by R S Surtees
The news of a man being killed soon reached the hill, and drew the attention of the mob from our hero and heroine, causing such a spread of population over the farm as must have been highly gratifying to Scourgefield, who stood watching the crashing of the fences and the demolition of the gates, thinking how he was paying his landlord off.
Seeing the rude, unmannerly character of the mob, Jawleyford got his lordship by the arm, and led him away towards the hill, his lordship reeling, rather than walking, and indulging in all sorts of wild, incoherent cries and lamentations.
‘Sing out. Jack! sing out!’ he would exclaim, as if in the agony of having his hounds ridden over; then, checking himself, he would shake his head and say, ‘Ah, poor Jack, poor Jack! shall never look upon his like again — shall never get such a man to read the riot act, and keep all square.’ And then a fresh gush of tears suffused his grizzly face.
The minor casualties of those few butchering spasmodic moments may be briefly dismissed, though they were more numerous than most sportsmen see out hunting in a lifetime.
One horse broke his back, another was drowned, Multum-in-Parvo was cut all to pieces, his rider had two ribs and a thumb broken, while Farmer Slyfield’s stackyard was fired by some of the itinerant tribe, and all its uninsured contents destroyed — so that his landlord was not the only person who suffered by the grand occasion.
Nor was this all, for Mr. Numboy, the coroner, hearing of Jack’s death, held an inquest on the body; and, having empanelled a matter-of-fact jury — men who did not see the advantage of steeple-chasing, either in a political, commercial, agricultural, or national point of view, and who, having surveyed the line, and found nearly every fence dangerous, and the wall and brook doubly so, returned a verdict of manslaughter against Mr. Viney for setting it out, who was forthwith committed to the county gaol of Limbo Castle for trial at the ensuing assizes, from whence let us join the benevolent clerk of arraigns in wishing him a good deliverance.
Many of the hardy ‘tips’ sounded the loud trump of victory, proclaiming that their innumerable friends had feathered their nests through their agency; but Peeping Tom and Infallible Joe, and Enoch Wriggle, ‘the offending soul,’ &c., found it convenient to bolt from their respective establishments, carrying with them their large fire-screens, camp-stools, and boards for posting up their lists, and setting up in new names in other quarters; while the Hen Angel was shortly afterwards closed, and the presentation-tureen made into ‘white soup.’
So much for the ‘small deer.’ We will now devote a concluding chapter to the ‘great guns’ of our story.
CHAPTER LXX
HOW LORD SCAMPERDALE AND CO. CAME OFF
OUR NOBLE MASTER’S nerves were so dreadfully shattered by the lamentable catastrophe to poor Jack, that he stepped, or rather was pushed, into Jawleyford’s carriage almost insensibly, and driven from the course to Jawleyford Court.
There he remained sufficiently long for Mrs. Jawleyford to persuade him that he would be far better married, and that either of her amiable daughters would make him a most excellent wife. His lordship, after very mature consideration, and many most scrutinizing stares at both of them through his formidable spectacles, wondering which would be the least likely to ruin him — at length decided upon taking Miss Emily, the youngest, though for a long time the victory was doubtful, and Amelia practised her ‘Scamperdale’ singing with unabated ardour and confidence up to the last. We believe, if the truth were known, it was a slight touch of rouge, that Amelia thought would clench the matter, that decided his lordship against her. Emily, we are happy to say, makes him an excellent wife, and has not got her head turned by becoming a countess. She has improved his lordship amazingly, got him smart new clothes, and persuaded him to grow bushy whiskers right down under his chin, and is now feeling her way to a pair of moustaches.
Woodmansterne is quite another place. She has marshalled a proper establishment, and got him coaxed into the long put-a-way company rooms. Though he still indulges in his former cow-heel and other delicacies, they do not appear upon table; while he sports his silver-mounted specs on all occasions. The fruit and venison are freely distributed, and we have come in for a haunch in return for our attentions.
Best of all, Lady Scamperdale has got his lordship to erect a handsome marble monument to poor Jack, instead of the cheap country stone he intended. The inscription states that it was erected by Samuel, Eighth Earl of Scamperdale, and Viscount Hardup, in the Peerage of Ireland, to the Memory of John Spraggon, Esquire, the best of Sportsmen, and the firmest of Friends. Who or what Jack was, nobody ever knew, and as he only left a hat and eighteen pence behind him, no next of kin has as yet cast up.
Jawleyford has not stood the honour of the Scamperdale alliance quite so well as his daughter; and when our ‘amaazin’ instance of a pop’lar man,’ instigated perhaps by the desire to have old Scamp for a brother-in-law, offered to Amelia, Jaw got throaty and consequential, hemmed and hawed, and pretended to be stiff about it. Puff, however, produced such weighty testimonials, as soon exercised their wonted influence. In due time Puff very magnanimously proposed uniting his pack with Lord Scamperdale’s, dividing the expense of one establishment between them, to which his lordship readily assented, advising Puff to get rid of Bragg by giving him the hounds, which he did; and that great sporting luminary may be seen ‘s-c-e-u-s-e’-ing himself, and offering his service to masters of hounds any Monday at Tattersall’s — though he still prefers a ‘quality place.’
Benjamin Buckram, the gentleman with the small independence of his own, we are sorry to say has gone to the ‘bad.’ Aggravated by the loss he sustained by his horse winning the steeple-chase, he made an ill-advised onslaught on the cash-box of the London and Westminster Bank; and at three score years and ten this distinguished ‘turfite,’ who had participated with impunity in nearly all the great robberies of the last forty years, was doomed to transportation. And yet we have seen this cracksman captain — for he, too, was a captain at times — jostling and bellowing for odds among some of the highest and noblest of the land!
Leather has descended to the cab-stand, of which he promises to be a distinguished ornament. He haunts the Piccadilly stands, and has what he calls ‘‘stablish’d a raw’ on Mr. Sponge to the extent of three-and-six-pence a week, under threats of exposing the robbery Sponge committed on our friend Mr. Waffles. That volatile genius, we are happy to add, is quite well, and open to the attentions of any young lady who thinks she can tame a wild young man. His financial affairs are not irretrievable.
And now for the hero and heroine of our tale. The Sponges — for our friend married Lucy shortly after the steeple-chase — stayed at Nonsuch House until the bailiffs walked in. Sir Harry then bolted to Boulogne, where he shortly afterwards died, and Bugles very properly married my lady. They are now living at Wandsworth; Mr. Bugles and Lady Scattercash, very ‘much thought of’ — as Bugles says.
Although Mr. Sponge did not gain as much by winning the steeple-chase as he would have done had Hercules allowed him to lose it, he still did pretty well; and being at length starved out of Nonsuch House, he arrived at his old quarters, the Bantam, in Bond Street, where he turned his attention very seriously to providing for Lucy and the little Sponge, who had now issued its prospectus. He thought over all the ways and means of making money without capital, rejecting Australia and California as unfit for sportsmen and men fond of their Moggs. Professional steeple-chasing Lucy decried, declaring she would rather return to her flag-exercises at Astley’s, as soon as she was able, than have her dear Sponge risking his neck that way. Our friend at length began to fear fortune-making was not so easy as he thought — indeed, he was soon sure of it.
One day as he was staring vacantly out of the Bantam coffee-room window, between the gilt labels, ‘Hot Soups’ and ‘Dinners,’ he was suddenly seized with a fit of virtuous indignation at the disreputable frauds practised by unprincipled adventurers on the unwary public, in the way of betting offices, and
resolved that he would be the St. George to slay this great dragon of abuse. Accordingly, after due consultation with Lucy, he invested his all in fitting up and decorating the splendid establishment in Jermyn Street, St. James’s, now known as the SPONGE AND CIGAR BETTING ROOMS, whose richness neither pen nor pencil can do justice to.
We must, therefore, entreat our readers to visit this emporium of honesty, where, in addition to finding lists posted on all the great events of the day, they can have the use of a Mogg while they indulge in one of Lucy’s unrivalled cigars; and noblemen, gentlemen, and officers in the household troops may be accommodated with loans on their personal security to any amount. We see by Mr. Sponge’s last advertisements that he has £116,300 to lend at three and a half per cent.!
‘What a farce,’ we fancy we hear some enterprising youngster exclaim— ‘what a farce, to suppose that such a needy scamp as Mr. Sponge, who has been cheating everybody, has any money to lend, or to pay bets with if he loses!’ Right, young gentleman, right; but not a bit greater farce than to suppose that any of the plausible money-lenders, or infallible ‘tips’ with whom you, perhaps, have had connection have any either, in case it’s called for. Nay, bad as he is, we’ll back old Soapey to be better than any of them, — with which encomium we most heartily bid him Adieu.
Ask Mamma
Illustrated by John Leech
This novel, originally published in 1858, represents a change of direction for Surtees, as he abandons his usual sporting themes for a more conventional tale of love and courtship – although the country setting remains and hunting still plays an important part in the plot. The story focuses on Mrs. Emma Pringle, a seamstress turned wealthy widow and her son Billy, who is introduced to wealthy country society by the Earl of Ladythorne. Through Billy’s participation in local affairs and his romantic dalliances, Surtees satirises Victorian society and its topical concerns, particularly its obsession with matters of class and money.
One of the original monthly parts
CONTENTS
PREFACE TO THE ORIGINAL EDITION.
CHAPTER I. OUR HERO AND CO. — A SLEEPING PARTNER.
CHAPTER II. THE ROAD.
CHAPTER III. THE ROAD RESUMED. — MISS PHEASANT-FEATHERS.
CHAPTER IV. A GLASS COACH. — MISS WILLING (EN GRAND COSTUME)
CHAPTER V. THE LADY’S BOUDOIR. — A DECLARATION.
CHAPTER VI. THE HAPPY UNITED FAMILY. — CURTAIN CRESCENT.
CHAPTER VII. THE EARL OF LADYTHORNE. — MISS DE GLANCEY.
CHAPTER VIII. CUB-HUNTING.
CHAPTER IX. A PUP AT WALK. — IMPERIAL JOHN.
CHAPTER X. JEAN ROUGIER, OR JACK ROGERS.
CHAPTER XI. THE OPENING DAY. — THE HUNT BREAKFAST.
CHAPTER XII. THE MORNING FOX. — THE AFTERNOON FOX.
CHAPTER XIII. GONE AWAY!
CHAPTER XIV. THE PRINGLE CORRESPONDENCE.
CHAPTER XV. MAJOR YAMMERTON’S COACH STOPS THE WAY.
CHAPTER XVI. THE MAJOR’S MENAGE.
CHAPTER XVII. ARRIVAL AT YAMMERTON GRANGE. — A FAMILY PARTY.
CHAPTER XVIII. A LEETLE, CONTRETEMPS.
CHAPTER XIX. THE MAJOR’S STUD.
CHAPTER XX. CARDS FOR A SPREAD.
CHAPTER XXI. THE GATHERING. — THE GRAND SPREAD ITSELF.
CHAPTER XXII. A HUNTING MORNING. — UNKENNELING.
CHAPTER XXIII. SHOWING A HORSE. — THE MEET.
CHAPTER XXIV. THE WILD BEAST ITSELF.
CHAPTER XXV. A CRUEL FINISH.
CHAPTER XXVI. THE PRINGLE CORRESPONDENCE.
CHAPTER XXVII. SIR MOSES MAINCHANCE.
CHAPTER XXVIII. THE HIT-IM AND HOLD-IM SHIRE HOUNDS.
CHAPTER XXIX. THE PANGBURN PARK ESTATE.
CHAPTER XXX. COMMERCE AND AGRICULTURE.
CHAPTER XXXI. SIR MOSES’S MENAGE. — DEPARTURE OF FINE BILLY.
CHAPTER XXXII. THE BAD STABLE; OR, “IT’S ONLY FOR ONE NIGHT.”
CHAPTER XXXIII. SIR MOSES’S SPREAD.
CHAPTER XXXIV. GOING TO COVER WITH THE HOUNDS.
CHAPTER XXXV. THE MEET.
CHAPTER XXXVI. A BIRD’S EYE VIEW.
CHAPTER XXXVII. TWO ACCOUNTS OF A RUN; OR, LOOK ON THIS PICTURE.
CHAPTER XXXVIII. THE SICK HORSE AND THE SICK MASTER.
CHAPTER XXXIX. MR. PRINGLE SUDDENLY BECOMES A MEMBER OF THE H. H. H.
CHAPTER XL. THE HUNT DINNER,
CHAPTER XLI. THE HUNT TEA. — BUSHEY HEATH AND BARE ACRES.
CHAPTER XLII. MR. GEORDEY GALLON.
CHAPTER XLIII. SIR MOSES PERPLEXED — THE RENDEZVOUS FOR THE RACE.
CHAPTER XLIV. THE RACE ITSELF.
CHAPTER XLV. HENEREY BROWN & CO. AGAIN.
CHAPTER XLVI. THE PRINGLE CORRESPONDENCE.
CHAPTER XLVII. A CATASTROPHE. — A TÊTE-À-TÊTE DINNER
CHAPTER XLVIII. ROUGIER’S MYSTERIOUS LODGINGS — THE GIFT HORSE.
CHAPTER XLIX. THE SHAM DAY.
CHAPTER L. THE SURPRISE.
CHAPTER LI. MONEY AND MATRIMONY.
CHAPTER LII. A NIGHT DRIVE.
CHAPTER LIII. MASTER ANTHONY THOM.
CHAPTER LIV. MR. WITHERSPOON’S DEJEUNER À LA FOURCHETTE.
CHAPTER LV. THE COUNCIL OF WAR. — POOR PUSS AGAIN!
CHAPTER LVI. A FINE RUN! — THE MAINCHANCE CORRESPONDENCE.
CHAPTER LVII. THE ANTHONY THOM TRAP.
CHAPTER LVIII. THE ANTHONY THOM TAKE.
CHAPTER LIX. ANOTHER COUNCIL OF WAR. — MR. GALLON AT HOME.
CHAPTER LX. MR. CARROTY KEBBEL.
CHAPTER LXI. THE HUNT BALL. — MISS DE GLANCEY’S REFLECTIONS.
CHAPTER LXII. LOVE AT SECOND SIGHT. — CUPID’S SETTLING DAY.
CHAPTER LXIII. A STARTLING ANNOUNCEMENT.
Title page of the first edition
PREFACE TO THE ORIGINAL EDITION.
IT MAY BE a recommendation to the lover of light literature to be told, that the following story does not involve the complication of a plot. It is a mere continuous narrative of an almost everyday exaggeration, interspersed with sporting scenes and excellent illustrations by Leech.
March 31, 1858.
CHAPTER I. OUR HERO AND CO. — A SLEEPING PARTNER.
CONSIDERING THAT BILLY Pringle, or Fine Billy, as his good-natured friends called him, was only an underbred chap, he was as good an imitation of a Swell as ever we saw. He had all the airy dreaminess of an hereditary high flyer, while his big talk and off-hand manner strengthened the delusion.
It was only when you came to close quarters with him, and found that though he talked in pounds he acted in pence, and marked his fine dictionary words and laboured expletives, that you came to the conclusion that he was “painfully gentlemanly.” So few people, however, agree upon what a gentleman is, that Billy was well calculated to pass muster with the million. Fine shirts, fine ties, fine talk, fine trinkets, go a long way towards furnishing the character with many. Billy was liberal, not to say prodigal, in all these. The only infallible rule we know is, that the man who is always talking about being a gentleman never is one. Just as the man who is always talking about honour, morality, fine feeling, and so or never knows anything of these qualities but the name.
Nature had favoured Billy’s pretensions in the lady-killing way. In person he was above the middle height, five feet eleven or so, slim and well-proportioned, with a finely-shaped head and face, fair complexion, light brown hair, laughing blue eyes, with long lashes, good eyebrows, regular pearly teeth and delicately pencilled moustache. Whiskers he did not aspire to. Nor did Billy abuse the gifts of Nature by disguising himself in any of the vulgar groomy gamekeepery style of dress, that so effectually reduce all mankind to the level of the labourer, nor adopt any of the “loud” patterns that have lately figured so conspicuously in our streets. On the contrary, he studied the quiet unobtrusive order of costume, and the harmony of colours, with a view of producing a perfectly elegant general effect. Neatly-fitting frock or dress coats, instead of baggy sacks, with trouser legs for sleeves, quiet-patterned vests and equally q
uiet-patterned trousers. If he could only have been easy in them he would have done extremely well, but there was always a nervous twitching, and jerking, and feeling, as if he was wondering what people were thinking or saying of him.
In the dress department he was ably assisted by his mother, a lady of very considerable taste, who not only fashioned his clothes but his mind, indeed we might add his person, Billy having taken after her, as they say; for his father, though an excellent man and warm, was rather of the suet-dumpling order of architecture, short, thick, and round, with a neck that was rather difficult to find. His name, too, was William, and some, the good-natured ones again of course, used to say that he might have been called “Fine Billy the first,” for under the auspices of his elegant wife he had assumed a certain indifference to trade; and when in the grand strut at Ramsgate or Broadstairs, or any of his watering-places, if appealed to about any of the things made or dealt in by any of the concerns in which he was a “Co.,” he used to raise his brows and shrug his shoulders, and say with a very deprecatory sort of air, “‘Pon my life, I should say you’re right,” or “‘Deed I should say it was so,” just as if he was one of the other Pringles, — the Pringles who have nothing to do with trade, — and in noways connected with Pringle & Co.; Pringle & Potts; Smith, Sharp & Pringle; or any of the firms that the Pringles carried on under the titles of the original founders. He was neither a tradesman nor a gentleman. The Pringles — like the happy united family we meet upon wheels; the dove nestling with the gorged cat, and so on — all pulled well together when there was a common victim to plunder; and kept their hands in by what they called taking fair advantages of each other, that is to say, cheating each other, when there was not.
