and down the columns of the front
page, all in search of the magical letter “B” for Ball.
Education—Fall in Night Lights—Increased Rate of Interest—Money
without Sureties—Iron and Brass Bedsteads—Glenfield
Starch—Deafness Cured—German Yeast—Insolvent Debtor—Elkington’s
Spoons—Boots and Shoes,—but, alas! no Ball.
“Yes, there it is! No it isn’t,” now cried Miss Laura, as her
blue eye caught at the heading of Mrs. Bobbinette the milliner’s
advertisement, in the low corner of the page, Mrs. Bobbinette,
like some of her customers, perhaps, not being a capital payer,
and so getting a bad place. Thus it ran—
HIT-IM AND HOLD-IM SHIRE HUNT BALL.
—Mrs. Bobbinette begs to announce to the ladies her return from
Paris, with every novelty in millinery, mantles, embroideries,
wreaths, fans, gloves, &c.
“Mrs. Bobbinette be hanged,” growled the Major, who winced under
the very name of milliner; “just as much goes to Paris as I do.
Last time she was there I know she was never out of Hinton, for
Paul Straddler watched her.”
“Well, but she gets very pretty things at all events,” replied
Mrs. Yammerton, thinking she would pay her a visit.
“Aye, and a pretty bill she’ll send in for them,” replied the
Major.
“Well, my dear, but you must pay for fashion, you know,” rejoined
Mamma.
“Pay for fashion! pay for haystacks!” growled the Major; “never
saw such balloons as the women make of themselves. S’pose we
shall have them as flat as doors next. One extreme always leads
to another.”
This discussion was here suddenly interrupted by a hurried
“hush!” from Miss Clara, followed by a “hish!” from Miss Flora;
and silence being immediately accorded, all ears recognised a
rumbling sound outside the house that might have been mistaken
for wind, had it not suddenly ceased before the door.
The whole party was paralysed: each drawing breath, reflecting on
his or her peculiar position:—Mamma thinking of her
drawing-room—Miss, of her hair—Flora, of her sleeves—Harriet, of
her shabby shoes—the Major, of his dinner.
The agony of suspense was speedily relieved by the grating of an
iron step and a violent pull at the door-bell, producing
ejaculations of, “It _is_, however!”
“Him, to a certainty!” with, “I told you so,—nothing but liver
and bacon for dinner,” from the Major; while Mrs. Yammerton, more
composed, swept three pair of his grey worsted stockings into the
well of the ottoman, and covered the old hearth-rug with a fine
new one from the corner, with a noble antlered stag in the
centre. The young ladies hurried out of the room, each to make a
quick revise of her costume.
The shock to the nervous sensibilities of the household was
scarcely less severe than that experienced by the inmates of the
parlour; and the driver of the fly was just going to give the
bell a second pull, when our friend of the brown coat came,
settling himself into his garment, wondering who could be coming
at that most extraordinary hour.
“Major at home?” asked our hero, swinging himself out of the
vehicle into the passage, and without waiting for an answer, he
began divesting himself of his muffin-cap, cashmere shawl, and
other wraps.
He was then ready for presentation. Open went the door. “Mr.
Pringle!” announced the still-astonished footman, and host and
hostess advanced in the friendly emulation of cordiality. They
were overjoyed to see him,—as pleased as if they had received a
consignment of turtle and there was a haunch of venison roasting
before the fire. The young ladies presently came dropping in one
by one, each “_so_ astonished to find Mr. Pringle there!” Clara
thinking the ring was from Mr. Jinglington, the pianoforte-tuner;
Flora, that it was Mr. Tightlace’s curate; while Harriet did not
venture upon a white lie at all.
Salutations and expressions of surprise being at length over, the
ladies presently turned the weather-conversation upon Pangburn
Park, and inquired after the sport with Sir Moses, Billy being in
the full glory of his pink and slightly soiled leathers and
boots, from which they soon diverged to the Hunt ball, about
which they could not have applied to any better authority than
our friend. He knew all about it, and poured forth the volume of
his information most freely.
Though the Major talked about there being nothing but liver and
bacon for dinner, he knew very well that the very fact of there
being liver and bacon bespoke that there was plenty of something
else in the larder. In fact he had killed a south-down,—not one
of your modern muttony-lambs, but an honest, home-fed,
four-year-old, with its fine dark meat and rich gravy; in
addition to which, there had been some minor murders of ugly
Cochin-China fowls,—to say nothing of a hunted hare, hanging by
the heels, and several snipes and partridges, suspended by the
neck.
It is true, there was no fish, for, despite the railroad, Hit-im
and Hold-im shire generally was still badly supplied with fish,
but there was the useful substitute of cod-sounds, and some
excellent mutton-broth; which latter is often better than half
the soups one gets. Altogether there was no cause for
despondency; but the Major, having been outvoted on the question
of requiring notice of our friend’s return, of course now felt
bound to make the worst of the case—especially as the necessary
arrangements would considerably retard his dinner, for which he
was quite ready. He had, therefore, to smile at his guest, and
snarl at his family, at one and the same time.—Delighted to see
Mr. Pringle back.—Disgusted at his coming on a Saturday.—Hoped
our hero was hungry.—Could answer for it, he was himself,—with a
look at Madam, as much as to say, “Come, you go and see about
things and don’t stand simpering there.”
But Billy, who had eaten a pretty hearty lunch at Pangburn Park,
had not got jolted back into an appetite by his transit through
the country, and did not enter into the feelings of his
half-famished host. A man who has had half his dinner in the
shape of a lunch, is far more than a match for one who has fasted
since breakfast, and our friend chatted first with one young
lady, and then with another, with an occasional word at Mamma,
delighted to get vent for his long pent-up flummery. He was
indeed most agreeable.
Meanwhile the Major was in and out of the room, growling and
getting into everybody’s way, retarding progress by his anxiety
to hurry things on.
At length it was announced that Mr. Pringle’s room was ready; and
forthwith the Major lit him a candle, and hurried him upstairs,
where his uncorded boxes stood ready for the opening keys of
ownership.
“Ah, there you are!” cried the Major, flourishing the composite
candle about them; “there you are! needn’t mind much
dressing—only ourselves—only ourselves. There’s the
boot-jack,—here’s some hot water,—and we’ll have dinner as soon
as ever you are ready.” So saying, he placed the candle on the
much be-muslined toilette-table, and, diving into his pocket for
the key of the cellar, hurried off to make the final arrangement
of a feast.
Our friend, however, who was always a dawdling leisurely
gentleman, took very little heed of his host’s injunctions, and
proceeded to unlock and open his boxes as if he was going to
dress for a ball instead of a dinner; and the whole party being
reassembled, many were the Major’s speculations and enquiries
“what could he be about?” “must have gone to bed,” “would go up
and see,” ere the glad sound of his opening door announced that
he might be expected. And before he descended a single step of
the staircase the Major gave the bell such a pull as proclaimed
most volubly the intensity of his feelings. The ladies of course
were shocked, but a hungry man is bad to hold, and there is no
saying but the long-pealing tongue of the bell saved an explosion
of the Major’s. At all events when our friend came sauntering
into the now illuminated drawing-room, the Major greeted him
with, “Heard you coming, rang the bell, knew you’d be hungry,
long drive from Sir Moses’s here;” to which Billy drawled a
characteristic “Yarse,” as he extinguished his candle and
proceeded to ingratiate himself with the now elegantly attired
ladies, looking more lovely from his recent restriction to the
male sex.
The furious peal of the bell had answered its purpose, for he had
scarcely got the beauties looked over, and settled in his own
mind that it was difficult to say which was the prettiest, ere
the door opened, the long-postponed dinner was announced to be on
the table, and the Major, having blown out the composites, gladly
followed the ladies to the scene of action.
And his host being too hungry to waste his time in apologies for
the absence of this and that, and the footboy having plenty to do
without giving the dishes superfluous airings, and the gooseberry
champagne being both lively and cool, the dinner passed off as
pleasantly as a luncheon, which is generally allowed to be the
most agreeable sociable meal of the day, simply because of the
absence of all fuss and pretension. And by the time the Major had
got to the cheese, he found his temper considerably improved.
Indeed, so rapidly did his spirits rise, that before the cloth
was withdrawn he had well-nigh silenced all the ladies, with his
marvellous haryers,—five and thirty years master of haryers
without a subscription,—and as soon as he got the room cleared,
he inflicted the whole hunt upon Billy that he had written to him
about, an account of which he had in vain tried to get inserted
in the Featherbedfordshire Gazette, through the medium of old
‘Wotherspoon, who had copied it out and signed himself “A
Delighted Stranger.” Dorsay Davis, however, knew his cramped
handwriting, and put his manuscript into the fire, observing in
his notice to correspondents that “A Delighted Stranger” had
better send his currant jelly contributions to grandmamma,
meaning the Hit-im and Hold-im shire Herald. So our friend was
victimised into a _viva voce_ account of this marvellous chase,
beginning at Conksbury corner and the flight up to Foremark Hill
and down over the water meadows to Dove-dale Green, &c.,
interspersed with digressions and explanations of the wonderful
performance of the particular members of the pack, until he
scarcely knew whether a real run or the recital of one was the
most formidable. At length the Major, having talked himself into
a state of excitement, without making any apparent impression on
his guest’s obdurate understanding, proposed as a toast “The
Merry Haryers,” and intimated that tea was ready in the drawing
room, thinking he never had so phlegmatic an auditor before. Very
different, however, was his conduct amid the general conversation
of the ladies, who thought him just as agreeable as the Major
thought him the contrary. And they were all quite surprised when
the clock struck eleven, and declared they thought it could only
be ten, except the Major, who knew the odd hour had been lost in
preparing the dinner. So he moved an adjournment, and proclaimed
that they would breakfast at nine, which would enable them to get
to church in good time. Whereupon mutual good-nights were
exchanged, our friend was furnished with a flat candlestick, and
the elder sisters retired to talk him over in their own room; for
however long ladies may be together during the day, there is
always a great balance of conversation to dispose of at last, and
so the two chatted and talked until midnight.
Next morning they all appeared in looped-up dresses, showing the
party-coloured petticoats of the prevailing fashion, which looked
extremely pretty, and were all very well—a great improvement on
the draggletails—until they came to get into the coach, when it
was found, that large as the vehicle was, it was utterly
inadequate for their accommodation. Indeed the door seemed
ludicrously insufficient for the ingress, and Miss Clara turned
round and round like a peacock contending with the wind,
undecided which way to make the attempt. At last she chose a bold
sideways dash, and entered with a squeeze of the petticoat, which
suddenly expanded into its original size, but when the sisters
had followed her example there was no room for the Major, nor
would there have been any for our hero had not Mamma been
satisfied with her own natural size, and so left space to squeeze
him in between herself and the fair Clara. The Major then had to
mount the coach box beside old Solomon, and went growling and
grumbling along at the extravagances of fashion, and wondering
what the deuce those petticoats would cost, he was presently
comforted by seeing two similar ones circling over the road in
advance, which on overtaking proved to contain the elegant Miss
Bushels, daughters of his hind at Bonnyrigs farm, whereupon he
made a mental resolution to reduce Bushel’s wages a shilling a
week at least.
This speedy influx of fashion and abundance of cheap tawdry
finery has well nigh destroyed the primitive simplicity of
country churches. The housemaid now dresses better—finer at all
events—than her mistress did twenty years ago, and it is almost
impossible to recognise working people when in their Sunday
dresses. Gauze bonnets, Marabout feathers, lace scarfs, and silk
gowns usurp the place of straw and cotton print, while
lace-fringed kerchiefs are flourished by those whose parents
scarcely knew what a pocket-handkerchief was. There is a medium
in all things, but this mania for dress has got far beyond the
bounds of either prudence or propriety; and we think the Major’s
recipe for reducing it is by no means a bad one.
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_Original Size_
We need scarcely say, that our hero’s appearance at church caused
no small sensation in a neighbourhood where the demand for gossip
was far in excess of the supply. Indeed, we fear many fair
ladies’ eyes were oftener directed to Major Yammerton’s pew than
to the Reverend Mr. Tightlace in the pulpit. Wonderful were the
stories and exaggerations that ensued, people always being on the
running-up tack until a match is settled, after which, of course,
they assume the running-down one, pitying one or other victim
extremely—wouldn’t be him or her for anything—Mr. Tightlace
thought any of the young ladies might do better than marry a mere
fox-hunter, though we are sorry to add that the fox-hunter was
far more talked of than the sermon. The general opinion seemed to
be that our hero had been away preparing that dread document, the
proposals for a settlement; and there seemed to be very little
doubt that there would be an announcement of some sort in a day
or two—especially when our friend was seen to get into the
carriage after the gay petticoats, and the little Major to
remount the box seat.
And when at the accustomed stable stroll our master of haryers
found the gallant grey standing in the place of the bay, he was
much astonished, and not a little shocked to learn the sad
catastrophe that had befallen the bay.
“Well, he never heard anything like that!—_dead_! What, do you
mean to say he absolutely died on your hands without any apparent
cause?” demanded the Major; “must have been poisoned surely;” and
he ran about telling everybody, and making as much to do as if
the horse had still been his own. He then applied himself to
finding out how Billy came by the grey, and was greatly surprised
to learn that Sir Moses had given it him. “Well, that was queer,”
thought he, “wouldn’t have accused him of that.” And he thought
of the gift of Little Bo-peep, and wondered whether this gift was
of the same order.