Chapter XXXIX: Mr. Pringle Suddenly Becomes a Member of the H. H

H.

NEXT day being a “dies non” in the hunting way, Sir Moses
Mainchance lay at earth to receive his steward, Mr. Mordecai
Nathan, and hear what sport he had had as well in hunting up
arrears of rent as in the management of the Pangburn Park estate
generally. Very sorry the accounts were, many of the apparent
dullard farmers being far more than a match for the sharp London
Jew. Mr. Mordecai Nathan indeed, declared that it would require a
detective policeman to watch each farm, so tricky and subtile
were the occupants. And as Sir Moses listened to the sad
recitals, how Henery Brown & Co. had been leading off their straw
by night, and Mrs. Turnbull selling her hay by day, and Jacky
Hindmarch sowing his fallows without ever taking out a single
weed, he vowed that they were a set of the biggest rogues under
the sun, and deserved to be hung all in a row,—dom’d if they
didn’t! And he moved and seconded and carried a resolution in his
own mind, that the man who meddled with land as a source of
revenue was a very great goose. So, charging Mr. Mordecai Nathan
to stick to them for the money, promising him one per cent. more
(making him eleven) on what he recovered, he at length dissolved
the meeting, most heartily wishing he had Pangburn Park in his
pocket again. Meanwhile Messrs. Flintoff and Pringle had yawned
away the morning in the usual dreamy loungy style of guests in
country-houses, where the meals are the chief incidents of the
day. Mr. Pringle not choosing to be tempted with any more “pie,”
had slipped away to the stable as soon as Cuddy produced the
dread cigar-case after breakfast, and there had a conference with
Mr. Wetun, the stud-groom, about his horse Napoleon the Great.
The drunkard half laughed when Billy asked “if he thought the
horse would be fit to come out in the morning, observing that he
thought it would be a good many mornins fust, adding that Mr.
Fleams the farrier had bled him, but he didn’t seem any better,
and that he was coming back at two o’clock, when p’raps Mr.
Pringle had better see him himself.” Whereupon our friend Billy,
recollecting Sir Moses’s earnest deprecation of his having stayed
at home for want of a horse the day before, and the liberal way
he had talked of Atalanta and Pegasus, and he didn’t know what
else, now charged Mr. Wetun not to mention his being without a
horse, lest Sir Moses might think it necessary to mount him;
which promise being duly accorded, Billy, still shirking Cuddy,
sought the retirement of his chamber, where he indited an epistle
to his anxious Mamma, telling her all, how he had left Major
Yammerton’s and the dangerous eyes, and had taken up his quarters
with Sir Moses Mainchance, a great fox-hunting Hit-im and Hold-im
shire Baronet at Pangburn Park, expecting she would be very much
pleased and struck with the increased consequence. Instead of
which, however, though Mrs. Pringle felt that he had perhaps hit
upon the lesser evil, she wrote him a very loving letter by
return of post, saying she was glad to hear he was enjoying
himself, but cautioning him against “Moses Mainchance” (omitting
the Sir), adding that every man’s character was ticketed in
London, and the letters “D. D.” for “Dirty Dog” were appended to
his. She also told him that uncle Jerry had been inquiring about
him, and begging she would call upon him at an early day on
matters of business, all of which will hereafter “more full and
at large appear,” as the lawyers say; meanwhile, we must back the
train of ideas a little to our hero. Just as he was affixing the
great seal of state to the letter, Cuddy Flintoff’s “for-rard on!
for-rard on!” was heard progressing along the passage, followed
by a noisy knock, with an exclamation of “Pringle” at our
friend’s door.

“Come in!” cried he; and in obedience to the invitation, Flintoff
stood in the doorway. “Don’t forget,” said he, “that we dine at
Hinton to-day, and the Baronet’s ordered the trap at four,”
adding, “I’m going to dress, and you’d better do the same.” So
saying, Cuddy closed the door, and hunted himself along to his
own room at the end of the passage—“_E’leu in there! E’leu in!_”
oried he as he got to the door.

Hinton, once the second town in Hit-im and Hold-im shire, stands
at the confluence of the Long Brawlinerford and Riplinton brooks,
whose united efforts here succeed in making a pretty respectable
stream. It is an old-fashioned country place, whose component
parts may be described as consisting of an extensive
market-place, with a massive church of the florid Gothic, or
gingerbread order of architecture at one end, a quaint
stone-roofed, stone-pillared market cross at the other, the Fox
and Hounds hotel and posting-house on the north side, with
alternating shops and public houses on the south.

Its population, according to a certain “sore subject”
topographical dictionary, was 23,500, whilst its principal trade
might have been described as “fleecing the foxhunters.” That was
in its golden days, when Lord Martingal hunted the country,
holding his court at the Fox and Hounds hotel, where gentlemen
stayed with their studs for months and months together, instead
of whisking about with their horses by steam. Then every stable
in the town was occupied at very remunerative rents, and the
inhabitants seemed to think they could never build enough.

Like the natives of most isolated places, the Hintonites were
very self-sufficient, firmly believing that there were no such
conjurors as themselves; and, when the Grumpletin railway was
projected, they resolved that it would ruin their town, and so
they opposed it to a man, and succeeded in driving it several
miles off, thus scattering their trade among other places along
the line. Year by year the bonnet and mantle shops grew less gay,
the ribbons less attractive, until shop after shop lapsed into a
sort of store, hardware on one side, and millinery, perhaps, on
the other. But the greatest fall of all was that of the Fox and
Hounds hotel and posting-house. This spacious hostelry had
apparently been built with a view of accommodating everybody;
and, at the time of our story, it loomed in deserted grandeur in
the great grass-grown market-place. In structure it was more like
a continental inn than an English one; quadrangular, entered by a
spacious archway, from whose lofty ceiling hung the crooks, from
whence used to dangle the glorious legs and loins of
four-year-old mutton, the home-fed hams, the geese, the ducks,
the game, with not unfrequently a haunch or two of presentation
venison. With the building, however, the similarity ended, the
cobble-stoned courtyard displaying only a few water-casks and a
basket-caged jay, in lieu of the statues, and vases, and
fountains, and flower-stands that grace the flagged courts of the
continent. But in former days it boasted that which in the eye of
our innkeeper passes show, namely, a goodly line of two-horse
carriages drawn across its ample width. In those days county
families moved like county families, in great, caravan-like
carriages, with plenty of servants, who, having drunk the “Park
or Hall” allowance, uphold their characters and the honour of
their houses, by topping up the measure of intemperance with
their own money. Their masters and mistresses, too, considered
the claims of the innkeepers, and ate and drank for the good of
the house, instead of sneaking away to pastry-cooks for their
lunches at a third of the price of the inn ones. Not that any
landlord had ever made money at the Fox and Hounds hotel. Oh, no!
it would never do to admit that. Indeed, Mr. Binny used to
declare, if it wasn’t “the great regard he had for Lord Martingal
and the gents of his hunt, he’d just as soon be without their
custom;” just as all Binnys decry, whatever they have—military
messes, hunt messes, bar messes, any sort of messes. They never
make anything by them—not they.

Now, however, that the hunt was irrevocably gone, words were
inadequate to convey old Peter the waiter’s lamentations at its
loss. “Oh dear, sir!” he would say, as he showed a stranger the
club-room, once the eighth wonder of the world, “Oh dear, sir! I
never thought to see things come to this pass. This room, sir,
used to be occupied night after night, and every Wednesday we had
more company than it could possibly hold. Now we have nothing but
a miserable three-and-sixpence a head once a month, with Sir
Moses in the chair, and a shilling a bottle for corkage. Formerly
we had six shillings a bottle for port and five for sherry,
which, as our decanters didn’t hold three parts, was pretty good
pay.” Then Peter would open the shutters and show the proportions
of the room, with the unrivalled pictures on the walls: Lord
Martingal on his horse, Lord Martingal off his horse; Mr.
Customer on his horse, Mr. Customer off his horse, Mr. Customer
getting drunk; Mr. Crasher on his horse, Mr. Crasher with a
hound, &c., all in the old woodeny style that prevailed before
the gallant Grant struck out a fresh light in his inimitable
“Breakfast,” and “Meet of the Stag-hounds.” But the reader will
perhaps accompany us to one of Sir Moses’s “Wednesday evenings;”
for which purpose they will have the goodness to suppose the
Baronet and Mr. Flintoff arrayed in the dress uniform of the
hunt—viz., scarlet coats with yellow collars and facings, and Mr.
Pringle attired in the height of the fashion, bundling into one
of those extraordinary-shaped vehicles that modern times have
introduced. “_Right!_” cries the footman from the steps of the
door, as Bankhead and Monsieur mount the box of the carriage, and
away the well-muffled party drive to the scene of action.

The great drawback to the Hit-im and Hold-im shire hunt club-room
at the Fox and Hounds hotel and posting-house at Hinton,
undoubtedly was, that there was no ante or reception room. The
guests on alighting from their vehicles, after ascending the
broad straight flight of stairs, found themselves suddenly
precipitated into the dazzling dining-room, with such dismantling
accommodation only as a low screen before the door at the low-end
of the room afforded. The effect therefore was much the or same
as if an actor dressed for his part on the stage before the
audience; a fox-hunter in his wraps, and a fox-hunter in his red,
being very distinct and different beings. It was quite
destructive of anything like imposing flourish or effect.
Moreover the accumulation of steaming things on a wet night,
which it generally was on a club dinner, added but little to the
fragrance of the room. So much for generalities; we will now
proceed to our particular dinner.

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_Original Size_

Sir Moses being the great gun of the evening, of course timed
himself to arrive becomingly late—indeed the venerable post-boy
who drove him, knew to a moment when to arrive; and as the party
ascended the straight flight of stairs they met a general buzz of
conversation coming down, high above which rose the discordant
notes of the Laughing Hyæna. It was the first hunt-dinner of the
season, and being the one at which Sir Moses generally broached
his sporting requirements, parties thought it prudent to be
present, as well as to hear the prospects of the season as to
protect their own pockets. To this end some twenty or
five-and-twenty variegated guests were assembled, the majority
dressed in the red coat and yellow facings of the hunt,
exhibiting every variety of cut, from the tight short-waisted
swallow-tails of Mr. Crasher’s (the contemporary of George the
Fourth) reign, down to the sack-like garment of the present day.
Many of them looked as if, having got into their coats, they were
never to get out of them again, but as pride feels no pain, if
asked about them, they would have declared they were quite
comfortable. The dark-coated gentry were principally farmers, and
tradespeople, or the representatives of great men in the
neighbourhood. Mr. Buckwheat, Mr. Doubledrill, Mr. James
Corduroys, Mr. Stephen Broadfurrow; Mr. Pica, of the “Hit-im and
Hold-im shire Herald;” Hicks, the Flying Hatter, and his shadow
Tom Snowdon the draper or Damper, Manford the corn-merchant,
Smith the saddler. Then there was Mr. Mossman, Lord Polkaton’s
Scotch factor, Mr. Squeezeley, Sir Morgan Wildair’s agent, Mr.
Lute, on behalf of Lord Harpsichord, Mr. Stiff representing Sir
George Persiflage, &c., &c. These latter were watching the
proceedings for their employers, Sir Moses having declared that
Mr. Mossman, on a former occasion (see page 188, ante), had
volunteered to subscribe fifty pounds to the hounds, on behalf of
Lord Polkaton, and Sir Moses had made his lordship pay it
too—“dom’d if he hadn’t.” With this sketch of the company, let us
now proceed to the entry.

Though the current of conversation had been anything but
flattering to our master before his arrival, yet the reception
they now gave him, as he emerged from behind the screen, might
have made a less self-sufficient man than Sir Moses think he was
extremely popular. Indeed, they rushed at him in a way that none
but Briareus himself could have satisfied. They all wanted to hug
him at once. Sir Moses having at length appeased their
enthusiasm, and given his beak a good blow, proceeded to turn
part of their politeness upon Billy, by introducing him to those
around. Mr. Pringle, Mr. Jarperson—Mr. Pringle, Mr. Paul
Straddler—Mr. Pringle, Mr. John Bullrush, and so on.

Meanwhile Cuddy Flintoff kept up a series of view halloas and
hunting noises, as guest after guest claimed the loan of his hand
for a shake. So they were all very hearty and joyful as members
of a fox-hunting club ought to be.

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_Original Size_

The rules of the Hit-im and Hold-im-shire hunt, like those of
many other hunts and institutions, were sometimes very stringent,
and sometimes very lax—very stringent when an objectionable
candidate presented himself—very lax when a good one was to be
obtained. On the present occasion Sir Moses Mainchance had little
difficulty in persuading the meeting to suspend the salutary rule
(No. 5) requiring each new candidate to be proposed and seconded
at one meeting, and his name placed above the mantelpiece in the
club-room, until he was ballotted for at another meeting, in
favour of the nephew of his old friend and brother Baronet, Sir
Jonathan Pringle; whom he described as a most promising young
sportsman, and likely to make a most valuable addition to their
hunt. And the members all seeing matters in that light, Cuddy
Flintoff was despatched for the ballot-box, so that there might
be no interruption to the advancement of dinner by summoning
Peter. Meanwhile Sir Moses resumed the introductory process, Mr.
Heslop Mr. Pringle, Mr. Pringle Mr. Smoothley, Mr. Drew Mr.
Pringle, helping Billy to the names of such faces as he could not
identity for want of their hunting caps. Cleverer fellows than
Billy are puzzled to do that sometimes.

Presently Mr. Flintoff returned with the rat-trap-like ballot-box
under his arm, and a willow-pattern soup-plate with some beans in
the bottom of it, in his hand.

“Make way!” cried he, “make way!” advancing up the room with all
the dignity of a mace-bearer. “Where will you have it, Sir
Moses?” asked he, “where will you have it, Sir Moses?”

“Here!” replied the Baronet, seizing a card-table from below the
portrait of Mr. Customer getting drunk, and setting it out a
little on the left of the fire. The ballot-box was then duly
deposited on the centre of the green baize with a composite
candle on each side of it.

Sir Moses, then thinking to make up in dignity what he had
sacrificed to expediency, now called upon the meeting to appoint
a Scrutineer on behalf of the club, and parties caring little who
they named so long as they were not kept waiting for dinner,
holloaed out “Mr. Flintoff!” whereupon Sir Moses put it to them
if they were all content to have Mr. Flintoff appointed to the
important and responsible office of Scrutineer, and receiving a
shower of “yes-es!” in reply, he declared Mr. Flintoff was duly
elected, and requested him to enter upon the duties of his
office.

Cuddy, then turning up his red coat wrists, so that there might
be no suspicion of concealed beans, proceeded to open and turn
the drawers of the ballot-box upside down, in order to show that
they were equally clear, and then restoring them below their
“Yes” and “No” holes, he took his station behind the table with
the soup-plate in his hand ready to drop a bean into each
member’s hand, as he advanced to receive it. Mr. Heslop presently
led the way at a dead-march-in-Saul sort of pace, and other
members falling in behind like railway passengers at a pay place,
there was a continuous dropping of beans for some minutes, a
solemn silence being preserved as if the parties expected to hear
on which side they fell.

At length the constituency was exhausted, and Mr. Flintoff having
assumed the sand-glass, and duly proclaimed that he should close
the ballot, if no member appeared before the first glass was out,
speedily declared it was run, when, laying it aside, he emptied
the soup-plate of the remaining beans, and after turning it
upside down to show the perfect fairness of the transaction,
handed it to Sir Moses to hold for the result. Drawing out the
“Yes” drawer first, he proceeded with great gravity to count the
beans out into the soup-plate—one, two, three, four, five, six,
seven, and so on, up to eighteen, when the inverted drawer
proclaimed they were done.

“Eighteen Ayes,” announced Sir Moses to the meeting, amid a
murmur of applause.

Mr. Flintoff then produced the dread “No,” or black-ball drawer,
whereof one to ten white excluded, and turning it upside down,
announced, in a tone of triumph, “_none!_”

“Hooray!” cried Sir Moses, seizing our hero by both hands, and
hugging him heartily—“Hooray! give you joy, my boy! you’re a
member of the first club in the world! The Caledonian’s nothing
to it;—dom’d if it is.” So saying, he again swung him severely by
the arms, and then handed him over to the meeting.

And thus Mr. Pringle was elected a member of the Hit-im and
Hold-im shire hunt, without an opportunity of asking his Mamma,
for the best of all reasons, that Sir Moses had not even asked
him himself.