Bestiality, Intrigue and Claret

How the secrets of this aristocratic family leads one to ask:

Was Harold Macmillan’s Grandmother a Beagle?

Ah . . . Downton! Very much the “Ah . . . Bisto!” of today is it not? That simple, homespun and spruce word that signals the end of seven days of toil amongst the snivelling slum dwellers of the capital, as one places feet up on the chaise longue and contemplates yet another week setting the world to rights and Britain to the Right. In these deeply divisive times the nation congregates pon on a Sunday eve to celebrate the greatest example of our heritage: The Late-Lamented Aristocracy and the centuries in which it was quite right and proper to shoot an errant gamekeeper for snaring one too many rabbits during winter. At least we live in the knowledge that two-thirds of MPs in the present coalition government were educated privately and thus inhabit the sense of self-confidence and acumen that one can only find in those who are of the elite. With this restored pride in the virtues of our past the Downton Phenomenon has led many to investigate the ins and outs and intrigue of that long bygone upstairs-downstairs world; a world of solid backbone, short sharp shock, damn good seeings to and buggery. A glimpse into a particularly private noble family of lairds however asks a great too many questions – some of them unwelcome. This family being the Hoose of Macmillan whose progeny has included not merely Macmillan Publishing but also the sixty-fifth Prime Minister of Great Britain, Sir Harold Macmillan.

These days The First Earl of Stockton, Harold Macmillan is a little recalled and less lamented figure in our national life. His tenure is remembered – if it is remembered for anything – for the carving up of the greatest civilising force for good that man has ever seen (The British Empire) and a stagnant era of economic protectionism that bridged the era of plus-fours and VE Day to “pot” smoking, casual hook-ups and Rock Against Racism. Through it all “Super Mac” was there, waving a seemingly benevolent hand as the barbarians at the gate utilised a great big strap-on of drugs, cocktail parties, humanities degrees and smiling on all our Great British behinds. The reasons for this? Well I like many other conservative historians have drawn my own conclusions. The stifling atmosphere of the “post-war settlement” and the idealisation of something, anything for free is often cited as the driving force behind Macmillan’s stewardship of the Conservative Party at the expense of the great intellectual and patriot Enoch Powell. The real answer however might well be a great deal more carnal . . . and a lot more tawdry . . . you see Macmillan’s submission to the spectre of darkness could well be as a result of a certain, natural inclination. For having undertaken thorough research I believe that this abject surrender of Britain’s interests during this critical period was born not out of young Harold’s nurture amongst the dreaming spires of Eton and Oxford, but out of a deep abiding nature that included interaction (and breeding) with a certain foreign species. 

The beagle is a deeply valued member of the pantheon of Great British pets. Their docile, passive, obedient nature is a comfort to the lonely and a great give away as to the origins of this particular custodian of Number Ten. Their watery eyes of self-depreciation are a mirror as to Macmillan’s lineage - his paternal grandfather originated from a band of hardy Scottish crofters for whom the beagle was a way of life. In spite of Harold’s desire to appear as part of the elite it appears as if the Macmillan’s were relative arrivistes to nobility. On his mother’s side a decidedly foreign sphere of influence is evident. Macmillan’s mother was – sadly – of the American disposition. Her insistence that the young Harold should receive daily French tuition in his youth should have raised alarm bells at the Court of St James, however Macmillan was allowed to penetrate the corridors of power during World War Two rising to the status of trusted aide-de-camp to Churchill, all the time his moistening teary eyeballs seeming to urge on defeat and dance on the grave of an empire that his family had so benefited from. It was well known amongst the liberal minded intelligentsia of the day that the Macmillan's used Beagles to hunt for hare on their Scottish estates. Such as the plotlines of Downton Abbey there remains a sense of the unsaid in the Macmillan family background. The looks, manner and aptitude of the male members of the clan speak a great deal as to their allegiances, and indeed their far-flung Scottish ways. The auld traditions – inherited from ancient celtic days of yore – permeated every event of the season. Whether it have been midsummer by the craggy gorge, or eventide on the heath the Macmillan’s, headed by their doughty Victorian patriarch Daniel Macmillan undoubtedly indulged in the worship of hunting and everything it represented – the beagle being at the utmost of their Caledonian ardour – which would culminate in full-blown sexual congress betwixt man and beast in the wee bairn under the full-moon, or bae the brook as comely Scotch maidens indulged in pagan chanting and rhythmic clapping (think a more obscene version of The Wicker Man and you’re nearly there.) In secret correspondence to his housekeeper Doris, Daniel himself boasted that he’d “seen right way with the wee hoond like” and that “she’s with bairn noo. Fine Maccie-Beagle cross that lad will be.” The grotesque creature that he was referring to? Well if the dates correspond he can only have been referring to none other than Artie Tarleton Belles whose own son would eventually become Prime Minister in 1957.

Whilst happy accidents of eugenics amongst the elite of the tribe of Macmillan are more than evident it is worth recounting the innocent victims amongst the common populace of such bestial copulation. The product of deformed animalistic offspring could regularly be viewed roaming amidst the northern hills of the Isle of Arran well into the twentieth century, as the House of Macmillan consolidated its position in public life by founding the publishing company that still bears the family name. And can it really be a coincidence that Panmacmillan should have chosen to publish the Soldier Dog series for young people? Thereby commemorating Harold’s service in World War One alongside the secret that lies hidden within this ancient Scottish clan.

Whilst we all sit down as a nation and enjoy Downton Abbey this winter for my mind it is worth noting in retrospect that the approval of the beagle and its doe-eyed simplicity has had a widespread effect on our national life. This splicing of another species with the head of government I believe reflected the passing of the generations in tragic-comic form with the downfall of Britain during the 1960s and was reflected in the contrast between the brief soliloquy Margaret Thatcher performed in 1987 for this lapdog of a PM with the seven and a half hour raucous Triumph of Her Will when Lady Thatcher finally passed earlier this year. In the character, ambition and dynamism between the two the contrast could not be higher. Because after all Thatcherite gundogs will always defeat the puppy-like hangdog meanderings of Mr Macmillan as long as there’s a Britain worth fighting for and as long as we don’t possess a Prime Minister who shares 25% of his DNA with a medium size bloodhound.