by R S Surtees
“Going to give us a welcome, perhaps,” suggested Mrs. Goldspink, as the bells of St. Margaret’s church now struck up a merry peal. The numbers increased — foot people, horse people, gig people, all hurrying onward — but not dressed in their Sunday clothes, nor looking particularly amiable, wearing much the same sort of aspect that farmers do when the “other-side” candidate comes into the marketplace to canvass them. —
“Sivin and four’s elivin, and sivinty-sivin is eighty-eight — they seem very sour, wonder what’s happened,” mused our friend, as they now passed Jackey Brown and Cuthbert Donaldson, both of whom had recently had accommodation at the bank, and yet scarcely vouchsafed him a look — let alone a touch of the hat. —
The Goldspinks had now got off the McAdam of the road on to the uneven cobble stone pavement of the partially grass-grown streets, at the corners of which groups of people were collected in earnest conversation, many of whom gave significant nudges and glances as he jingled up, evidently showing that he had been the subject of their discussion.
“Sivin and four’s elivin, and ninety-nine’s a ‘undered and ten — never saw people so sullen before,” observed our Banker, as he passed a group who scarcely deigned him a recognition. As he drove on, people followed the same way, and on getting into the market-place he found a crowd outside the bank-door clustering like a swam of bees at a hive-mouth — all scrambling and fighting to be in.
“Sivin and four’s elivin, and sivin ‘underd and sivin is sivin ‘underd and eighteen — do believe there’s a run on the bank! Whatever can have happened,” gasped he, driving rapidly up to the house-door, hurrying out his wife, and consigning the carriage to the care of the first passing countryman. He was in and through the house and into the bank in a minute. Then as he entered a Babel-like confusion of tongues arose, mingled with hisses and cheers, and derisive appellations, and the flourishing of dirty five-pound notes from equally dirty hands. The perspiring Scorer, the cashier, with an imposing wedding-favor on his breast, now turned and implored his master to mount the counter and endeavour to pacify the crowd, at the same time giving him a hoist up as he spoke.
“Sivin and four’s elivin,” ejaculated the Banker from his eminence.
“Nothin’ o’ the sort,” roared Busby the baker, “two fi’-pun notes!” flourishing them as he spoke.
“What’s the matter?” demanded the Banker.
“Wants our money!” cried half a dozen voices.
“You shall have it,” replied the Banker, firmly.
“Out with it then!” cried several.
“Can’t pay you all at once,” replied the Banker.
“Nicely, if you like,” rejoined several.
“You’ve been puttin’ of your money away, you old scoundrel!” exclaimed a voice from the midst of the closely wedged crowd.
“Hooray for the old vagabond,” shouted another; “we’ll have him hung at the next Assizes.”
“Rot ye, you’re such a bitter old bad’un that if you were boiled into broth the devil wouldn’t sup you!” exclaimed Rippon the rag man, holding up a dirty five pound note as he spoke.
“Just the man to rob a church, and not keep a prayer-book for his self!” roared Bagshot the besom-maker — from Rippon’s side.
“You bloated aristocrat, you deserve to be drowned!” yelled Nat Skittles the pedestrian whister, who was staring it through the country.
“Come, old Ten-and-a-half per Cent., out with the tin!” cried Cordy Brown the butcher, putting his hand to his mouth as he spoke.
Then the hubbub increased, those who held notes wanting to be in, those who had got gold wanting to be out; and this kept going on, more or less violently, until every sovereign and Bank of England note was absorbed — when the old-established bank — established sivin teen ‘underd and sivinty-four — was obliged to succumb, and this owing to parties mistaking the name of a “horse” for that of a house showing “What mighty contests rise from trivial things,” as Mr. Pope sings.
A country marriage is a local thing, and unless parties advertise themselves in the London papers is generally confined to its own district, but a bank breaking is food for every newspaper in the land, and our friend Mr. Bunting soon read of it at his highland home — where the reader will be happy to hear that the barrenness of the surface of his property is amply atoned for by the richness of the minerals below, prodigious beds of iron-stone, coal, and lime being found on the spot.
Mr. Bunting’s first impression was to throw himself — minerals and all — at Miss Rosa’s feet; second thoughts, however, suggested that the ladies had been rather mercenary in the matter, and before he could arrive at any satisfactory conclusion the announcement of the marriages in the Times dissipated the delusion. He then saw through it all as clearly as possible, and required no Adolphe Didier or any ingenious invention to assist him. He wrote to the Jug, congratulating him on his marriage, and sending him copies of a Prospectus of a Joint-Stock Company for working his Royalties, the Company haring, by a curious coincidence, the very same W. D. who twice thwarted Mr. Bunting’s matrimonial efforts, for Secretary. The W. D. now says that Mr. Bunting will be one of the richest men in Scotland, and can build a Castle or whatever he likes.
Garlandale, both house and horse, have been sold, and our substantial man considerably reduced in his circumstances. Jasper and Rosa live between the old people and Mamma’s, illustrating the truth of the old saying, that there never yet was a house built big enough to hold two families. Perker carries war into whichever establishment she enters, and sadly laments the hero of the scarf. She thinks Admiration Jack was much more of a “quality gentleman” than Jasper, and feels that she was completely defrauded of Bonville the valet. Jasper bad no valet to offer her, only Tom Tailings, a low fellow, who she wouldn’t take if it was ever so.
The Jug, we are sorry to say, is not so comfortable as we could wish. Mrs. Boyston stints him of his drink, won’t let him dine in his slippers, and wants him to make Billy Rough’un’ go in the coal-cart She also threatens him with the terrors of Sir Cresswell for desertion and cruelty — beating her on the preterpluperfect part of her person with his boot-jack. Altogether the Jug has made a bad investment, and we should not be surprised to hear of his being back at Appleton Hall to cut out Archey Ellenger, who has applied for the situation of Jug.
So Miss Rosa had better have kept her hair “Plain” than put it in “Ringlets,” as the gypsy’s prophecy was not fulfilled after all.
Mr Facey Romford’s Hounds
Illustrated by John Leech and Hablot Knight Browne
Surtees’ last published novel appeared in 1865, a year after his death. It is a sequel to Mr. Sponge’s Sporting Tour, featuring several returning characters (including Sponge himself). The plot centres on Facey Romford, who falsely adopts the identity of a much wealthier man with the same name. Romford becomes master of the hounds at the Heavyside Hunt in the north of England and the focus of the novel is the hunting milieu – but, as ever, Surtees uses the county sporting circles to shine a satirical light on the foibles and obsessions of Victorian high society. Many later commentators have judged Mr Facey Romford’s Hounds to be Surtees’s greatest novel.
One of the original monthly parts
CONTENTS
I. OUR HERO — THE WOMAN IN BLACK
II. A FRIEND IN NEED
III. THE SPONGE CIGAR AND BETTING ROOMS
IV. THE BRIGHT IDEA
V. THE H.H., OR, HEAVYSIDE HUNT
VI. GONE AWAY!
VII. MINSHULL VERNON
VIII. THE H.H. HOUNDS
IX. THE DÉBUT
X. OAKENSHAW WOOD
XI. THE TENDER PARTING
XII. MR GOODHEARTED GREEN
XIII. SWIG AND CHOWEY
XIV. CUB HUNTING
XV. MRS ROWLEY ROUNDING
XVI. LUCY ON LEOTARD — THE LADY WHIPPER-IN
XVII. THE FRACAS — THE LARKSPUR HUNT IN DOUBLEIMUPSHIRE
XVIII. THE HONORARY SECRE
TARY TO THE LARKSPUR HUNT — TURNING OVER A NEW LEAF
XIX. LUCY BAMBOOZLES THE MASTER — INDEPENDENT JIMMY
XX. BELDON HALL — MRS MUSTARD’S MISCELLANY
XXI. MR PROUDLOCK, THE KEEPER — LORD LONNERGAN AND HIS SON, COMMONLY CALLED THE HONOURABLE LOVETIN LONNERGAN
XXII. THE INTERNAL ECONOMY OF BELDON HALL — GOODHEARTED GREEN AGAIN
XXIII. MR AND MRS WILLY WATKINS AND MISS WATKINS
XXIV. THE MORNING CALL
XXV. MR ROMFORD’S DÉBUT IN DOUBLEIMUPSHIRE
XXVI. A FICTITIOUS FOX
XXVII. A REAL FOX
XXVIII. MR HAZEY AND HIS BOY BILL
XXIX. BILLY BALSAM AND BOB SHORT
XXX. MR HAZEY’S MORNING CALL
XXXI. MR AND MRS WATKINS AGAIN
XXXII. DALBERRY LEES
XXXIII. THE DALBERRY LEES UPROAR IN HONOUR OF MR ROMFORD
XXXIV. THE HUNT BREAKFAST
XXXV. THE BAG FOX
XXXVI. THE BAG FOX ENLARGED
XXXVII. TARRING NEVILLE
XXXVIII. MR AND MRS HAZEY’S INVITATION
XXXIX. MR HAZEY’S HOSPITALITY
XL. HOW TO SPELL CAT
XLI. THE HARD AND SHARP HOUNDS
XLII. THE FAT BOY OF PICKERING NOOK
XLIII. MR STOTFOLD’S ESTABLISHMENT
XLIV. MR STOTFOLD ARRIVES AT DALBERRY LEES
XLV. THE BENICIA BOY
XLVI. THE STAG-HUNT
XLVII. MR STANLEY STERLING
XLVIII. MR STANLEY STERLING’S FOX
XLIX. MISS BETSY SHANNON — MR ROMFORD AT HOME
L. MR FIZZER, CONFECTIONER TO THE QUEEN
LI. MRS SOMERVILLE “AT HOME”
LII. MRS SOMERVILLE’S SANDWICHES
LIII. THE INVASION
LIV. THE BELDON BALL
LV. MR GOODHEARTED GREEN AGAIN
LVI. THE INFIRMARY BALL
LVII. THE COUNTESS OF CAPERINGTON
LVIII. THE DEAL
LIX. THE DISASTER — THE “LORD HILL” HOTEL AND POSTING-HOUSE
LX. SPITE OF ALL AND STAND AGAINST ALL
LXI. THE TENTH MILESTONE ON THE LARKSPUR ROAD
LXII. THE FINISH
Title page and frontispiece of the first edition
I. OUR HERO — THE WOMAN IN BLACK
IT WAS LUCKY for our friend Mr. Romford — or Facey Romford as he is sometimes familiarly called — that there was another Mr. Romford in the world of much the same tastes and pursuits as himself, for our Mr. Romford profited very considerably by the other Mr. Romford’s name and reputation. In the first place they were both called Frank, and in the second place they both kept hounds; on different principles, to be sure, but still they both kept hounds, and the mere fact of their doing so was very confusing. Added to this, our friend Facey being of the pushing, acquisitive order, accepted the change without doubt or hesitation.
We don’t mean to insinuate that he went about saying “I am the rich Mr. Romford, owner of Abbeyfield Park, patron of three livings, J.P., D.L.,” and all that sort of thing; but if he found he was taken for that Mr. Romford, he never cared to contradict the impression. Indeed, if pressed, he would mount the high horse and talk patronisingly of the other Mr. Romford — say he was a deuced good fellow, if not much of a sportsman, and altogether pooh-pooh him considerably. To hear Facey talk, one would think that he had not only persuaded himself that he was the right Romford, but had made the right Romford believe so too.
Of the Facey pedigree we would gladly furnish the readers of this work with some little information, but unfortunately it does not lie in our power so to do, and for the self-same reason that prevented Nimrod from detailing that of Mr. Jorrocks’, namely, that we do not happen to know anything. When in his cups (which, however, is but seldom), Facey has been heard to observe that he was “nobbut well bred on one side of his head.” “My moother,” he used to say, “was a lady, but my father was a gardener.” The illiberal, indeed, have asserted that the parentage was pretty equal on both sides of the head, for that the mother was a lady’s-maid, and the father a gardener, a union that certainly does not seem so inconsistent as the other.
Be that however as it may, Facey in early life had constituted himself heir to a maternal uncle, one Mr. Francis Gilroy, a farmer in the country, and a great cattle jobber in London. Gilroy was his godfather, and Facey was called Francis Gilroy Romford out of compliment to him. Now a cattle jobber is to the bovine world what the dealer is to the horsey world, and it requires an uncommonly cute, sagacious sort of chap to make a successful jobber. All this “Oncle Gilroy” was. He had a pair of little penetrating beady black eyes, set in a great red-faced chucklehead, that could almost look into an animal, see what sort of an interior it had, what sort of a thriver it was going to be, and tell what weight it was likely to get up to. He was a capital judge of stock, and had a fine discriminating genius that taught him the propriety of charging a gentleman customer a good deal more than a farmer. “Nothin’ like changin’ your stock often,” he used to say to the former, which, considering that Gilroy had a commission at both ends, to say nothing of very comfortable pickings in the way of luck pence, and market charges, &c., in the middle, was a very judicious recommendation. He was supposed to have choked more gentlemen off the cattle department of farming than any other salesman going. Indeed, so pleased were the graziers in one county with his performances in that line, that they presented him with a testimonial — a silver tankard. It did not make the noise these absurdities usually do, either from a lack of eloquence on the part of the chairman, or because
This eternal blazon must not be,
but came off very quietly.
“Francis Gilroy,” said the Chairman, producing a silver cup from his pocket after the market dinner, and stripping it of its pink tissue and whity-brown paper. “Francis Gilroy, there’s the mug,” handing it to him.
“Gentlemen,” said Gilroy, taking it, “I thank you for the jug;” and so ended the ceremony. But they all knew what it meant. The inscription, “Gilroy, the Farmers’ Friend,” told that.
Now Gilroy, who lived very economically in the country, was supposed to have accumulated a vast deal of money, and Facey Romford, who had been apprenticed or articled, or whatever they call it, to a civil engineer, thought there was no use in his toiling and slaving too; so he gave up the theodolite, intending to wait for his uncle’s shoes, which Facey reckoned Gilroy would not be long in being done with. And having a decided turn for sporting in all its branches, he laid himself out for it by fair means and foul, doing a little poaching when he couldn’t get it otherwise. And being a bit of a Vet, he generally had an old horse to cobble up, on which he used to scramble after the hounds, and sell when he would pass for sound. So he went on from year to year, living, as Gilroy said, “verra contagious to his farm,” now fluting to and flattering the old fellow that he would live for ever, now most devotedly wishing that he would, what he called, “hop the twig.” And the neighbouring farmers and people, seeing the terms they were on together, put up with a good deal more trespass and nonsense from Facey than they would otherwise have done. Thus Gilroy increased in years and corpulence, and Facey matured to a man, each trusting the other just as far as he thought right. Gilroy never said in as many words to Facey, “Francis, my dear fellow, all you see here and a great deal more will be yours,” but he always directed his letters F. Gilroy Romford, Esq., as if proud of the connection, encouraged him to look after his farm in his absence, to protect his Talavera wheat from Squire Gollarton’s pheasants, and see that he got a fair day’s work out of his women people at harvest and turnip time. And as there is perhaps no man so happy as an heir-apparent, Facey lived on in little village lodgings, beguiling his days with his rod and his gun, and his evenings with a tune on the flute, varied with mental calculations as to how much Gilroy was worth.
“There must be lots of money somewhere,” Facey used to say, as he sat smoking his cavendish in his diminutive sitting room; “there must be lots of
money somewhere — bills, bonds, post obits, I O U’s;” for Facey reckoned rightly, his uncle was too good a judge to put his money out to ordinary interest. “Shouldn’t wonder if there was twenty thousand pund,” he used to say confidentially to himself. “Fancy me with twenty thousand pund, boy jingo!”
Nay, he has been known, under the influence of his third glass of gin, to get it up as high as thirty thousand, on which occasions his imaginings were very magnificent. He would have the best kennel of pointers and setters in the kingdom, and, like Mr Sawyer, would go to the Shires with such a stud of hunters as never were seen. Money! Money would be no object to him! He’d give anything for a good horse! Hope deferred never made the Romford heart sick; on the contrary, he rose with the occasion, flattering himself that the cash was only accumulating.
One dull winter afternoon, on which day had scarcely gained its supremacy over night, as Facey Romford was taking a stroll with his dog and gun round his absent uncle’s farm, — the dog down in the dell on Squire Gollarton’s side, Facey all right for a shot either way, — what should he see but the unwonted apparition of a dark luggage-laden vehicle crawling leisurely up the rutty lane leading to the house. Facey stood transfixed, like a pointer to its game, regardless of Juno’s feathering below.
“Who have we here?” muttered he, stopping and grounding his gun on his navvy-shod foot. The dingy looking vehicle went crawling on as before.
“No go, there,” continued Facey, as the driver now stopped and descended from his box to open the last gate, which having propped back with a bit of stick that he found lying on the ground, he re-mounted and drove up to the door with as much dash as he could raise. Facey stood looking, and calculating how long it would be ere the white horse’s head reappeared at the end of the variegated holly hedge, that protected the Gilroy hereditaments from the cutting east wind. Then he wondered whether the fellow would have the sense to shut the gate, or would just leave it open as it was.
