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THE two-penny post used to be thought a great luxury in London,
though somehow great people were often shy of availing themselves
of its advantages, indeed of taking their two-penny-posters in.
“Two-penny-posters,” circulars, and ticketed shops, used to be
held in about equal repugnance by some. The Dons, never thought
of sending their notes or cards of invitation by the two-penny
post. John Thomas used always to be trotted out for the purpose
of delivery. Pre-paying a letter either by the two-penny post or
the general used to be thought little short of an insult. Public
opinion has undergone a great change in these matters. Not paying
them is now the offence. We need scarcely expatiate on the boon
of the penny post, nor on the advantage of the general diffusion
of post-offices throughout the country, though we may observe,
that the penny post was one of the few things that came without
being long called for: indeed, so soon as it was practicable to
have it, for without the almost simultaneous establishment of
railways it would have been almost impossible to have introduced
the system. The mail could not have carried the newspaper traffic
and correspondence of the present day. The folded tablecloths of
_Times_, the voluminous _Illustrated News_, the _Punch’s,_ the
huge avalanches of papers that have broken upon the country
within the last twenty years. Sir Moses Mainchance, unlike many
country gentlemen, always had his letters forwarded to him
where-ever he went. He knew it was only the trouble of writing a
line to the Post-office, saying re-direct my letters to
so-and-so, to have what he wanted, and thus to keep pace with his
correspondence. He was never overpowered with letters when he
came home from a visit or tour, as some of our acquaintance are,
thus making writing doubly repugnant to them.
The morning after his arrival at Lundyfoote Castle brought him a
great influx of re-directed letters and papers. One from Mr.
Heslop, asking him to meet at his house on the Friday week
following, as he was going to have a party, one from Signior
Quaverini, the eminent musician, offering his services for the
Hunt ball: one from Mr. Isinglass, the confectioner, hoping to be
allowed to supply the ices and refreshment as usual; another (the
fifth), from Mr. Mossman, about the damage to Mr. Anthill’s sown
grass; an envelope, enclosing the card and terms of Signior
Dulcetto, an opposition musician, offering lower terras than
Quaverini; a note from Mr. Paul Straddler, telling him about a
horse to be bought dog cheap; and a “dead letter office”
envelope, enclosing a blue ink written letter, directed to Master
Anthony Thom, at the Inn-in-the-Sands Inn, Beechwood Green,
stating that the party was not known at the address, reintroduces
Mr. Geordey Gallon, a gentleman already known to the reader.
How this letter came to be sent to Sir Moses was as follows:—
When Mr. Geordey Gallon went upon the “Torf,” as he calls it,
becoming, as he considered, the associate of Princes, Prime
Ministers, and so on, he bethought him of turning respectable,
and giving up the stolen-goods-carrying-trade,—a resolution that
he was further confirmed in by the establishment of that
troublesome obnoxious corps the Hit-im-and-Hold-im-shire Rural
Police.
To this end, therefore, he gradually reduced the number of his
Tippy-Tom-jaunts through the country by night, intimating to his
numerous patrons that they had better suit themselves elsewhere
ere he ceased travelling altogether.
Among the inconvenienced, was our old friend Mrs. Margerum, long
one of his most regular customers; for it was a very rare thing
for Mr. Gallon not to find a carefully stitched-up bundle in the
corner of Lawyer Hindmarch’s cattle-shed, abutting on the
Shillburn road as he passed in his spring cart.
To remedy this serious inconvenience, Mrs. Margerum had
determined upon inducting her adopted son, Master Anthony Thom,
into the about-to-be-relinquished business; and Mr. Gallon having
made his last journey, the accumulation of dripping caused by our
hero’s visit to Pangburn Park made it desirable to have a
clearing-out as soon as possible.
To this end, therefore, she had written the letter now sent to
Sir Moses; but, being a very prudent woman, with a slight
smattering of law, she thought so long as she did not sign her
surname at the end she was safe, and that no one could prove that
it was from her. The consequence was, that Anthony Thom not
having shifted his quarters as soon as intended, the letter was
refused at the sign of the Sun-in-the-Sands, and by dint of
postmark and contents, with perhaps a little _malice prepense_ on
the part of the Post-master, who had suffered from a dishonest
housekeeper himself, it came into the hands of Sir Moses. At
first our master of the hounds thought it was a begging-letter,
and threw it aside accordingly; but in course of casting about
for a fresh idea wherewith to propitiate Mr. Mossman about the
sown grass, his eye rested upon the writing, which he glanced at,
and glanced at, until somehow he thought he had seen it before.
At length he took the letter up, and read what made him stare
very much as he proceeded. Thus it run:—
“PANGBURN PARK, Thursday Night.
“My own ever dear Anthony Thom,
“_I write to you, trusting you will receive this safe, to say
that as Mr. George Gallon has discontinued travelling altogether,
I must trust to you entirely to do what is necessary in futur,
but you must be most careful and watchful, for these nasty Pollis
fellers are about every where, and seem to think they have a
right to look into every bodies basket and bundle. We live in
terrible times, I’m sure, my own beloved Anthony Thom, and if it
wasn’t for the hope that I may see you become a great gentleman,
like Mr. George Gallon, I really think I would forswear place
altogether, for no one knows the anxiety and misery of living
with such a nasty, mean, covetous body as Old Nosey._”
“Old Nosey!” ejaculated Sir Moses, stopping short in his reading,
and feeling his proboscis; “Old Nosey! dom it, can that mean me?
Do believe it does—and it’s mother Margerum’s handwriting—dom’d
if it isn’t,” continued he, holding the letter a little way off
to examine and catch the character of the writing; “What does she
mean by calling me a nasty, covetous body? I that hunt the
country, subscribe to the Infirmary, Agricultural Society, and do
everything that’s liberal and handsome. I’ll Old Nosey her!”
continued he, grinding his teeth, and giving a vigorous flourish
of his right fist; “I’ll Old Nosey her! I’ll turn her out of the
house as soon as ever I get home, dom’d if I won’t,” said Sir
Moses quivering with rage as he spoke. At length he became
sufficiently composed to resume his reading—
“-_No one knows the anxiety and misery of living with such a
nasty, mean, covetous body as Old Nosey, who is always on the
fret about expense, and thinks everybody is robbing him._”
“Oh, dom it, that means me sure enough!” exclaimed Sir Moses;
“that’s on account of the row I was kicking up t’other day about
the tea—declared I drank a pound a week myself. I’ll tea her!”
continued he, again turning to the letter and reading,—
“-_I declare I’d almost as soon live under a mistress as under
such a shocking mean, covetous man._”
“Would you?” muttered Sir Moses; adding, “you shall very soon
have a chance then.” The letter thus continued,—
“-_The old feller will be away on Saturday and Sunday, so come
afore lightning on Monday morning, say about four o’clock, and
I’ll have everything ready to lower from my window_.”
“Oh the deuce!” exclaimed Sir Moses, slapping his leg; “Oh the
deuce! going to rob the house, I declare!”
“-_To lower from my window_” read he again, “_for it’s not safe
trusting things by the door as we used to do, now that these
nasty knavish Pollis fellers are about; so now my own beloved
Anthony Thom, if you will give a gentle whistle, or throw a
little bit of soft dirt up at the window, where you will see a
light burning, I’ll be ready for you, and you’ll be clear of the
place long afore any of the lazy fellers here are up,—for a set
of nastier, dirtier drunkards never were gathered together._”
“Humph!” grunted Sir Moses, “that’s a cut at Mr. Findlater.” The
writer then proceeded to say,—
“_—But mind my own beloved Anthony Thom, if any body questions
you, say it’s a parcel of dripping, and tell them they are
welcome to look in if they like, which is the readiest way of
stopping them from doing so. We have had a large party here,
including a young gent from that fine old Lord Ladythorne, who I
would dearly like to live with, and also that nasty, jealous,
covetous body Cuddy Flintoff, peeping and prying about everywhere
as usual. He deserves to have a dish-clout pinned to his tail_.”
“_He, he, he!_” chuckled Sir Moses, as he read it
“-_I shall direct this letter by post to you at the sign of the
Sun in the Sands, unless I can get it conveyed by a private hand.
I am half in hopes Mr. Gallon may call, as there is going to be a
great steeple match for an immense sum of money, £200 they say,
and they will want his fine judgment to direct matters. Mr.
Gallon is indeed a man of a thousand_.”
“Humph!” grunted Sir Moses, adding, “we are getting behind the
curtain now.” He then went on reading,—
“—_Oh my own dear darling Anthony Thom! what would I give to see
you a fine gentleman like Mr. George Gallon. I do hope and trust,
dearest, that it may yet come to pass; but we must make money,
and take care of our money when made, for a man is nothing
without money. What a noble example you have before you in Mr.
George Gallon! He was once no better nor you, and now he has
everything like a gentleman,—a hunting horse to ride on, gold
studs in his shirt, and goose for his dinner. O my own beloved
Anthony Thom, if I could but see you on a white horse, with a
flowered silk tie, and a cut velvet vest with bright steel
buttons, flourishing a silver-mounted whip, how glad, how
rejoiced it would make me. Then I shouldn’t care for the pryings
and grumblings of Old Nosey, or the jealous watchings of the
nasty, waspish set with which one is surrounded, for I should say
my Anthony Thom will revenge and protect me, and make me
comfortable at last. So now my own dearest Anthony Thom, be
careful and guarded in coming about here, for I dread those nasty
lurkin Pollis men more nor can I say, for I never knew suspicious
people what were good for any thing themselves; and how they ever
come to interduce such nasty town pests into the quiet peaceful
country, I can’t for the life of me imagine; but Mr. George
Gallon, who is a man of great intellect, says they are dangerous,
and that is partly why he has given up travelling; so therefore
my own dearest Anthony Thom be guarded, and mind put on your pee
jacket and red worsted comforter, for I dread these hoar frosts,
and I’ll have everything ready for my darling pet, so that you
won’t be kept waiting a moment; but mind if there’s snow on the
ground you don’t come for fear of the tracks. I think I have
littel more to say this time, my own darling Anthony Thom, except
that I am, my own dear, dear son, _
“Your ever loving mother,
“Sarah.”
“B-o-o-y Jove!” exclaimed Sir Moses, sousing himself down in an
easy chair beside the table at which he had been writing “b-o-y
Jove, what a production! Regular robber, dom’d if she’s not.
Would give something to catch Master Anthony Thom, in his red
worsted comforter, with his parcel of dripping. Would see whether
I’d look into it or not. And Mr. Geordey Gallon, too! The
impudent fellow who pretended not to know the Frenchman. Regular
plant as ever was made. Will see whether he gets his money from
me. Ten punds the wretch tried to do me out of by the basest
deceit that ever was heard of. Con-found them, but I’ll see if I
can’t be upsides with them all though,” continued he, writhing
for vengeance. And the whole of that day, and most of that night,
and the whole of the following day when hunting at Harker Crag,
he was thinking how he could manage it. At length, as he was
going quietly home with the hounds, after only an indifferent
day’s sport, a thought struck him which he proceeded to put in
execution as soon as he got into the house. He wrote a note to
dear Lord Repartee, saying, if it would be quite convenient to
Lady Repartee and his Lordship, he would be glad to stay all
night with them before hunting Filberton forest; and leaving the
unfolded note on the library table to operate during the night,
he wrote a second one in the morning, inquiring the character of
a servant; and putting the first note into the fire, he sealed
the second one, and laid it ostentatiously on the hall table for
the post.
We take it we all have some ambitious feeling to gratify—all have
some one whom we either wish to visit, or who we desire should
visit us. We will candidly state that our ambition is to dine
with the Lord Mayor. If we could but achieve that great triumph,
we really think we should rest satisfied the rest of our life. We
know how it would elevate us in the eyes of such men as Cuddy
Flintoff and Paul Straddler, and what an advantage it would be to
us in society being able to talk in a familiar way of his
Lordship (Lordship with a capital L., if you please, Mr.
Printer).
Thus the world proceeds on the aspiring scale, each man looking
to the class a little in advance of his own.
“O knew they but their happiness, of men the happiest” are the
sporting country gentlemen who live at home at ease—unvexed alike
with the torments of the money-maker and the anxieties of the
great, and yet sufficiently informed and refined to be the
companions of either—men who see and enjoy nature in all her
moods and varieties, and live unfettered with the pomp and
vexation of keeping up appearances, envying no one, whoever may
envy them. If once a man quits this happy rank to breast the
contending billows of party in hopes of rising to the one above
it, what a harvest of discord he sows for his own reaping. If a
man wants to be thoroughly disgusted with human nature, let him
ally himself unreservedly to a political party. He will find
cozening and sneaking and selfishness in all their varieties, and
patriotic false pretences in their most luxuriant growth. But we
are getting in advance of our subject, our thesis being Mr. and
Mrs. Wotherspoon.
Our snuffy friend Spoon was not exempt from the ambitious
failings of lesser men. His great object of ambition was to get
Major Yammerton to visit him—or perhaps to put it more correctly,
his great object of ambition was to visit Major Yammerton. But
then, unfortunately, it requires two parties to these bargains;
and Mrs. Yammerton wouldn’t agree to it, not so much because old
Spoon had been a butler, but because his wife (our pen splutters
as it writes the objection) his wife had been a—a—housekeeper. A
handsome housekeeper she was, too, when she first came into the
country; so handsome, indeed, that Dicky Boggledike had made two
excursions over to their neighbour, Farmer Flamstead, to see her,
and had reported upon her very favourably to the noble Earl his
august master.
Still Mrs. Yammerton wouldn’t visit her. In vain Mrs. Wotherspoon
sent her bantams’ eggs, and guinea fowls’ eggs, and cuttings from
their famous yellow rose-tree; in vain old Spoon got a worn-out
horse, and invested his nether man in white cords and top boots
to turn out after the harriers; in vain he walked a hound in
summer, and pulled down gaps, and lifted gates off their hinges
in winter—it all only produced thanks and politeness. The
Yammertons and they were very good How-do-you-do? neighbours, but
the true beef-and-mutton test of British friendship was wanting.
The dinner is the thing that signs and seals the acquaintance.
Thus they had gone on from summer to summer, and from season to
season, until hope deferred had not only made old Spoon’s heart
sick, but had also seen the white cords go at the knees, causing
him to retire his legs into the military-striped
cinnamon-coloured tweeds in which he appears in:
In addition to muffling his legs, he had begun to mutter and talk
about giving up hunting,—getting old,—last season—and so on,
which made the Major think he would be losing one of the most
personable of his field. This made him pause and consider how to
avert the misfortune. Hunted hares he had sent him in more than
regular rotation: he had liquored him repeatedly at the door; the
ladies had reciprocated the eggs and the cuttings, with dahlias,
and Sir Harry strawberry runners; and there really seemed very
little left about the place wherewith to propitiate a refractory
sportsman. At this critical juncture, a too confiding hare was
reported by Cicely Bennett, farmer Merry field’s dairymaid, to
have taken up her quarters among some tussuckey brambles at the
north-east corner of Mr. Wotherspoon’s cow pasture—a most
unusual, indeed almost unprecedented circumstance, which was
communicated by Wotherspoon in person to the Major at the next
meet of the hounds at Girdle Stone Green, and received with
unfeigned delight by the latter.
“You don’t say so!” exclaimed he, wringing the old dandy’s hand;
“you don’t say so!” repeated he, with enthusiasm, for hares were
scarce, and the country good; in addition to which the Major knew
all the gaps.
“_I do_,” replied Spoon, with a confident air, that as good as
said, you may take my word for anything connected with hunting.
“Well, then, I’ll tell you what we’ll do,” rejoined the Major,
poking him familiarly in the ribs with his whip, “I’ll tell you
what we’ll do; we’ll have a turn at her on Tuesday—meet at your
house, eh? what say you to that?”
“With all my heart,” responded the delighted Wotherspoon, adding,
in the excitement of the moment, “S’pose you come to breakfast?”
“Breakfast,” gasped the Major, feeling he was caught. “Dash it,
what would Mrs. Yammerton say? Breakfast!” repeated he, running
the matter through his mind, the wigging of his wife, the walk of
his hound, the chance of keeping the old boy to the fore if he
went—go he would. “With all my heart,” replied he, dashing boldly
at the oiler; for it’s of no use a man saying he’s engaged to
breakfast, and the Major felt that if the worst came to the
worst, it would only be to eat two, one at home, the other with
Spoon.
So it was settled, much to Mr. and Mrs. Wotherspoon’s
satisfaction, who were afterwards further delighted to hear that
our friend Billy had returned, and would most likely be of the
party. And most assiduously they applied themselves to provide
for this, the great event of their lives.