PEOPLE who travel in the winter should remember it isn’t summer,
and time themselves accordingly. Sir Moses was so anxious to see
Monsieur Rougier off the premises, in order to stop any extra
hospitality, that he delayed starting for Lundyfoote Castle until
he saw him fairly mounted on the gift grey and out of the
stable-yard; he then had the mare put to the dog-cart, and tried
to make up for lost time by extra speed upon the road. But winter
is an unfavourable season for expedition; if highways are
improving, turnpikes are getting neglected, save in the matter of
drawing the officers’ sinecure salaries, and, generally speaking,
the nearer a turnpike is to a railway, the worse the turnpike is,
as if to show the wonderful advantage of the former. So Sir Moses
went flipping and flopping, and jipping and jerking, through
Bedland and Hawksworth and Washingley-field, but scarcely reached
the confines of his country when he ought to have been nearing
the Castle. It was nearly four o’clock by the great gilt-lettered
clock on the diminutive church in the pretty village of Tidswell,
situated on the banks of the sparkling Lune, when he pulled up at
the sign of the Hold-away Harriers to get his mare watered and
fed. It is at these sort of places that the traveller gets the
full benefit of country slowness and stupidity. Instead of the
quick ostler, stepping smartly up to his horse’s head as he reins
up, there is generally a hunt through the village for old Tom, or
young Joe, or some worthy who is either too old or too idle to
work. In this case it was old bow-legged, wiry Tom Brown, whose
long experience of the road did not enable him to anticipate a
person’s wants; so after a good stare at the driver, whom at
first he thought was Mr. Meggison, the exciseman; then Mr.
Puncheon, the brewer; and lastly, Mr. Mossman, Lord Polkaton’s
ruler; he asked, with a bewildered scratch of his head, “What, de
ye want her put oop?”
“Oop, yes,” replied Sir Moses; “what d’ye think I’m stopping for?
Look alive; that’s a good fellow,” added he, throwing him the
reins, as he prepared to descend from the vehicle.
“Oh, it’s you, Sir Moses, is it,” rejoined the now enlightened
patriarch, “I didn’t know you without your red coat and cap;” so
saying, he began to fumble at the harness, and, with the aid of
the Baronet, presently had the mare out of the shafts. It then
occurred to the old gentleman that he had forgotten the key of
the stable. “A sink,” said he, with a dash of his disengaged
hand, “I’ve left the key i’ the pocket o’ mar coat, down i’ Willy
Wood’s shop, when ar was helpin’ to kill a pig—run, lad, doon to
Willy Wood,” said he to a staring by-standing boy, “and get me
mar coat,” adding to Sir Moses, as the lad slunk unwillingly
away, “he’ll be back directly wi’ it.” So saying, he proceeded to
lead the mare round to the stable at the back of the house.
When the coat came, then there was no pail; and when they got a
pail, then the pump had gone dry; and when they got some water
from the well, then the corn had to be brought from the top of
the house; so, what with one delay and another, day was about
done before Sir Moses got the mare out of the stable again. Night
comes rapidly on in the short winter months, and as Sir Moses
looked at the old-fashioned road leading over the steepest part
of the opposite hill, he wished he was well on the far side of
it. He then examined his lamps, and found there were no candles
in them, just as he remembered that he had never been to
Lundyfoote Castle on wheels, the few expeditions he had made
there having been performed on horseback, by those nicks and cuts
that fox-hunters are so famous at making and finding. “Ord dom
it,” said he to himself, “I shall be getting benighted. Tell me,”
continued he, addressing the old ostler, “do I go by Marshfield
and Hengrove, or——”
“No, no, you’ve no business at noughter Marshfield nor Hengrove,”
interrupted the sage; “veer way is straight oop to Crowfield-hall
and Roundhill-green, then to Brackley Moor and Belton, and so on
into the Sandywell-road at Langley. But if ar were you,”
continued he, beginning to make confusion worse confounded, “ar
would just gan through Squire Patterson’s Park here,” jerking his
thumb to the left to indicate the direction in which it lay.
“Is it shorter?” demanded Sir Moses, re-ascending the vehicle.
“W-h-o-y no, it’s not shorter,” replied the man, “but it’s a
better road rayther—less agin collar-like. When ye get to the new
lodge ye mun mind turn to the right, and keep Whitecliffe Law to
the left, and Lidney Mill to the right, you then pass Shimlow
tilery, and make straight for Roundhill Green, and Brackley Moor,
and then on to Belton, as ar toll’d ye afoor—ye can’t miss yeer
way,” added he, thinking he could go it in the dark himself.
“Can’t I?” replied Sir Moses, drawing the reins. He then chucked
the man a shilling, and touching the mare with the point of the
whip, trotted across the bridge over the Lane, and was speedily
brought up at a toll-bar on the far side.
It seems to be one of the ordinances of country life, that the
more toll a man pays the worse road he gets, and Sir Moses had
scarcely parted with his sixpence ere the sound running turnpike
which tempted him past Squire Patterson’s lodge, ran out into a
loose, river-stoned track, that grew worse and worse the higher
he ascended the hill. In vain he hissed, and jerked, and jagged
at the mare. The wheels revolved as if they were going through
sea-sand. She couldn’t go any faster.
It is labour and sorrow travelling on wheels, with a light horse
and a heavy load, on woolly winter roads, especially under the
depressing influence of declining day—when a gorgeous sunset has
no charms. It is then that the value of the hissing,
hill-rounding, plain-scudding railway is appreciated. The worst
line that ever was constructed, even one with goods, passengers,
and minerals all mixed in one train, is fifty times better than
one of these ploughing, sobbing, heart-breaking drives. So
thought Sir Moses, as, whip in hand, he alighted from the vehicle
to ease the mare up the steep hill, which now ran parallel with
Mr. Patterson’s rather indifferent park wall.
What a commentary on consequence a drive across country affords,
One sees life in all its phases—Cottage, House, Grange, “Imperial
John” Hall, Park, Tower, Castle, &c. The wall, however, is the
true index of the whole. Show me your wall and I’ll tell you what
you have. There is the five hundred—by courtesy, thousand—a year
wall, built of common stone, well embedded in mortar, extending
only a few yards on either side of the lodgeless green gate. The
thousand—by courtesy, fifteen hundred—a year wall, made of the
same material, only the mortar ceases at the first convenient
bend of the road, and the mortared round coping of the top is
afterwards all that holds it together. Then there is the aspiring
block and course wall, leading away with a sweep from either side
of a handsome gateway, but suddenly terminating in hedges. The
still further continued wall, with an abrupt juncture in split
oak paling, that looks as if it had been suddenly nipped by a
want-of-cash frost. We then get to the more successful
all-round-the-park alike efforts of four or five thousand
a-year—the still more solid masonry and ornamental work of “Ten
Thousand a Year,” a Warren wall in fact, until at length we come
to one so strong and so high, that none but a man on a laden wain
can see over it, which of course denotes a Ducal residence, with
fifty or a hundred thousand a year. In like manner, a drive
across country enables a man to pick up information without the
trouble of asking for it.
The board against the tree at the corner of the larch plantation,
stating that “Any one trespassing on these grounds, the property
of A. B. C. Sowerby, Esq., will, &c., with the utmost, &c.,”
enables one to jump to the conclusion that the
Westmoreland-slated roof we see peering among the eagle-winged
cedars and luxuriant Scotch firs on the green slope to the left,
is the residence of said Sowerby, who doesn’t like to be
trespassed upon. A quick-eyed land-agent would then trace the
boundaries of the Sowerby estate from the rising ground, either
by the size of its trees, its natural sterility, or by the rough,
gateless fences, where it adjoins the neighbouring proprietors.
Again, the sign of the Smith Arms at a wayside public-house,
denotes that some member of that illustrious family either lives
or has property in that immediate neighbourhood, and as everybody
has a friend Smith, we naturally set about thinking whether it is
our friend Smith or not. So a nobleman’s coronet surmounting his
many-quartered coat-of-arms, suggests that the traveller is in
the neighbourhood of magnificence; and if his appearance is at
all in his favour, he will, perhaps, come in for a touch, or a
demi-touch, of the hat from the passers-by, the process being
almost mechanical in aristocratic parts. A board at a branch road
with the words “To Lavender Lodge only,” saves one the trouble of
asking the name of the place towards which we see the road
bending, while a great deal of curious nomenclature may be
gleaned from shop-fronts, inn-signs, and cart-shafts.
But we are leaving Sir Moses toiling up the hill alongside of his
dog-cart, looking now at his watch, now at his jaded mare, now at
Mr. Patterson’s fragile park wall, thinking how he would send it
over with his shoulder if he came to it out hunting. The wall was
at length abruptly terminated by a cross-road intersecting the
hill along a favourable fall of the ground, about the middle of
it, and the mare and Sir Moses mutually stopped, the former to
ease herself on the piece of level ground at the junction, the
latter to consider whether his course was up the hill or along
the more inviting line to the left.
“Marshfield,” muttered he to himself, “is surely that way, but
then that old buffer said I had no business at Marshfield. Dom
the old man,” continued he, “I wish I’d never asked him anything
about it, for he has completely bewildered me, and I believe I
could have found my way better without.”
So saying, Sir Moses reconnoitered the scene; the balance of the
fat hill in front, with the drab-coloured road going straight up
the steepest part of it, the diverging lines either way; above
all, the fast closing canopy around. Across the road, to the
right, was a paintless, weather-beaten finger-post, and though
our friend saw it had lost two of its arms, he yet thought the
remaining ones might give him some information. Accordingly, he
went over to consult it. Not a word, no, not a letter was
legible. There were some upright marks, but what they had stood
for it was impossible to decipher. Sir Moses was nonplussed. Just
at this critical moment, a rumbling sound proceeded from below,
and looking down the hill, a grey speck loomed in the distance,
followed by a darker one a little behind. This was consoling; for
those who know how soon an agricultural country becomes quiet
after once the labourers go to their homes can appreciate the
boon of any stirrers.
Still the carts came very slowly, and the quick falling shades of
night travelled faster than they. Sir Moses stood listening
anxiously to their jolting noises, thinking they would never come
up. At the same time, he kept a sharp eye on the cross-road, to
intercept any one passing that way. A tinker, a poacher, a
mugger, the veriest scamp, would have been welcome, so long as he
knew the country. No one, however, came along. It was an
unfrequented line; and old Gilbert Price, who worked by the day,
always retired from raking in the mud ruts on the approach of
evening. So Sir Moses stood staring and listening, tapping his
boot with his whip, as he watched the zig-zag course of the grey
up the hill. He seemed a good puller, and to understand his work,
for as yet no guiding voice had been heard. Perhaps the man was
behind. As there is always a stout pull just before a
resting-place, the grey now came to a pause, to collect his
energies for the effort.
Sir Moses looked at his mare, and then at the carts halting
below, wondering whether if he left her she would take off. Just
as he determined to risk it, the grey applied himself vigorously
to the collar, and with a grinding, ploughing rush, came up to
where Sir Moses stood.
The cart was empty, but there was a sack-like thing, with a
wide-awake hat on the top, rolling in the one behind.
“Holloo, my man!” shouted Sir Moses, with the voice of a Stentor.
The wide-awake merely nodded to the motion of the cart.
“_Holloo, I say!_” roared he, still louder.
An extended arm was thrown over the side of the cart, and the
wide-awake again nodded as before.
“The beggar’s asleep!” muttered Sir Moses, taking the butt-end of
his whip, and poking the somnambulist severely in the stomach.
A loud grunt, and with a strong smell of gin, as the monster
changed his position, was all that answered the appeal.
“The brute’s drunk,” gasped Sir Moses, indignant at having wasted
so much time in waiting for him.
The sober grey then made a well-rounded turn to the right,
followed by the one in the rear, leaving our friend enveloped in
many more shades of darkness than he was when he first designed
him coming. Night had indeed about closed in, and lights began to
appear in cottages and farm-houses that sparsedly dotted the hill
side.
“Well, here’s a pretty go,” said Sir Moses, remounting the
dogcart, and gathering up the reins; “I’ll just give the mare her
choice,” continued he, touching her with the whip, and letting
her go. The sensible animal took the level road to the left, and
Sir Moses’s liberality was at first rewarded by an attempted trot
along it, which, however, soon relaxed into a walk. The creaking,
labouring vehicle shook and rolled with the concussion of the
ruts.
He had got upon a piece of township road, where each surveyor
shuffled through his year of office as best he could, filling up
the dangerous holes in summer with great boulder stones that
turned up like flitches of bacon in winter. So Sir Moses rolled
and rocked in imminent danger of an upset. To add to his
misfortunes, he was by no means sure but that he might have to
retrace his steps: it was all chance.
There are but two ways of circumventing a hill, either by going
round it or over it; and the road, after evading it for some
time, at length took a sudden turn to the right, and grappled
fairly with its severity. The mare applied herself sedulously to
her task, apparently cheered by the increasing lights on the
hill. At length she neared them, and the radiant glow of a
blacksmith’s shop cheered the drooping spirit of the traveller.
“Holloo, my man!” cried Sir Moses, at length, pulling up before
it.
“Holloo!” responded the spark-showering Vulcan from within.
“Is this the way to Lord Lundyfoote’s?” demanded Sir Moses,
knowing the weight a nobleman’s name carries in the country.
“Lord Lundyfoote’s!” exclaimed Osmand Hall, pausing in his work;
“Lord Lundyfoote’s!” repeated he; “why, where ha’ you come from?”
“Tidswell,” replied Sir Moses, cutting off the former part of the
journey.
“Why, what set ye this way?” demanded the dark man, coming to the
door with a red-hot horse-shoe on a spike, which was nearly all
that distinguished him from the gloom of night; “ye should never
ha’ coom’d this way; ye should ha’ gone by Marshfield and
Hengrove.”
“Dom it, I said so!” ejaculated the Baronet, nearly stamping the
bottom of his gig out with vexation. “However, never mind,”
continued he, recollecting himself, “I’m here now, so tell me the
best way to proceed.”
This information being at length accorded, Sir Moses proceeded;
and the rest of the hill being duly surmounted, the dancing and
stationary lights spreading o’er the far-stretching vale now
appeared before him, with a clustering constellation, amid many
minor stars scattered around, denoting the whereabouts of the
castle.
It is always cheering to see the far end of a journey, distant
though the haven be, and Sir Moses put on as fast as his lampless
condition would allow him, trusting to his eyes and his ears for
keeping on the road. Very much surprised would he have been had
he retraced his steps the next morning, and seen the steep banks
and yawning ditches he had suddenly saved himself from going over
or into by catching at the reins or feeling either wheel running
in the soft.
At length he reached the lodges of the massive variously-windowed
castle, and passing gladly through them, found, on alighting at
the door, that, instead of being late for dinner as he
anticipated, his Lordship, who always ate a hearty lunch, was
generally very easy about the matter, sometimes dining at seven,
sometimes at eight, sometimes in summer even at nine o’clock. The
footman, in reply to Sir Moses inquiring what time his Lordship
dined, said he believed it was ordered at seven, but he didn’t
know when it would be on the table.
Being an ardent politician, Lord Lundyfoote received Sir Moses
with the fellow-feeling that makes us wondrous kind cordiality,
and dived so energetically into his subject, as soon as he got
the weather disposed of, as never to wait for an answer to his
question, whether his guest would like to take anything before
dinner, the consequence of which was, that our poor friend was
nearly famished with waiting. In vain the library time-piece
ticked, and chimed, and struck; jabber, jabber, jabber, went his
voluble Lordship; in vain the deep-toned castle-clock
reverberated through the walls—on, on he went, without noticing
it, until the butler, in apparent despair, took the gong, and
gave it such a beating just outside the door, that he could
scarcely hear himself speak. Sir Moses then adroitly slipped in
the question if that was the signal for dressing; to which his
Lordship having yielded a reluctant “Yes,” he took a candle from
the entering footman, and pioneered the Baronet up to his
bedroom, amid a running commentary on the state of the country
and the stability of the ministry. And when he returned he found
his Lordship distributing his opinions amoung an obsequious
circle of neighbours, who received all he said with the deference
due to a liberal dispenser of venison; so that Sir Moses not only
got his dinner in comparative peace, but warded his Lordship off
the greater part of the evening.