Mr. Punch in the Hunting Field
Part 1
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MR. PUNCH IN THE HUNTING FIELD
PUNCH LIBRARY OF HUMOUR
Edited by J. A. HAMMERTON
Designed to provide in a series of volumes, each complete in itself, the cream of our national humour, contributed by the masters of comic draughtsmanship and the leading wits of the age to "Punch," from its beginning in 1841 to the present day.
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MR. PUNCH IN THE HUNTING FIELD
AS PICTURED BY JOHN LEECH, CHARLES KEENE, PHIL MAY, RANDOLPH CALDECOTT, L. RAVEN-HILL, G. D. ARMOUR, G. H. JALLAND, ARTHUR HOPKINS, REGINALD CLEAVER, CECIL ALDIN, TOM BROWNE, W. L. HODGSON AND OTHERS.
_WITH 173 ILLUSTRATIONS_
PUBLISHED BY ARRANGEMENT WITH THE PROPRIETORS OF "PUNCH"
THE EDUCATIONAL BOOK CO. LTD.
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PUNCH LIBRARY OF HUMOUR
_Twenty-five volumes, crown 8vo, 192 pages fully illustrated_
LIFE IN LONDON COUNTRY LIFE IN THE HIGHLANDS SCOTTISH HUMOUR IRISH HUMOUR COCKNEY HUMOUR IN SOCIETY AFTER DINNER STORIES IN BOHEMIA AT THE PLAY MR. PUNCH AT HOME ON THE CONTINONG RAILWAY BOOK AT THE SEASIDE MR. PUNCH AFLOAT IN THE HUNTING FIELD MR. PUNCH ON TOUR WITH ROD AND GUN MR. PUNCH AWHEEL BOOK OF SPORTS GOLF STORIES IN WIG AND GOWN ON THE WARPATH BOOK OF LOVE WITH THE CHILDREN
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EDITOR'S NOTE
From his earliest days MR. PUNCH has been an enthusiast for the Hunting Field. But in this he has only been the faithful recorder of the manners of his countrymen, as there is no sport more redolent of "Merrie England" than that of the Horse and Hound. At no time in MR. PUNCH'S history has he been without an artist who has specialised in the humours of the hunt. First it was the inimitable Leech, some of whose drawings find a place in the present collection, and then the mantle of the sporting artist would seem to have descended to feminine shoulders, as Miss Bowers (Mrs. Bowers-Edwards) wore it for some ten years after 1866. That lady is also represented in the present work, at pages 49 and 111. Later came Mr. G. H. Jalland, many of whose drawings we have chosen for inclusion here. Perhaps the most popular of his hunting jokes was that of the Frenchman exclaiming, "Stop ze chasse! I tomble, I faloff! _Stop ze fox!!!_" (see page 141). To-day, of course, it is Mr. G. D. Armour whose pencil is devoted chiefly to illustrating the humorous side of hunting; but now, as formerly, most of the eminent artists whose work lies usually in other fields, delight at times to find a subject associated with the hunt. Thus we are able to present examples of Mr. Cecil Aldin and Mr. Raven-Hill in sportive mood, while such celebrities of the past as Randolph Caldecott and Phil May are here drawn upon for the enriching of this, the first book of hunting humour compiled from the abundant chronicles of MR. PUNCH.
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MR. PUNCH IN THE HUNTING FIELD
THE HUNTING SEASON
(_By Jorrocks Junior_)
The season for hunting I see has begun, So adieu for a time to my rod and my gun; And ho! for the fox, be he wild or in bag, As I follow the chase on my high-mettled nag.
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I call him high-mettled, but still I must state, He hasn't a habit I always did hate, He doesn't walk sideways, like some "gees" you meet, Who go slantindicularly down the street.
He's steady and well broken in, for, of course, I can't risk my life on an unbroken horse; You might tie a torpedo or two on behind, And though they exploded that horse wouldn't mind.
My strong point is costume, and oft I confess I've admired my get-up in a sportsmanlike dress; Though, but for the finish their lustre confers, I would much rather be, I declare, without spurs.
They look very well as to cover you ride, But I can't keep the things from the animal's side; And the mildest of "gees," I am telling no fibs, Will resent having liberties ta'en with his ribs.
Then hie to the cover, the dogs are all there, And the horn of the hunter is heard on the air; I've a horn of my own, which in secret I stow, For, oddly enough, they don't like me to blow.
We'll go round by that gate, my good sir, if you please, I'm one of your sportsmen who rides at his ease; And I don't care to trouble my courser to jump, For whenever he does I fall off in a lump.
Then haste to the meet! The Old Berkeley shall find, If I don't go precisely as fast as the wind, If they'll give my Bucephalus time to take breath, We shall both of us, sometimes, be in at the death!
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PROVERBS FOR THE TIMID HUNTSMAN
_Dressing_
There's no toe without a corn.
If the boot pinches--bear it.
_Breakfast_
A snack in time, saves nine.
Faint hunger never conquered tough beef-steak.
_Mounting_
You can't make a hunter out of a hired hack.
The nearer the ground the safer the seat.
_In the Field_
Take care of the hounds, but the fence may take care of itself.
Too many brooks spoil the sport.
One pair of spurs may bring a horse to the water, but twenty will not make him jump.
It is the howl that shows the funk.
Fools break rails for wise men to go over.
Snobs and their saddles are soon parted.
_At Luncheon_
A flask in the hand is worth a cask in the vault.
Cut your sandwiches according to your stomach.
_Coming Home_
The nearer the home, the harder the seat.
_Bed-time_
It's a heavy sleep that has no turning.
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A GENUINE SPORTSWOMAN
_Mrs. Shodditon_ (_to Captain Forrard, on a cub-hunting morning_). "I do hope you'll have good sport, and find plenty of foxes."
_Captain Forrard._ "Hope so. By the way, how is that beautiful collie of yours that I admired so much?"
_Mrs. Shodditon._ "Oh! Fanny! poor dear! Our keeper shot it by mistake for a fox!"
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DIARY OF THE MODERN HUNT SECRETARY
"Capping all non-subscribers is pretty generally resorted to, this season, not only in the shires, but also with provincial packs."--_Daily Press._]
_Monday._--Splendid gallop after non-subscriber. Spotted the quarry on good-looking chestnut, whilst we were drawing big covert. Edged my horse over in his direction, but non-subscriber very wary--think he must have known my face as "collector of tolls." Retired again to far side of spinney and disguised myself in pair of false whiskers, which I always keep for these occasions. Craftily sidled up, and finally got within speaking distance, under cover of the whiskers, which effectually masked my battery. "Beg pardon, sir," I began, lifting my hat, "but I don't think I have the pleasure of knowing your name as a subscri----" But he was off like a shot. Went away over a nice line of country, all grass, and a good sound take-off to most of the fences. Non-subscriber had got away with about a three lengths lead of me, and that interval was fairly maintained for the first mile and a half of the race. Then, felt most annoyed to see that my quarry somewhat gained on me as we left the pasture land and went across a holding piece of plough. Over a stiff post and rails, and on again, across some light fallow, towards a big dry ditch. The hunted one put his horse resolutely at it--must say he rode very straight, but what _won't_ men do to avoid "parting?"--horse jumped short and disappeared from view together with his rider. Next moment I had also come a cropper at ditch, and rolled down on top of my prey. "Excuse me," I said, taking out my pocket-book and struggling to my knees in six inches of mud, "but when you rather abruptly started away from covertside, I was just about to remark that I did not think you were a subscriber, and that I should have much pleasure in taking the customary 'cap'--thank you." And he paid up quite meekly. We agreed, as we rode back together, in the direction in which we imagined hounds to be, that even if they had got away with a good fox, the field would not be likely to have had so smart a gallop as he and I had already enjoyed. Lost my day's hunting, of course.
_Thursday._--Got away after another non-subscriber, led him over four fields, after which he ran me out of sight. Lost my day's hunting again, but was highly commended by M.F.H. for my zeal.
_Saturday._--M.F.H. pointed out five non-subscribers, and I at once started off to "cap" them. Lost another day with hounds--shall send in my resignation.
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THE NEW NIMROD
[Mr. Pat O'Brien, M.P., was first in at the death on one occasion with the Meath Hounds on his bicycle, and was presented with the brush.]
Air--"_The Hunting Day_"
"What a fine hunting day"-- 'Tis an old-fashioned lay That I'll change to an up-to-date pome; Old stagers may swear That the pace isn't fair, But they're left far behind us at home! See cyclists and bikes on their way, And scorchers their prowess display; Let us join the glad throng That goes wheeling along, And we'll all go a-hunting to-day!
New Nimrods exclaim, "Timber-topping" is tame, And "bull-finches" simply child's play; And they don't care a jot For a gallop or trot, Though they _will_ go a-hunting to-day. There's a fox made of clockwork, they say They'll wind him and get him away; He runs with a rush On rails with his brush, So we must go and chase him to-day.
We've abolished the sounds Of the horn and the hounds-- 'Tis the bicycle squeaker that squeals And the pack has been stuffed, Or sent to old Cruft, Now the huntsmen have taken to wheels! Hairy country no more we essay, Five bars, too, no longer dismay, For we stick to the roads In the latest of modes, So we'll bike after Reynard to-day!
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MY LITTLE BROWN MARE
(_A Song for the commencement of the Hunting Season_)
She's rather too lean but her head's a large size, And she hasn't the average number of eyes; Her hind legs are not what you'd call a good pair, And she's broken both knees, has my little brown mare.
You can find some amusement in counting each rib, And she bites when she's hungry like mad at her crib; When viewed from behind she seems all on the square, She's quite a Freemason--my little brown mare.
Her paces are rather too fast, I suppose, For she often comes down on her fine Roman nose, And the way she takes fences makes hunting men stare, For she backs through the gaps does my little brown mare.
She has curbs on her hocks and no hair on her knees; She has splints and has spavins wherever you please? Her neck, like a vulture's, is horribly bare, But still she's a beauty, my little brown mare.
She owns an aversion to windmills and ricks, When passing a waggon she lies down and kicks; And the clothes of her groom she'll persistently tear-- But still she's no vice has my little brown mare.
When turned down to grass she oft strays out of bounds; She always was famous for snapping at hounds; And even the baby has learnt to beware The too playful bite of my little brown mare.
She prances like mad and she jumps like a flea, And her waltz to a brass band is something to see: No circus had ever a horse, I declare, That could go through the hoops like my little brown mare.
I mount her but seldom--in fact, to be plain, Like the Frenchman, when hunting I "do not remain:" Since I've only one neck it would hardly be fair To risk it in riding my little brown mare!
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MISPLACED ENERGY
_Huntsman_ (_seeking a beaten fox_). "Now then, have you seen anything of him?"
_Cockney Sportsman_ (_immensely pleased with himself_). "Well, rather! Why, I've just driven him into this drain for you!"
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A Nice Prospect
_Host_ (_to Perks, an indifferent horseman, who has come down for the hunting_). "Now, look here, Perks, old chap, as you're a light weight, I'll get you to ride this young mare of mine. You see, I want to get her qualified for our Hunt Cup, and she's not up to my weight, or I'd ride her myself. Perhaps I'd better tell you she hasn't been ridden to hounds before, so she's sure to be a bit nervous at first; and mind you steady her at the jumps, as she's apt to rush them; and I wouldn't take her too near other people, as she has a nasty temper, and knows how to use her heels; and, whatever you do, don't let her get you down, or she'll tear you to pieces. The last man that rode her is in hospital now. But keep your eye on her, and remember what I've said, and you'll be all right!"
[_Consternation of Perks_
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'ARRY ON 'ORSEBACK
Our 'Arry goes 'unting and sings with a will, "The 'orn of the 'unter is 'eard on the 'ill:" And oft, when a saddle looks terribly bare, The 'eels of our 'Arry are seen in the air!
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HUNTING "DAY BY DAY"
"The Mudsquashington Foxhounds had a good day's sport from Wotsisname Coverts (which were laid for a large number). They found in Thingamy Woods, rattled him round the Osier Beds, and then through the Gorse, just above Sumware. Leaving this and turning left-handed, he ran on as far as Sumotherplace, where he finally got to ground. Amongst the numerous field were Lord Foozle and Lady Frump, Messrs. Borkins, Poshbury, and Tomkyn-Smith."[A]
[Footnote A: Half a dozen similar paragraphs cut out as being too exciting for the average reader's brain to bear.--ED.]
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AT MELTON
_First Sportsman._ "That crock of yours seems to be a bit of a songster."
_Second Sportsman._ "Yes, he has always been like that since I lent him to a well-known English tenor."
_First Sportsman_ (_drily_). "You should have taken him in exchange."
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RATHER
"Is fox-hunting dangerous?" asks one of our daily papers. A fox informs us that it has its risks.
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PROOF POSITIVE
_Podson_ (_lately returned from abroad_). "Well, I hear you've been having a capital season, Thruster."
_Thruster._ "Oh, rippin'! Why, I've had both collar-bones broken, left wrist sprained, and haven't got a sound horse left in my string!"
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BY THE COVERT SIDE
_Fred_ (_a notorious funk_). "Bai Jove! Jack, I'm afraid I've lost my nerve this season!"
_Jack._ "Have you? Doosid sorry for the poor beggar who finds it!"
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