by R S Surtees
CHAPTER LXIII. A STARTLING ANNOUNCEMENT.
HE proverbial serenity of Poodles was disturbed one dull winter afternoon by our old friend General Binks banging down the newly-arrived evening paper with a vehemence rarely witnessed in that quiet quarter. Mr. Dorfold, who was dosing as usual with outstretched leg’s before the fire, started up, thinking the General was dying. Major Mustard’s hat dropped off, Mr. Pioser let fall the “Times Supplement,” Mr. Crowsfoot ceased conning the “Post” Alemomh, the footman, stood aghast, and altogether there was a general cessation of every thing — Beedles was paralyzed.
The General quickly followed up the blow with a tremendous oath, and seizing Colonel Callender’s old beaver hat instead of his own new silk one, flung frantically out of the room, through the passage and into St. James’s Street, as if bent on immediate destruction.
All was amazement! What’s happened the General Something must have gone wrong with the General! The General — the calmest, the quietest, the most, placid man in the world — suddenly convulsed with such a violent paroxysm. He who had neither chick nor child, nor anything to care about, with the certainty of an Earldom, what could have come over him?
“I’ll tell you,” exclaimed Mr. Bullion who had just dropped in on his way from the City: “I’ll tell you,” repeated he. taking up the paper which the General had thrown down. “His bank’s failed! Heard some qweerish hints as I came down Cornhill:” and forthwith! Bullion turned to the City article, and ran his accustomed eye down its contents.
“Funds opened heavily. Foreign stocks quiet. About £20,000 in bar gold. The John Brown arrived from China. Departure of the Peninsular Mail postponed,” and so on; but neither failures, nor rumours of failures, either of bankers or others, were there.
Very odd — what could it be, then? must be something in the paper. And again the members resolved themselves into a committee of the whole house to ascertain what it was.
The first place that a lady would look to for the solution of a mystery of this sort, is, we believe, about the last place that a man would look to, namely, the births, deaths, and marriages; and it was not until the sensation had somewhat subsided, and Tommy White was talking of beating up the General’s quarter in Bury Street, to hear what it was, that his inseparable — that “nasty covetous body Cuddy Flintoff,” who had been plodding very perseveringly on the line, at length hit off what astonished him as much as we have no doubt it will the reader, being neither more nor less than the following very quiet announcement at the end of the list of marriages: —
“This morning, at St. Barnabas, by the Rev. Dr. Duff, the Right Hon. The Earl of Ladythorne, to Emma, widow of the late Wm, Pringle, Esq.”
The Earl of Ladythorne married to Mrs. Pringle! Well done our fair friend of the frontispiece! The pure white camellias are succeeded by a coronet! The borrowed velvet dress replaced by anything she likes to own. Who would have thought it!
But wonders will never cease; for on this eventful day Mr. George Gallon was seen driving the Countess’s old coach companion, Mrs. Margerum, from Cockthorpe Church, with long white rosettes flying at Tippy Tom’s head, and installing her mistress of the Rose and Crown, at the cross roads; thus showing that truth is stranger than fiction. “George,” we may add, has now taken the Flying Childers Inn at Eversley Green, where he purposes extending his “Torf” operations, and we make no doubt will be heard of hereafter.
Of our other fair friends we must say a few parting words on taking a reluctant farewell.
Though Miss Clara, now Lady Mainchance, is not quite so good a housekeeper as Sir Moses could have wished, she is nevertheless extremely ornamental at the head of his table; and though she has perhaps rather exceeded with Gillow, the Major promises to make it all right by his superior management of the property. Mr. Mordecai Nathan has been supplanted by our master of “haryers,” who has taken a drainage loan, and promises to set the water-works playing at Pangburn Park, just as he did at Yammerton Grange. He means to have a day a week there with his “haryers,” which, he says, is the best way of seeing a country.
Miss de Glancey has revised Barley Hill Hall, for which place his Highness now appears in Burke’s “Landed Gentry,” very considerably; and though she has not been to Gillow, she has got the plate out of the drawing-room, and made things very smart. She keeps John in excellent order, and rides his grey horse admirably. Blurkins says “the grey mare is the better horse,” but that is no business of ours.
Of all the brides, perhaps, Miss Flora got the best set down; for the Woolpack’s house was capitally furnished, and he is far happier driving his pretty wife about the country with a pair of pyebald ponies, making calls, than in risking his neck across country with hounds — or rather after them.
Of all our beauties, and thanks to Leech we have dealt in nothing else, Miss Harriet alone remains unsettled with her two strings to her bow — fine Billy and Rowley Abingdon; though which is to be the happy man remains to be seen.
We confess we incline to think that the Countess will be too many for the Yammertons; but if she is, there is no great harm done; for Harriet is very young, and the Owl is a safe card in the country where men are more faithful than they are in the towns. Indeed, fine Billy is almost too young to know his own mind, and marrying now would only perhaps involve the old difficulty hereafter of father and son wanting top boots at the same time, supposing our friend to accomplish the difficult art of sitting at the Jumps.
So let us leave our hero open. And as we have only aimed at nothing but the natural throughout, we will finish by proposing a toast that will include as well the mated and the single of our story, as the mated and the single all the world over, namely, the old and popular one of “The single married, and the married happy!” drunk with three times three and one cheer more! HOO-RAY!
THE END
Plain or Ringlets
Illustrated by John Leech
Another social satire, this novel was first published in book form in 1860, having first appeared in twelve monthly instalments between 1858 and 1860. It tells the story of the wooing of Rosa McDermott by two contrasting suitors — Mr Bunting and Jasper Goldspink — played out against a richly (and comically) evoked backdrop of English country society in the early Victorian period. The title refers to the differing preferences of Bunting and Goldspink as to how Rosa should wear her hair, according to the ever-shifting styles of the day.
One of the original monthly parts
Title page of the first edition
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
CHAPTER VIII.
CHAPTER IX.
CHAPTER X.
CHAPTER XI.
CHAPTER XII.
CHAPTER XIII.
CHAPTER XIV.
CHAPTER XV.
CHAPTER XVI.
CHAPTER XVII.
CHAPTER XVIII.
CHAPTER XIX.
CHAPTER XX.
CHAPTER XXI.
CHAPTER XXII.
CHAPTER XXIII.
CHAPTER XXIV.
CHAPTER XXV.
CHAPTER XXVI.
CHAPTER XXVII.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
CHAPTER XXIX.
CHAPTER XXX.
CHAPTER XXXI.
CHAPTER XXXII.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
CHAPTER XXXV.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
CHAPTER XXXVII.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
CHAPTER XXXIX.
CHAPTER XL.
CHAPTER XLI.
CHAPTER XLII.
CHAPTER XLIII.
CHAPTER XLIV.
CHAPTER XLV.
CHAPTER XLVI.
CHAPTER XLVII.
CHAPTER XLVIII.
CHAPTER XLIX.
CHAPTER L.
CHAPTER LI.
CHAPTER LII.
CHAPTER LIII.
CHAPTER LIV.
CHAPTER LV.
CHAPTER LVI.
CHAPTER LVII.
CHAPTER LVIII.
CHAPTER LIX.
CHAPTER LX.
CHAPTER LXI.
CHAPTER LXII.
CHAPTER LXIII.
CHAPTER LXIV.
CHAPTER LXV.
CHAPTER LXVI.
CHAPTER LXVII.
CHAPTER LXVIII.
CHAPTER LXIX.
CHAPTER LXX.
CHAPTER LXXI.
CHAPTER LXXII.
CHAPTER LXXIII.
CHAPTER LXXIV.
CHAPTER LXXV.
CHAPTER LXXVI.
CHAPTER LXXVII.
CHAPTER LXXVIII.
CHAPTER LXXIX.
CHAPTER LXXX.
CHAPTER LXXXI.
CHAPTER LXXXII.
CHAPTER LXXXIII.
CHAPTER LXXXIV.
CHAPTER LXXXV.
CHAPTER LXXXVI.
CHAPTER LXXXVII.
CHAPTER LXXXVIII.
CHAPTER LXXXIX.
CHAPTER XC.
CHAPTER XCI.
CHAPTER XCII.
CHAPTER XCIII.
CHAPTER XCIV.
CHAPTER XCV.
CHAPTER XCVI.
CHAPTER XCVII.
The original frontispiece
TO MY DEAR SON
THIS VOLUME IS INSCRIBED,
WITH HIS FATHER’S
BEST LOVE.
CHAPTER I.
ROSEBERRY ROCKS
IT WAS THE Comet year — a glorious summer hastened the seasons and forced the country into early maturity. The hay was “oop” before Giles Jolter generally gets it. “doon;” the corn trod fast on the heels of the hay, and harvest-bitten M.P.’s magnified the aroma of the bouquet de mille sewers of the Thames, in order to get away to their turnips, their tares, and under shade of their umbrageous trees. All people rushed out of town that could get. The West End tradesmen alone looked blank, though many of them took wing also, and followed the broken coveys of company to their basking places in the provinces, there to respread the labyrinths of their allurements, revolve their white hands, show their white teeth, and simper blandly, “What’s the next article mem?”
A real continental summer having visited England, people showed their appreciation of the boon by making the most of the luxury. It was out-of-door life for every one — Turkey carpets, red curtains, fur cloaks, thick boots, umbrellas, no longer commanded respect, but were superseded by the lightest, airiest muslins, gossamers, and slippers. Coals, save for cooking purposes, might have been slates altogether, for anything that anybody cared. To seal a letter became an act of fortitude. Splashing and dabbling in the sea was the only way of keeping cool. All the watering-places swarmed to repletion. Thanks to George Stephenson, George Hudson, and the many other Georges, who invested their talents and valuable money in the invaluable undertakings, railways have brought wealth and salubrity to every one’s door. It is no longer the class distribution that used to exist, this place for that set, that for another; but a sort of grand quadrille of gaiety in which people change places continually, and whirl about until they finally settle down, thoroughly satisfied with some particular selection. They then take the pet place under their wings, talk it up and run other places down, finding out beauties that none can see but themselves.
Large and looming as London is, and undeniably adapted for what we may call the great wholesale commerce and intercourse of life, it is, nevertheless, to these minor branch establishments that we are mainly indebted for lasting friendships and plain gold ring connections that have so much to do with the comforts and happiness of mankind. To put it in a sporting way, London is a capital cover to find the game in; but the country is the place to run it down. London has too many attractions, too much bustle and excitement, for quiet business-like intercourse; but down in the country, or at one of these sauntering, simpering watering-places — where people meet at every turn — they must come to, sooner or later, or run away for fear of being caught.
And here let us record our decided conviction, that of all watering-places under the sun, Roseberry Rocks undoubtedly bears the belle. She combines within her four parallel lines the breezy atmosphere of Salisbury Plain or Newmarket Heath, the varied trinkety, linselly attractions of Regent Street, the equestrian liveliness of Rotten Row, with a broad expanse of nobly swelling sea. Other places may boost their specialties; Scarborough her pay bridge and newly-built Dovecote, Hastings her castle, St. Leonard’s her silence, Weymouth her sands, Dover her castle, Margate her merriment, and Broadstairs her lugubrious solemnity; but the individual attractions of each particular place will be found concentrated at the Rocks, together with the freedom of London and the independence of the country. No sign of trade is visible, no stranded vessel delivering her cargo, no nauseous fish-curer polluting the shore, no noisy boat-builder hammering at his craft — the whole place has a never-ending holiday air, and everything seems to come ready made from afar. From end to end she is a continuous line of palaces and mansions and beautifully designed buildings. Her population moves gaily and jauntily along, the ladies are all beautiful and elegantly attired, and the men look as if £ s d. were for once banished from their thoughts — a combination of circumstances extremely favourable to authorship.
CHAPTER II.
OUR HEROINE.
WELL, THIS FAMOUS Comet year brought to Roseberry Rocks, along with many thousand other visitors who have not been fortunate enough to secure the services of an historian, the young and lovely Miss McDermott, on what the lawyers would call a sort of general issue expedition, ere she took the irrevocable two pound twelve and sixpence worth along with young Jasper Goldspink, the banker’s son of the pretty agricultural town of Mayfield in C — shire, with whom she had grown up in a sort of neighbourly intimacy that would most likely have ended in a common matter-of-course match but for the Incidents disclosed in the ensuing chapters. Mrs. McDermott, who of course was exceedingly disinterested and unworldly — at the same time not altogether opposed to either rank or wealth — thought she would only be doing Rosa justice by letting her see a little of the world; accordingly, under pretence of getting their pretty mansion of Privett Grove painted, she availed herself of the emancipating influence of railways, and arrived with their first-class clothes in a first-class train at this our first-class watering-place, instead of going to the little fishing town of Herringshoal Sands hard by.
Rosa was then just in the full bloom of womanhood, of medium height, plump and fair, with a calm, somewhat pensive, “Eugénie” expression of countenance that grew upon the beholder. If her perhaps rather prematurely developed form suggested a year or two more to her age than she really deserved, it was amply compensated for by the juvenile looks of Mamma, who, like most fair ladies, had worn wonderfully well. There is nothing so appalling as a great fat mother-in-law.
One of the great drawbacks of locomotion — especially where unprotected females are concerned — undoubtedly is the fleecing the travellers undergo at the hands of the hotel keepers ere they get settled down in a house, and the general evil was aggravated in this particular case by our fair friends — strangers to the place — alighting at Chousey’s Hotel, so famous for charges, though “off particular times,” be it remembered, as the advertisements say, as reasonable any of its class. Unfortunately for its inmates, however, those particular times can never be hit upon, for Chousey seems to make out his bills by the almanac, and it must be an uncommonly queer day to which some particular incident does not attach. Chousey, however, carries things off with such a high hand, such an elegant air, that it is almost a pleasure to be imposed upon by him. Having been a nobleman’s valet, he is always obliging enough to assume the possession of titles by his guests, and whenever he condescends to leave his guitar in his wife’s boudoir to attend a summons to justify charges, he throws
himself into attitude, exhibiting a perfect blaze of jewelry, and, running his beringed hand through his well-waxed ringlets, lisps out with the most perfect composure, “True, my lord,” or “True, my lady,” as the case may be; “these charges do ‘pear rayther high at first glance, but p’raps your lordship (or your ladyship) has forgotten that yesterday was the anniversary of the Battle of Waterloo, and to-day is the day on which Magna Charts was signed, and of course we are obleged to make a little difference; ‘at other times’ I believe I may say our charges are as reasonable as can be.” Our travellers happened to arrive on the anniversary of the day on which the Malakoff was taken, and staying over that of the fall of Sebastopol were charged half-crown a head for bread and butter teas, three-and-sixpence for breakfasts, six shillings for mutton chop dinners, lights and apartments in proportion — all very surprising to housekeepers who know the prime cost of the articles. We need not say that our friends did not stay there any longer than they could help.
