Complete Works of R S Surtees

by R S Surtees

  We must now treat Beckford and Nimrod like bread and cheese — taking a bite first of one and then the other. Mr Beckford was aware of the difficulties of describing a run: “A fox-chase,” says he at the outset, “is not easy to be described.”

  “It is a hackneyed enough remark,” writes Nimrod in the Quarterly Review, “that both ancient and modern writers make sad work when they attempt a description of Heaven. To describe a run with fox-hounds is not a much easier task.” Beckford again, after declaring his intention to quote Somerville when he can, says “the hour most favourable to the diversion is certainly an early one, nor do I think I can fix it better than to say hounds should be at the covert-side at sun-rising.” Hear Nimrod on that head:— “Com pared to the luxurious ease with which the modern sportsman is conveyed to the field, either lolling in his chaise-and-four, or galloping at 20 miles an hour on his 100 guinea hack, the situation of his predecessor was all but depressing. In proportion to the distance he had to ride were his hours of rest broken in upon,” &c., &c. “Notwithstanding all, however,” Nimrod continues, “we are inclined to suspect that out of a given number of gentlemen taking the field with hounds, the proportion of really scientific sportsmen may have been in favour of the olden times.” We strongly suspect so too. Now for another bite at Beckford, or, more accurately, his quotation from Somerville: —

  .. Delightful scene

  Where all around is gay, men, horses, dogs,

  And in each smiling countenance appears

  Fresh, blooming health and universal joy.

  Then Nimrod: “Let us suppose ourselves at Ashby Pasture in the Quom country with Mr Osbaldeston’s hounds. Let us indulge ourselves with a fine morning in the first week of February, and at least 200 well-mounted men by the coverside.” A hundred and fifty too many, say we; but they will soon be reduced when hounds find....

  Keeping sportsmen in order seems to have been a difficulty in Mr Beckford’s time, even in a woody country and with early risers who may be supposed to have been tempted from their beds in the hope of seeing a run. If this difficulty existed then, how much greater must it be now, with small artificial covers and large fields drawn together by various motives — some to see, some to be seen, some to ride, some to leap, some to race, and some, apparently, for no other purpose than to head the fox. There is a common feeling that what one does oneself cannot be wrong: hence we often see Tom Brown stealing away to a particular point when it would make him “kick up the deuce of a row” if Bill Smith were to do the same thing. Tom argues that there is something about himself that no fox can take exception to, and that the fox will break whether he is there or not; whereas no fox in the world would go away with that great ugly beggar, Bill Smith, staring him in the face.

  There are, perhaps, gentlemen — strangers — who do mischief unintentionally; and for these it would be well to appoint to each hunt an officer who, in accordance with the spirit of the times, might be called the “Station Master.” His duty would be to marshal the field, placing them where they should stand and seeing that they stayed there; also at checks getting them to pull up at a reasonable distance from the hounds, and — oh task of all tasks! — hold their tongues while the huntsman makes his cast. As the office would be troublesome the “Station Master” should be paid; but the improvement in sport would compensate the outlay. At a check by a plantation, for instance, he would gather the field together in one place instead of allowing them straggle about, thwarting the fox’s every endeavour to get away. Many a fox is condemned for a cur because gentlemen won’t give him a chance....

  Beckford’s description of hounds drawing the cover, amplified by the quotation from Somerville, is beautiful; not a word too much. We have the scene before us, and the author’s exultation shows how his heart was in his subject.... It is impossible to better it; we have sporting ardour engrafted on the pure simplicity of country life. Then when the fox breaks, he falls back on Somerville: —

  .. Hark what loud shouts

  Ee-echo through the groves! He breaks away,

  Shrill horns proclaim his flight.

  Beautiful, say we! Beautiful! We hardly know whether we like Beckford’s prose or Somerville’s poetry best.

  Mr Beckford’s adoption of Somerville’s description of country — the rocky hills and craggy steeps, the opponent hill — all show the wild, natural country he contemplated. Riding in such would be out of the question, at least riding in the modern acceptation of the word, which may more properly be called racing. There are not many countries, indeed, adapted for the dashing style of modern times, a fact that seems to be lost sight of by many performers. Descriptions of Leicestershire and what are called the “flying countries,” have set youths elsewhere agog to emulation, forgetful that Nature had denied the stage accommodation. What can be more ridiculous than a set of jealous, hot-headed youthful strangers setting themselves to follow hounds up hill and down dale, through some all but impracticable difficulties, disdaining the guidance of resident sportsmen, as though their honour was involved in not losing sight of the hounds. Again, what can be more disheartening to them, after pounding, crashing, and floundering through thicket, thorn and morass, coming out blood-stained, torn and muddy, to find the rest of the field cool and comfortable with the hounds, having spared themselves all superfluous risk and exertion?

  “Oh, but then they didn’t go with the hounds,” says one as he wipes the thick of the mud from his face. “A set of d — d macadamisers!” says another, trying to restore a crushed hat to its original shape.

  Colonel Cook, writing above 20 years ago, notices the difference that had taken place in riding in his time, and doubtless the change has been much greater since: “... you will have no small trouble to prevent your field from getting too forward. Most men of the present day, if they can find cash to purchase a hunter, have nerves to ride him.”

  Mr Beckford’s hounds are now running in cover, and the Master again borrows from Somerville: —

  Heav’ns! What melodious strains! How beat our hearts, Big with tumultuous joy! The loaded gales Breathe harmony...

  It is good enough. Between them Beckford and Somerville make a rare cry!

  If Beckford forestalled Nimrod in the liberal draughts he drew from the poet, the latter embodied the spirit, and realised many of the poet’s imaginary scenes in his Leicestershire run. Indeed we have some of Somerville’s terms introduced by Nimrod. For instance, Mr Green’s noted old mare skimming over the water like a swallow on a summer evening; we have confusion enough in the vale — if not below at all events behind — when out of a field of 200 horsemen, there are only a dozen or so with hounds. And if we have not old age lamenting his vigour spent, we have somebody cursing his cumbrous bulk with, “Out upon this great carcase of mine!”

  For the present we adhere to Beckford; hounds are supposed to have lost the scent, and the Master admonishes the huntsman:— “We press too close upon the hounds! Huntsman, stand still! As yet they want you not.” Then he proceeds to mark each hound at work; it is excellent; so plain, so simple, so characteristic of the sportsman wrapped up in his hounds; we fancy him sitting, breathless with ecstasy, on his horse. We have not heard a word about riding, or anything said as to who had gone well; it has been all hunting. His next quotation, beginning, “Ha! Yet he flies nor yields to blank despair,” advances the run to such a critical point that, unless another check occurs, it is clear the ran must soon be over. That check Mr Beckford introduces; nay, more, he brings the hounds to a fault; and addresses the huntsman again:— “How far did you bring the scent? Have the hounds made their own cast? Now make yours,” &c., &c.

  Their treatment of the subject is so different it would be hard to assign the palm either to Beckford or Nimrod. Their runs are admirable, and each is highly characteristic of the time in which it was written. Beckford’s was written at the close of the last century when hunting was everything and riding little thought of, whale Nimrod wrote at the height of the steeplechasing ma
nia when men rode as if spare necks were to be had as easily as spare stirrup leathers.

  Strike the poetry out of Beckford’s run, and, though nothing would make it tame or insipid, his tale would go into a very small compass. It is true that his “Imaginary Run” was a mere incident in his book, while with Nimrod it was the main feature of an article; further, Beckford wrote to instruct; Nimrod to amuse.

  Mr Beckford’s run, we may observe, has one merit which Nimrod’s is without — it leaves no recollection calculated to depress. True, Beckford kills his fox, but killing a fox, like killing a wolf, is rather a matter of duty than otherwise; not even an old wife ever objects to that; no one has a good word to say for old Reynard. Beckford’s run, cheery, lively, dashing, and spirited, leaves us with nothing to regret. Nimrod’s, on the other hand, is full of human casualties and desperate demands on the generous nature of the horse. The broken collar-bone, the leg, the ribs, the heartless way in which Dick Christian is left to drown or not; above all, the fate of the good little bay horse, must enlist the sympathy of every reader. We question if it was good policy to make the run so disastrous. Many non-hunting people would believe it an accurate description of an everyday occurrence, and women would be afraid to see their husbands or sons in scarlet. We need hardly say it is nearly, if not purely, suppositious; we do not deny that there is often a good deal of soft rolling and tumbling about; but for one accident that occurs in the hunting field, we are quite sure that there are ten on the Road — at least there used to be in the coaching days, when the Road was the Road.

  Therefore, without awarding the palm of superiority to either writer, we will adopt the language of the judges at a cattle-show and say they are both deserving of high commendation.

  Fox-Hunting in Past and Present Times

  From Sporting Magazine, 1843.

  CONTENTS

  I.

  II.

  III.

  IV.

  I.

  DURATION OF MASTERSHIPS — ADVANTAGES OF M.F.H. WHO HUNTS HIS OWN HOUNDS — THE HUNTSMAN THE PIVOT — MASTERS OF THE QUORN — LORD SOUTHAMPTON — SIR HARRY GOOD-RICKE — SIR FRANCIS HOLYOAKE GOODRICKE — LORD SUFFIELD — HIS PURCHASE OF THE LAMBTON HOUNDS — THEIR FAILURE IN LEICESTERSHIRE — MR ROBERTSON’S BID — PRICES PAID FOR HOUNDS — THE PACK BOUGHT FOR £500 — SUCCESS IN THE NORTH — SOLD TO LORD ELCHO — CHANGES IN NORTHAMPTONSHIRE — MR MUSTERS — MR OSBALDESTON — MR WILKINS — DIFFICULTIES OF THE STRANGER M.F.H.

  IT MAY BE observed of Fox-hunting that Masterships of Hounds are either of long continuance or very short-lived; we seldom find any of medium duration, ten or fifteen years; three years or thirty is oftener the thing; not but that three is much oftener the duration than thirty; we think, though, that if a Master gets over that probationary period he is much more likely to go on. The truth, we suppose, is that the management of hounds, like many other things, appears very easy to the superficial observer, yet nevertheless is fraught with troubles, difficulties, and annoyances. To these a man requires seasoning, and three years either inures him or breaks him down. The first season goes off well perhaps; the novelty of the thing pleases; friends are flattering, and even detractors are silent; good sport, it may be, crowns his efforts, and he enters upon his second season with the sanguine expectations born of previous prosperity. Sours now begin to mingle with the sweets; the harvest perhaps is late, and he cannot begin cub-hunting before the time when he should be about taking the field; servants perhaps turn restive, horses turn roarers or hounds riotous, and the season opens with a peck of troubles. Gentlemen huntsmen are certainly not in great request; but a man who can hunt his own hounds has a wonderful advantage over him who cannot, inasmuch as he is his huntsman’s Master, instead of his huntsman being his. It is an uncomfortable position for a gentleman not to be able to blow up a servant from fear that he should pull off his coat and cap and throw up his place just at a period when his Master cannot get another — or at all events one worth having. An amazing deal of a Master’s comfort, or discomfort, depends on the selection of a huntsman. The man has it in his power to assist or thwart a Master in so many ways, and there are so many little niceties depending on his watchfulness and care that too much vigilance and circumspection cannot be exercised in the choice.

  With huntsmen, as indeed with other men, we have always noticed that the cleverest men are the quietest. We do not mean quietest with their hounds alone, but quietest and most unassuming in their manners and conversation. We like a huntsman, a real keen enthusiastic fellow, and infinitely prefer exuberance of spirit, even though it may appear (out of the chase) bordering on familiarity, to the dandified, pedantic language of some of the modern would-be scientific sons of the chase. We look upon the huntsman as the pivot on which the success or failure of a pack turns. We do not say this with reference to his prowess in the field alone, but as employed at home in doing his best for his Master; saving him all the petty troubles and annoyances incident to the management of hounds; verily these are legion.

  A Mastership of Hounds is at best a thankless office — a Mastership with a small, dribbling subscription, little short of purgatory. A lazy, babbling huntsman, a riotous pack of hounds and an intolerant field would be enough to drive any man mad in a month. The worst of it is that somehow or other Masters of Hounds have come to be regarded in very much the same light as another equally well-remunerated class — Members of Parliament. Not a race in the country, not a school to be founded, not a church to be built, not a dead horse to be replaced nor donkey to be subscribed for, but the M.F.H. is booked as a matter of course. Every scamp that tally-ho’s a fox, every fellow that opens a gate or catches a horse, considers himself entitled to have a run at his ale in the evening, just as every vagabond who throws up his hat and roars at an election considers himself entitled to be made an exciseman or a groom to the Queen.

  We began by saying that Masters of Fox-hounds as such are either short-lived or long; and reference to the changes our hunting countries have undergone during the last twenty years will, we think, bear us out. Let us begin with Leicestershire, the grand field of hunting. We will take it from 1823 when Mr Osbaldeston returned to the Quom after two seasons’ absence, while Sir Bellingham Graham took his place. Mr Osbaldeston, or “the Squire” as he was called to distinguish him from the lordly ones in the neighbourhood, kept the country till 1827, making, with his previous occupation, a period of nine years. He was succeeded by Lord Southampton, who continued for two seasons, doing the thing with great spirit, at great expense, and showing extremely good sport. His lordship having removed the establishment to Leicester, and gone to great expense in the way of kennels and stables — building new kennels, converting the bazaar into stables and taking a five years’ lease of a house in the Humberstone Gate, — suddenly resigned the country to the late Sir Harry Goodricke, a gentleman possessed of every essential for hunting Leicestershire satisfactorily, except health.

  We say “every essential,” for he had youth, wealth, station, experience, firmness, horsemanship and popularity. We do not know if his lack of strength was generally suspected — certainly Sir Harry took every means to produce a contrary impression, needlessly exposing himself to the vicissitudes of the season and the inclemency of the weather; but we think he was well aware of it himself, for we have heard that there was scarcely a quack medicine advertised that he did not take. Like most people in a declining state of health he made great preparations for the future. Another new set of kennels was built at Thrussington, new gorse covers were formed, and the prospects of Leicestershire were perhaps never brighter when death terminated Sir Harry’s career. He died in his 37th year on the 21st September 1833 at Ravensdale Park, Co. Louth, the result, it was said, of a cold caught while otter-hunting. But we believe we are correct in saying that he died of decline at about the same age as his father had done. Dining his brief Mastership of the Leicestershire Hounds he received no subscription from the country, and spent, it is said, £6000 annually in hunting it.
We confess, however, that we cannot see how this expenditure could be fairly necessary. To be sure he hunted five or six days a week; but then short packs do in Leicestershire; and hay, corn, meal and those sort of things are not dearer there than in other places. That, nevertheless, is the report.

  Mr Holyoake, now Sir Francis Holyoake Goodricke, having succeeded to the bulk of Sir Harry’s ample fortune, carried on, we believe with a subscription, for two seasons; when he was succeeded [1836] by Mr Errington, brother of Sir Massey Stanley; after whom came Lord Suffield with his 3000 guinea pack, and another new set of kennels at Billesdon to house them. His lordship soon gave way to Mr Hodgson, late of the Holderness Hounds, who in his turn has been replaced by a local sportsman, Mr Greene of Rofieston Hall; Mr Greene is, we believe, the first native Master — if the expression may be used — the country has ever known.

  Thus it will be seen that Leicestershire has had seven Masters in fourteen years, one every two years on the average.

  The frequent changes of hounds has perhaps done more to affect sport in the county than the frequent change of Masters. This is obvious: take the case of a new pack coming from a country where they have been accustomed to neither crowds nor pressure; such hounds naturally fail to give satisfaction in a country such as Leicestershire, where first impressions are everything — where the old saw is verified, “Give a dog a bad name and hang him”; it was “Give the pack no chance and condemn them.” This principle was acted upon to the full in Lord Suffield’s case. Perhaps there was never a more rash experiment made in this country of rash experiments than his lordship’s start as Master. He took the country without possessing a hound, and bought the Lambton pack, unseen, for 3000 guineas! We don’t mean to say that the Lambton hounds were not worth the money, but it rather savoured of buying a pig in a poke to purchase a pack out of a colliery, cinder-burning, railway, subterranean sort of country, without seeing them work and so forming an opinion whether they would suit Leicestershire or not. We believe that neither his lordship nor any one on his behalf saw them at all before they were purchased. If report speaks truly, Mr Ralph Lambton, who was one of the finest of the old “lasting” breed of Masters, showed that the Leicestershire experience of his early life had not been thrown away upon him, for he predicted “want of fair play, and failure.” Some would have thought that the crowning triumph of a veteran Master’s life on retiring from the field would be to have seen his hounds claimed for the reputed first hunting country in the land: not so with Mr Lambton; he knew what Melton men were in his time, and his knowledge of the world did not lead him to think they would be very materially changed for the better. A neighbouring Baronet [Sir Mathew White Ridley] wished to have the hounds, and it was only because Lord Suffield was considered entitled to the first refusal, and commenced with the magnanimous offer of 3000 guineas — upon which, it was said, he would have advanced — that it was thought right he should have them.