E-Book, Englisch, Band 15, 2938 Seiten
Reihe: Delphi Series Nine
E-Book, Englisch, Band 15, 2938 Seiten
Reihe: Delphi Series Nine
ISBN: 978-1-78656-117-6
Verlag: Delphi Classics Ltd
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 0 - No protection
* Beautifully illustrated with images relating to Surtees' life and works
* Concise introductions to the novels and other texts
* All 8 novels, with individual contents tables
* Features rare novels appearing for the first time in digital publishing, including 'Plain or Ringlets' and 'Hillingdon Hall'
* The unfinished novel 'Young Tom Hall's Heart-aches and Horses' - first time in digital print
* Images of how the books were first published, giving your eReader a taste of the original Victorian texts
* Excellent formatting of the texts
* Famous works are fully illustrated with John Leech's stunning colour illustrations for the original monthly parts
* Surtees' rare non-fiction, including the seminal 'The Horseman's Manual' - available in no other collection
* A bonus biography
* Scholarly ordering of texts into chronological order and literary genres
Please visit www.delphiclassics.com to browse through our range of exciting titles
CONTENTS:
The Novels
Handley Cross
Hillingdon Hall
Hawbuck Grange
Mr Sponge's Sporting Tour
Ask Mamma
Plain or Ringlets
Mr Facey Romford's Hounds
Young Tom Hall's Heart-aches and Horses
The Shorter Fiction
Jorrocks' Jaunts and Jollities
Mr. Jorrocks
The Non-Fiction
The Horseman's Manual
Hints to Railway Travellers
Nimrod
Fox-Hunting
Fox-Hunting in Past and Present Times
Thoughts on Fortune-Hunting
The Biography
Brief Biography: R. S. Surtees by Thomas Seccombe
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Autoren/Hrsg.
Weitere Infos & Material
CHAPTER II. THE RIVAL DOCTORS AND M.C.
WELL, AS WE said before, when Michael Hardey died, great was the difficulty in the Vale of Sheepwash to devise how the farmer’s hunt was to be carried on. The difficulty was increased by the change that had come over the country itself. After upwards of thirty years’ occupancy of it, Michael witnessed one of those magical revolutions that appear to belong rather to fiction than reality. One Roger Swizzle, a roystering, red-faced, round-about apothecary, who had somewhat impaired his constitution by his jolly performances while walking the hospitals in London, had settled at Appledove, a small market town in the vale, where he enjoyed a considerable want of practice in common with two or three other fortunate brethren. Hearing of a mineral spring at Handley Cross, which, according to usual country tradition, was capable of “curing everything,” he tried it on himself, and either the water or the exercise in walking to and fro had a very beneficial effect on his somewhat deranged digestive powers. He analysed its contents, and finding the ingredients he expected, he set himself to work to turn it to his own advantage. Having secured a lease of the spring, he took the late Stephen Dumpling’s house on the green, where at one or other of its four front windows a numerous tribe of little Swizzles might be seen flattening their noses against the panes. Roger possessed every requisite for a great experimental (qy. quack) practitioner, — assurance, a wife and large family, and scarcely anything to keep them on. Being a shrewd sort of fellow, he knew there was nothing like striking out a new light for attracting notice, and the more that light was in accordance with the wishes of the world, the more likely was it to turn to his own advantage. Half the complaints of the upper classes he knew arose from over-eating and indolence, so he thought if he could originate a doctrine that with the use of Handley Cross waters people might eat and drink what they pleased, his fortune would be as good as made. To this end, therefore, he set himself manfully to work. Aided by the local press, he succeeded in drawing a certain attention to the water, the benefit of which soon began to be felt by the villagers of the place; and the landlord of the Fox and Grapes had his stable constantly filled with gigs and horses of the visitors. Presently lodgings were sought after, and carpeting began to cover the before sanded staircases of the cottages. These were soon found insufficient; and an enterprising bricklayer got up a building society for the erection of a row of four-roomed cottages, called the Grand Esplanade. Others quickly followed, the last undertaking always eclipsing its predecessor, until that, which at first was regarded with astonishment, was sunk into insignificance by its more pretending brethren. The Doctor’s practice “grew with the growth” of Handley Cross. His rosy face glowed with health and good living, and his little black eyes twinkled with delight as he prescribed for each patient, sending them away as happy as princes. “Ah, I see how it is,” he would say, as a gouty alderman slowly disclosed the symptoms of his case. “Shut up your potato trap! I see how it is. Soon set you on your legs again. Was far worse myself. All stomach, sir — all stomach, sir — all stomach — three-fourths of our complaints arise from stomach;” stroking his corpulent protuberancy with one hand, and twisting his patient’s button with the other. “Clean you well out and then strengthen the system. Dine with me at five and we will talk it all over.” With languid hypochondriacs he was subtle, firm, and eminently successful. A lady who took it into her head that she couldn’t walk, Roger had carefully carried out of her carriage into a room at the top of his house, when raising a cry of “Fire!” she came spinning down stairs in a way that astonished herself. He took another a mile or two out of town in a fly, when, suddenly pulling up, he told her to get out and walk home, which she at length did, to the great joy of her husband and friends. With the great and dignified, and those who were really ill, he was more ceremonious. “You see, Sir Harry,” he would say, “it’s all done by eating! More people dig their graves with their teeth than we imagine. Not that I would deny you the good things of this world, but I would recommend a few at a time, and no mixing. No side dishes. No liqueurs — only two or three wines. Whatever your stomach fancies give it! Begin now, to-morrow, with the waters. A pint before breakfast — half an hour after, tea, fried ham and eggs, brown bread, and a walk, Luncheon — another pint — a roast pigeon and fried potatoes, then a ride. Dinner at six, not later mind; gravy soup, glass of sherry, nice fresh turbot and lobster sauce — wouldn’t recommend salmon — another glass of sherry — then a good cut out of the middle of a well-browned saddle of mutton, wash it over with a few glasses of iced champagne; and if you like a little light pastry to wind up with, well and good. — A pint of old port and a devilled biscuit can hurt no man. Mind, no salads, or cucumbers, or celery, at dinner, or fruit after. Turtle soup is very wholesome, so is venison. Don’t let the punch be too acid though. Drink the waters, live on a regimen, and you’ll be well in no time.” With these and such like comfortable assurances, he pocketed his guineas, and bowed his patients out by the dozen. The theory was pleasant both to doctor and patient, and peculiarly suited the jolly air of the giver. We beg pardon for not having drawn a more elaborate sketch of Mr. Swizzle before. In height he was exactly five feet eight, and forty years of age. He had a long fat red face, with little twinkling black eyes, set high in his forehead, surmounted by fullish eyebrows and short bristly iron-grey hair, brushed up like a hedgehog’s back. His nose was snub, and he rejoiced in an ample double chin, rendered more conspicuous by the tightness of an ill-tied white neckcloth, and the absence of all whisker or hair from his face. A country-made snuff-coloured coat, black waistcoat, and short greenish drab trousers, with high-lows, were the adjuncts of his short ungainly figure. A peculiarly good-natured smile hovered round the dimples of his fat cheeks, which set a patient at ease on the instant. This, with his unaffected, cheery, free and easy manner and the comfortable nature of his prescriptions, gained him innumerable patients. That to some he did good, there is no doubt. The mere early rising and exercise he insisted upon, would renovate a constitution impaired by too close application to business and bad air; while the gourmand, among whom his principal practice lay, would be benefited by abstinence and regular hours. The water no doubt had its merits, but, as usual, was greatly aided by early rising, pure air, the absence of cares, regular habits, and the other advantages, which mineral waters invariably claim as their own. One thing the Doctor never wanted — a reason why he did not cure. If a patient went back on his hands, he soon hit off an excuse— “You surely didn’t dine off goose, on Michaelmas-day?” or “Hadn’t you some filberts for dessert?” &c., all of which information he got from the servants or shopkeepers of the place. When a patient died on his hands, he used to say, “He was as good as dead when he came.” The Handley Cross mania spread throughout the land! Invalids in every stage of disease and suffering were attracted by Roger’s name and fame. The village assumed the appearance of a town. A handsome Crescent reared its porticoed front at the north end of the green, to the centre house of which the Doctor removed from his humble whitewashed cottage, which was immediately rased, to make way for a square of forty important houses. Buildings shot up in all directions. Streets branched out, and markets, and lawns, and terraces, stretched to the right and the left, the north, the south, the east, and the west. The suburbs built their Prospect Houses, Rose Hill Villas, Hope Cottages, Grove Places, Gilead Terraces, and Tower View Halls. A fortune was expended on a pump room, opening into spacious promenade and ball rooms, but the speculators never flagged, and new works were planned before those in hand were completed. A thriving trade soon brings competition — another patientless doctor determined to try his luck in opposition to Roger Swizzle. Observing the fitness of that worthy’s figure for the line he had taken, Dr. Sebastian Mello considered that his pale and sentimental countenance better became a grave and thoughtful character so determined to devote himself to the serious portion of the population. He too was about forty, but a fair complexion, flowing sandy locks, and a slight figure, would let him pass for ten years younger. He had somewhat of a Grecian face, with blue eyes, and regular teeth, vieing the whiteness of his linen. Determined to be Swizzle’s opposite in every particular, he was studiously attentive to his dress. Not that he indulged in gay colours, but his black suit fitted without a wrinkle, and his thin dress boots shone with patent polish; turned-back cambric wristbands displayed the snowy whiteness of his hand, and set off a massive antique ring or two. He had four small frills to his shirt, and an auburn hair chain crossed his broad roll-collared waistcoat, and passed a most diminutive Geneva watch into its...
