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  MR FACEY ROMFORD’S HOUNDS

  MR FACEY ROMFORD’S HOUNDS

  Robert S. Surtees

  First published 1865

  This edition 2006

  Nonsuch Publishing Limited is an imprint of The History Press

  The History Press,

  The Mill, Brimscombe Port

  Stroud, Gloucestershire, GL5 2QG

  www.thehistorypress.co.uk

  This ebook edition first published in 2011

  All rights reserved

  Copyright © in this edition 2006 Nonsuch Publishing Limited, 2011

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  EPUB ISBN 978 0 7524 7178 5

  MOBI ISBN 978 0 7524 7177 8

  Original typesetting by The History Press

  CONTENTS

  INTRODUCTION TO THE MODERN EDITION

  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 SECRETARY 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 DÈBUT 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

  INTRODUCTION TO THE MODERN EDITION

  ROBERT SMITH SURTEES WAS BORN in 1805 into an old County Durham hunting family. He was the second son of Anthony Surtees, squire of Hamsterley Hall, a position Robert succeeded to upon the death of his father in 1838. After a privileged and happy childhood, Surtees’ education took him to London, where he practised law after being articled to a solicitor in 1822. His interest in writing, however, overshadowed his legal duties, and he began to make regular contributions to the Sporting Magazine. He soon went on to co-found its rival publication, the New Sporting Magazine, which he edited until 1836. It was during this time that he created the character of John Jorrocks, the sporting grocer, who featured regularly in the magazine in a series of comic sketches, themselves subsequently collected in a book entitled Jorrocks’ Jaunts and Jollities in 1838. It was in this work that Surtees’ love for writing about the world of country sports, and in particular hunting, was first glimpsed, and it was to become a common theme throughout his subsequent novels. Mr Facey Romford’s Hounds was the last such novel, published posthumously in 1865 and often regarded as his greatest work. It followed other successful hunting novels such as Mr Sponge’s Sporting Tour, and tells the story of Facey Romford, a confidence trickster, who, after the unexpected loss of his inheritance, passes himself off as his wealthy namesake in order to become Master of the Heavyside Hunt.

  Mr Facey Romford’s Hounds was written in the period after Surtees had inherited the family property, at which time he became closely involved in the running of the estate. He gladly abandoned his legal career to return to Durham, where he embraced the life of the traditional country gentlemen. His writing was, no doubt, greatly inspired by the society surrounding him, which he so accurately observed from his own prominent social position. Indeed, his love for writing was somewhat overshadowed by his public persona as the ‘huntsman squire’, who became heavily involved in local affairs and politics. His literary style was not appreciated by his contemporaries it took a signifcant period of time for it to receive the credit that it deserves. The depth of detail he provides of the daily lives and activities of English provincial society renders his writings a valuable nineteenth-century social commentary, as well as a wonderful example of satirical humour and rich characterisation.

  Surtees’ novels could still be overlooked today, due to their narrative emphasis upon countryside sports and the narrow audience this may seem to attract. It could well be imagined that the diminishing popularity of fox-hunting would be mirrored by a declining interest in reading about it, especially by those who know very little of it, and particularly in light of the controversies surrounding its status as a sport today. This would, however, ignore the contextual importance of such pursuits at the time in which Mr Facey Romford’s Hounds was written. Fox-hunting had developed over time to be supported by the majority of the landed aristocracy, who often kept their own packs of hounds. Its popularity continued to grow as it began to be enjoyed by local businessmen, laywers and shopkeepers, who set up their own hunt clubs. These clubs could be considered as the social hub of countryside culture, and due to this there developed the concept that hunting was a positive force which brought together the entire rural society in a single activity. The expansion of the railways made it an activity open also to city dwellers. Therefore, novels such as Mr Facey Romford’s Hounds can be seen as detailing a major social activity of the period, enjoyed by both men and women, as well as different social classes. Despite the controversy precipitated by hunting in contemporary Britain, Surtees’ novels continue to hold a great deal of attraction for the modern reader, particula
rly for the rich and colourful portrayal of countryside life they provide. Mr Facey Romford’s Hounds in particular can be appreciated for the delightful way the hunt is brought to life through its larger-than-life characters, satirical humour and entertaining narrative.

  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,1 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 Rornford, 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.2

  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.

  “Dash it, I shou
ldn’t wonder if he was to leave it as it is,” said Facey watching; “these town fellows have no idea of cattle trespass, or anything of that sort, and think gates are just put to divide people’s properties, or for larking foxhunters to leap over.” So Facey looked and looked, keeping one eye on the gate and the other on the old red cow, who knew just as well as a Christian when there was the chance of a dash at the great Scotch cabbages at the back of the garden. Still no horse’s head, no vehicle appeared. “Devilish odd,” said Romford, staring; must be me Oncle Gilroy with a friend. Someone praps come down to see some stock. But it’s never like him to hire a fly with his own gig mare only doing half day’s works. Hope his friend pays for it. Never do to have him wasting the inheritance in that way. Must go and see,” continued Facey. Whistling up Juno, and shouldering his Joe Manton, he went striding away, closely followed by Juno, looking somewhat disconcerted at being done out of her fun. Facey was a capital hand across country, whether on foot or on horseback, and soon put the intervening fields between him and the house behind him. His heart beat quicker as he advanced, for he felt there was something unusual in the sight. He had never seen a shut cab at his uncle’s before. It couldn’t be that the long expected event had happened. Hardly, he thought. What was all the luggage for? However, he would soon see. On he went for the purpose. Kicking the little prop out from under the gate, so as to let it close on the swing, he hurried round the corner, and soon had the familiar house full before him. The fly was gone, gone to the stables behind. Couldn’t be Oncle Gilroy, he wouldn’t stand that, Facey knew. No fly-horses baited there; Red Lion was the place. Hark! sounds of mirth proceed from the parlour, children’s voices screaming and shouting, Barley me this, Barley me that. “Oh, what a drum this will make!” exclaimed another, thumping away at Uncle Gilroy’s hard hat.

  “Who the deuce have we here?” muttered Facey, now lost in astonishment. Pushing through the partially opened sash door, he traversed the passage, and presently stood in the widely opened portals of the parlour. A great coarse-looking woman in deep mourning was arranging her crape bonnet in the diminutive mirror above the little imitation marble mantel-piece just opposite the door, while a perfect sliding scale of children, all clad in black too, were romping and rioting about in a way quite inconsistent with grief,—one had the Gilroy testimonial in its hand. The lady started as she saw Romford in the glass, and wheeling round turned a very brandified face, surmounted by a most palpable flaxen front, full upon him.