Part 20

On the whole the various clubs have had an excellent season, and a great improvement on previous ones. The standard of horses racing in the various classes has improved, and the riding, especially of the amateurs, has been much better than formerly.

With the Gunners and the three line regiments, the Yorkshire Light Infantry, the Munster Fusiliers and the Duke of Cornwall’s Light Infantry, keen on the “Great Game,” together with a large number of civilian Turfites, the prospects for the racing season of 1906 are very promising. Gibraltar and Campamento racing clubs can hardly expect to show such racing as is seen at home, but the writer doubts whether any stranger visiting our racecourses will have any cause to complain of the sport and amusement shown to him.

Half a Century’s Hunting Recollections. V.

Once in my life I have heard a fox cry out when seized by a hound; it was a cub, at Cream Gorse, and Tom Firr jumped down and saved it. The noise was a sort of twang! As I said at the time, it reminded me of the snapping of a harp string. I have more than once seen a fox turn to bay and defy a hound, and in such cases have been very sorry for him if, later on, the end came.

By the way, in my last I was made to say that the M.F.H. often wore a “cap.” I wrote a “hat”; not the same thing quite.

Of fatal accidents—fatal on the spot, I mean—I am happy to say that I have had but little experience. Both victims, however, were friends of mine. The first was Lord Somerville. We were out with Mr. Tailby, and were running from Manton Gorse; the ground was greasy to a degree; poor Somerville, Captain Smith, and I, all rode, I may say, together, at a low post and rails, but wide of each other. I never knew that any one had fallen, but Somerville’s horse, a favourite mare called Honesty, slipped, chested the rail, and landed completely on to him. Death must have been instantaneous. The other unfortunate was my dearest of dear old friends, Captain David Barclay. The accident happened just in front of my second horseman, and at a gap into the Sandy Lane, near Gartree Hill. In this case my poor friend’s mare, a star-gazing little beast, slid into the ditch, a deep one. The rider’s foot was caught on the top of a stake, and he was canted out of the saddle, alighting on his head. From all accounts he was dead when picked up.

To talk of a less sad subject, I may say that my old joke about the Peterborough Show having caused so much bad scenting weather has become quite a stock phrase. We have heard of going back to the bloodhound and the Welsh hound to regain the “tender nose.” Pace “Borderer,” the faults of the Welshmen are riot, babbling, and a disinclination to draw strong gorse, at least this is my limited experience. Whipcord might improve the riot, but I should fear that this class of hound would sulk under punishment. A friend of mine is trying the cross in his kennel; I hope he will succeed with it. As to bloodhounds, I have mentioned the North Warwickshire of 1861–2. They were originally bloodhound and Belvoir, and were first started in the Wheatland country. They were all that could be desired when I saw them.

There was a half-bred bloodhound, called Bonny Lass, in the Ludlow pack, in the days of my youth. I remember she was none of the stoutest with an afternoon fox; but Mr. Sitwell bred from her, and put forward at least one of her daughters, Brilliant (I think, by Harold). But the pure bloodhound is a single-handed dog. I worked one in a scratch pack, but she never would go to cry, nor believe a word that her comrades said. I had a day once with the bloodhound pack started by Lord Wolverton, but then owned by Lord Carrington. We met, by invitation, at the White Hart, Winkfield, and took the deer near Reading, at “something” field. The King, who was out, timed the run at “the best part of three hours,” but the hounds had very little to do with it. I only saw them run, as a pack, over one grass park at Binfield. Lords Carrington and Charles Beresford “rode the deer,” or we should not have known which way she had gone. She was taken in a pond of extra black mud. Beresford went in to take her, thereby giving an opening for some graceful badinage about blue water, and other hues. Except on the one occasion, hounds never seemed to settle even for one field, and there were lots left behind. The Berkshire yokels, who were only too fond of catching up an amiable Ascot staghound, with a view to bucksheesh, on delivery, tried the same game with some of the “Talbots,” but with direful results. They were savage, sulky brutes, and murderously quarrelsome in kennel. My bitch was good tempered enough, and, though noisy on any living scent, quite mute on a drag, which—boys will be boys—I occasionally ran.

Twice I have seen the _haute école_ with hounds, the Quorn each time. The first time the owner of a circus, then performing at Leicester, came out on a trick horse. While we were drawing he cantered across the field and dropped his handkerchief, then, dismounting, sent his horse to fetch it, which the animal did, retriever fashion. Having thus advertised himself, he, when we got away, “took on” all the highest timber which he could find, but was caught by a blind ditch, “to him.” My friend, Dakin, of the Carbineers, offered the man £150 for his horse, which was refused, the price demanded being £300. As I said at the time, I did not know which of the two parties to this transaction was most wanting in wisdom. The horse was a weedy thoroughbred; and, unless one wanted handkerchiefs retrieved, worth in a fair some £30 to £20. The other time matters were more serious. The _venue_ was Scraptoft, as before. But the _impresario_ brought out some half-dozen of his lady riders. Their habits represented all the colours of the rainbow, and their behaviour was most alarming. Their intention seemed to be to wipe out all Melton and Harboro’. Poor Fred Archer’s half a length which he allowed to Mr. Coupland at a fence, was considered short measure, but half a head was more the form of these homicidal houris. At length they received, and took, a hint to the effect that they should not over-fatigue themselves in view of their evening performance.

I have said but little of the Belvoir, as Frank Gillard’s book deals with the days in which I knew them best. But, if I mistake not, he confuses the late Mr. Little Gilmour, an opulent Scotsman, who was a great friend of the late Duke of Rutland, and who, by the way, was a competitor in the Eglinton Tournament, with Mr. (or rather Captain), Parker Gillmore, the explorer, big game shooter, and author (“Ubique”). Mr. Little Gilmour, Lord Gardner, and Lord Wilton were the only ones I knew of the heroes depicted in “The Melton Breakfast,” of which meal the late Sir Frederick Johnstone seems to have had a monopoly. The scene of this banquet is a disputed point. Some say that it is the dining-room at “The Old Club” (which never was a “club” in the ordinary sense of the word), others that it is the coffee-room at the “George.” My “key” describes the servant as the waiter at the “George Inn.” Concerning the many remarkable men, remarkable for other things besides the chase, though of course they were foxhunters, I may, perhaps, be allowed to continue my “havers” in the coming by and by. Yet, two or three men I must crave permission to mention. One was the late Mr. Ambrose Isted, who was mentioned by “Nimrod” in his “Hunting Tours.” Being born deaf, he was also dumb, or nearly so. He was, however, a wonderfully good draughtsman; and, when I stayed in a country house with him, between pantomime and pencils, we got on as regular _compadres_. The engraving of Mr. Osbaldeston and Sir Harry Goodricke in “Silk and Scarlet” is from a sketch by him. I must really tell one tale about him. His property was in the Pytchley country, and I made his acquaintance there in the spring of 1862, when my “base” was Rugby. A brother officer of mine, poor Walter Bagenal, long since dead, was riding at a fence, when Mr. Isted, somewhere close by, made a sound of some kind and held up two fingers. I should never have even guessed his meaning, and should probably have got a “crowner,” but the Irish intuition of poor dear Bagenal rose to the occasion. Perceiving that the warning indicated a “double,” he roused little “Aladdin” and triumphantly cleared both ditches. In another style Mr. Henley Greaves was a wonderful man. What his weight was no one ever knew, but on foot he was a marvel of activity. I once came down with him to the Smite. The squire hailed two yokels, jumped the brook clean on foot, and then received his horse. I tried to imitate him, but “dropped my hind-legs.” Once I, out of curiosity, tried to follow him up a bridle road. He absolutely lost me. The pace he went between the gates, the way they seemed to open spontaneously for him, and the manner in which he slipped away on the further side, are beyond my powers of description.

Another remarkable man in a different way, and in his way a hero, was Mr. Baldwin, “the lion-hunter.” He had made so good a business of a big game shooting campaign in South Africa, that, what between the sale of his spoils, ivory, &c., and of his book—a most clever and amusing work, with no chronicle of the long-bow in it—he managed to have two or three seasons’ hunting in Leicestershire. I may say that I should imagine him to be the only man who has ever taken up a lion for a ride behind him! He confessed that the lion had every reason for annoyance, as he had been insulted by having dogs set on him. Anyhow, he did what I am told that lions seldom do. He not only charged his foe, but followed him up, and, overhauling him, jumped on to the horse’s hindquarters. Naturally the steed disapproved of this arrangement, and then it became a mere question as to whether the man or the lion should be kicked off first. Luckily it was the lion. Had Mr. Leo put his claws into the man’s back, it would have been a case of stand or fall together! Poor Baldwin lost an eye in a most unlucky manner. He never cared what he rode, though he rode them all in the right place; but his stud could not have been described as animals “suitable to carry a lady.” He was trying to open a gate, which was bushed up along the top bar, as in those days many were. In some inexplicable manner he got a thorn into one eye, and, having made up his mind to lose it, gave away a chance, by not only not consulting a specialist, but by coming out hunting again, if not the next day, at a suicidally early date. I last heard of him as hunting in Cheshire, and trust that he is still pursuing the chase.

I can just remember a certain sportsman, who shall be nameless, but who headed so many foxes, that Sir Richard Sutton, when Master of the Quorn, offered to settle an annuity on him, on condition of his leaving the country. Mr. Surtees often stayed at Quorn, and this offer is revived in “Mr. Sponge’s Sporting Tour,” as having been made to him by Lord Scamperdale. The history of the Quorn country is none too complete. Even in your _Hunting Directory_, Mr. Editor, there is no mention of the Donnington Hunt as carried on by the Marquis of Hastings, the last but one. They had very good sport, but I seem to have heard that many of their best things were with bagmen. These were trained, so the story goes, and even physicked. “I know not how the truth may be, I tell the tale as ’twas told to me.” The Marquis, like his son, was never a rider to hounds, but “Nimrod” tells of him that when buying horses from John Potter, of Ashby-de-la-Zouche, he took a delight in larking over all the artificial fences which the trial ground contained. He was passionately fond of hounds, and, judging from a sketch which he made of what he considered a perfect foxhound’s head, a pretty good judge of them. At his death the Hunt was carried on by Mr. J. Storey, of Lockington (the “old Jack Storey” of my youthful days), and, I fancy, Sir Seymour Blane; but to this I cannot swear. Sir Richard Sutton retrieved this country when he began to find the miles rather long between Harborough and Quorn, and put “Young Dick,” grandfather of the present Baronet, to represent him at Billesdon; or was it Oadby? No! I cannot help thinking that Dick Sutton’s kennels were at Skeffington. On this point I must confess myself open to correction.

The men of old time were not so particular about country as the heroes of to-day. Loughborough was the headquarters of the Quorn Hunt under Mr. Meynell, by no means in the cream of the country. The late Admiral Meynell once asked me (in the early sixties) whether Button (properly “Buddon”) Wood, close to Quorn, was still a crack covert. At that time I should think that very few Meltonians could have located the place at all, and it certainly is nasty to get away from. Still, even in those days it was not all beer and skittles. In the diary of Jones, Mr. Meynell’s cork-legged whip, appears this entry: “Found in Mr. Kent’s Thorns” (now generally called Cant’s Thorns). “The gentlemen over-rode the hounds at starting, and we lost him.” I have seen something very much like that happen at that place myself. Certainly a Leicestershire huntsman has not a bed of roses. As poor Tom Firr once said to me, at a check, “Most huntsmen have to think where their fox is gone, but I’ve also to guess where my field is coming to!” And of many men, riders or not, it may be said that, the longer they hunt the less they know about the chase!

No doubt in old days, when foxes were really wild and stout, grand sport was had in rough countries. Any one who has read “Nimrod’s” “Hunting Tours” must allow that. But the men of old times worked harder than the Agamemnons of to-day. “Nimrod,” in his northern tour, mentions the fact of the late Sir David Baird having ridden fifty miles to covert, and the same distance home, after hunting. And I have lived to see certain of the silver-gilt go by train from Melton to a meet at Brooksby, six miles. I should have thought that the bother of catching a train would be far greater than getting on to one’s hack, and cantering to the meet, especially as there are good grass sidings all the way. However, “_Chacun à son gout_,” and this is supposed to be a free country.

I have tried to remember all the packs with which I have ever hunted, not including harriers, whose name would be legion. But I have quite forgotten one, the Surrey Union to wit. I was at a “Crammer’s,” near Leatherhead, and as Paidogogos liked a holiday as well as I did, I got out as often as a certain very tidy little hireling could come. Colonel Sumner was Master, and his kennels were, I think, at Fetcham. He had a hound called Falstaff, of which I believe he thought highly, but I do not remember much about the pack. I _do_ remember, though, a meet at Epsom Windmill, and also seeing a fox found on Box Hill. I see an advertisement in a Highland paper for “freshly caught foxes.” They are to be delivered in the Old Surrey country; I presume that the advertiser has shot his coverts. As he is the son of an old schoolfellow of mine, I will mention neither name nor place.

I can safely say that, out of Leicestershire, the most charming line of country over which I ever rode was with the Meynell. The late Mr. Clowes and Lord Waterpark were then joint masters. I cannot say exactly where we ran, but it was an eight-mile point, all over grass. I only saw one bit of arable, it was certainly not four acres. But I remember it because the fox crossed it (we had no need to do so), and I noticed that the hounds “said more about it” up that furrow than they had been doing over the grass. This was on the Radbourne side, and I believe the cream of the country, as well it may be. The fences, though wanting a hunter, were “nout to boggle a mon,” to quote Mr. James Pigg, and though we had a bit of a brook, it was also of an inviting nature. Lord Harrington went gallantly on a three- or possibly a two-year-old thoroughbred one. He saw the run, at the expense of two or three rolls! I much admired the hounds, having seen the dogs on one day, and the ladies on the Radbourne side. I thought the bitches had more muscle on them than the dogs, but that may have been fancy. One has to see hounds on the flags before one can pass a judgment of this kind. We did not catch our fox, which was a pity, as the hunt, with a kill, would have been perfect.

As droll an arrangement as I ever saw was that by which, with the late Sir Humphrey de Trafford’s Harriers, every one was mounted excepting the huntsman. In a wired country one could understand this, but in those happy days wire had not made its detestable appearance. However, this man legged it to such good purpose, that perhaps a horse would have been thrown away upon him! A certain M.F.H. once gave as his reason for not allowing his huntsman a second horse, that this official took quite enough out of one!

Mr. G. S. Lowe, in the January number, seems under the impression that Osbaldeston’s “Furrier” was a mean-looking black and white hound. I possess a portrait of him, in oils, and must repeat what I wrote about him elsewhere: “Light of bone, and not straight, but no better topped dog is now in the Belvoir pack, and he is the right colour too” (black, white and tan). I do not like the custom of not rounding the ears of foxhounds, if only that the ears are a distinction between a full-grown puppy at walk, and a stray hound, which may be a matter of moment to a whip going back to look for the latter. And I do not think that hounds, in good kennels, have improved at all in the last fifty years. They certainly cannot go faster than Bluecap and Wanton did when, in 1762, they ran four miles in, as nearly as possible, eight minutes. I have always thought that the Quorn couple got “cut off” on that occasion.

Besides we all know that hounds, running a drag, will often leave it if they are pressed upon by horses. Certainly they go fast enough for most of us now. I once, some thirty years ago, saw two Belvoir puppies, outside Old Hills, fairly course down and catch a hare in view. Hares are not at their strongest in October; but I said nothing, and let them enjoy their prey, as I admired their performance, illegitimate though it was!

I fear that we have, as I hinted before, seen the best of foxhunting. New difficulties seem to crop up daily, but the worst of them are the pheasant and the wire fence. Too many foxes are practically bagmen, having been turned down a day or two before the coverts are drawn, and if a hunt is to rent even half the shootings in its limits, hunting will indeed be the sport of the rich, and most likely the _nouveau riche_ at that. Let us hope for the best, but ere now Hope “has told a flattering tale!” I have omitted to mention Mr. George(?) Grey, of Dilston(?), who not only when some 70 years old cut down many of the young Meltonians, but when totally blind, rode over Northumberland, after a pilot, who described the fences as he came to them. Space prevents my saying much about the Cottesmore. At an interval of over forty years, they ran from Launde Wood to Kirby Park, killing each fox, one under the park wall, the other a bit farther on, by the River Wreake. But as space is wanting, good-bye, Brave Boys.

F. J. KING KING.

Rugby Football.

The recent invasion of England by the all-conquering New Zealanders—who established the wonderful record of thirty-one victories out of thirty-two matches played—has arrested the attention of a great many people who hitherto have taken little or no interest in Rugby football. The game as played by these men from over the sea was Rugby football in its most attractive form, and those who were privileged to see their victories over Middlesex or Blackheath, could not fail to be delighted with their skill, nor could they possibly deny the fascinating charm of the game when properly played. But with their departure interest in Rugby is likely to flag, and we are faced with the question, “Why is Rugby football not more popular; how is it that a very large section of the community take no interest in football at all, whilst another large section prefer the charms of Association?”

From the point of view of the player, it is easy to see that the game is not quite suited to every one. Though Rugby is often wrongly considered a rougher game than Association football, it certainly lays a premium on strength and size, whilst there are few things—except perhaps rowing—which make a greater claim on a man’s stamina and endurance. It is, therefore, a game which requires certain natural qualifications and a certain amount of training; hence a large number are excluded from active participation. In Wellington, one single town in New Zealand, over twelve thousand men play Rugby football every Saturday afternoon during the season; it is the national game “down under,” and spectators flock in their thousands to see the matches, but in England a man has so many interests, the open-air life is not so general and the weather conditions not so good.

Perhaps the greatest disadvantage under which Rugby football labours is the fact that it is a winter pastime, and therefore often played in miserable weather. A greasy ball and slippery turf are sufficiently trying to the players; from a spectator’s point of view the game is entirely spoilt, whilst the accommodation provided for the onlookers is frequently most inadequate. At the best of times a covered stand is a cold and draughty place, but it is better than the open field; yet with Rugby clubs the covered stand is often conspicuous by its absence. Moreover, the approaches to so many football grounds are so bad that many people are deterred from patronising the matches; crowded trains followed by a long drive or walk is very damping to the enthusiasm.

Then again, a football match can never be a social function like a cricket match; it therefore loses a great deal of feminine patronage. Except for the small minority, who really understand the game, football is regarded by ladies as a brutal trial of strength, and they fail to see the attraction of grovelling in the mud; but if there was a little tea-party at half-time it would put quite a different complexion on the game. It must also be borne in mind that three of our greatest public schools play a game peculiar to themselves, whilst Charterhouse, Repton, Malvern, Westminster, Radley, Bradfield, Shrewsbury and other big schools play only Association. This means that a very large section of the English youth take absolutely no interest in Rugby at all, though they may—if they go to the Varsity—occasionally watch a Rugby match in the same way that the cricketer patronises the river during Eight’s week.