by R S Surtees
These men are nobodies at the covert side; indeed, when there they have no wish to be thought anybody lest they be asked to subscribe. They have generally just taken the meet in their way to some other place — a pigeon match or tithe-commutation meeting, for some humbugs are always commuting their tithes — and will just stay to see the hounds find. If they find and go away — which this sort of gentleman generally does his best to prevent — why then the pigeon match or tithe-commutation meeting lies in the same direction, and by road-riding and an accurate knowledge of the country they generally manage to scramble up or thereabouts; and, of course, glean rare materials for a story against the next time they mount the coach-box. These men were quite unknown in our forefathers’ time. We should think they were post-boys in those days, or perhaps rode mules with the village letter-bags.
There is another race of sportsmen, or rather fox-hunters, still less contemplated by our forefathers — viz., health-hunting fox-hunters. It is no uncommon thing for medical men to recommend the chase just as they would recommend Cheltenham or Harrowgate waters; or more perhaps in lieu of their nauseous draughts labelled “when taken to be well shaken”; for uncommonly well shaken these gentlemen are when they go out. Survey a watering-place field and see how many pallid cheeks attest the truth of this assertion. The bright eye and clear complexion, those indices of a healthy frame of the real sportsman, are not less the offspring of a delighted mind than of a vigorous body. We can tell a fox-hunter almost at a glance — a real one, we mean: there is a nice, neat, quiet, easy manner about him; he is properly shaved and wears neither beard nor chin-wig (those shop-lad appendages!) His linen is virgin white, and well got up; his white cravat is tied without ostentatious bow or flourishing ends; his waistcoat is always high-collared; his coat of dark grey, black, or deep olive, sometimes single-breasted; his drab trousers sit neatly to the leg and meet the instep of a well-made, well-polished Wellington boot, fastened under the foot with equally well-polished leather straps.
You never see a fox-hunter wearing ostentatious jewelry, or in a coat turned up with velvet or in polished boots. He always looks for something that will stand weather. Neither does he convert the boot of the morning into that of the evening; he is all for shoes and stockings then. Since Lord Westmorland died and Sir Charles Knightley and Mr Byng doffed theirs, we have lost the last of the old leather-breeches breed of gentlemen from the streets of London; indeed we scarcely see a top-boot since Lord Euston put his away. We remember old Lord Scarborough with his pig-tail, pepper-and-salt coat, drab unmentionables and tops riding his neat pony up and down the Park; also the late Colonel Jolliffe, next to John Warde the most perfectly dressed man of the old school — George III.’s school — of blue coats and leather breeches. The late Duke of Dorset and his double, the late Mr Delmé Radcliffe, were also particularly neat in their breeches, favouring kerseymeres more than leather, if we remember rightly, with little bunches of ribbon dangling at the knees.
Take John Warde both morning and evening, and we think he was the most perfect example of the old English gentleman we remember. There was a fine substantial, patriarchal air about him that arrested the eye, and extracted the “Who’s that?” which in London betokens conviction that that is “somebody.” We have him in our mind’s eye, driving through the Park on a summer’s afternoon in his old yellow mail-phaeton, jingling like a tambourine, drawn by a couple of underbred horses, in the rumble a couple of equally under-bred lads in broad-brimmed woolly, eight-and-sixpenny-looking hats, dark brown coats turned up with blue and white worsted carriage-lining sort of binding. We say we have him in our mind’s eye, poking down the Park, bowing to Duchesses and nodding to Dukes, and pulling up at the end of Rotten Row to indulge in his jokes and stories with the quickly assembling crowd.
But we have forgotten the man in our description of his vehicle. In these, his latter days, John Warde would give little change out of eighteen stone, therefore the reader may imagine he was tolerably substantial: his hair was white as the driven snow, and his finely shaped head was surmounted by an important-looking broad-brimmed, low-crowned hat. There is something respectable in these old-fashioned “shallows,” and few but characters wear them. John Warde’s ample back was generally clad in blue with bright buttons; a capacious shirt-frill protruded through his acre of buff waistcoat, usually matching in hue the colour of his leathers which, with a little interregnum to exhibit the texture of his stockings, were met by a pair of not over-thick, very well cleaned, rather mahogany-coloured top-boots; his cravat was white, and he retained the old-fashioned ruffle at the cuff instead of the modern wrist-band. In the evening his lower man was encased in shorts and stockings, with shoes and buckles, the now almost discarded nankin breeches being his favourite wear for the summer.
No wonder John Warde was popular, for he had a bright, cheerful, intelligent, friendly countenance that, while it bespoke mirth and good-humour, set every one at ease around him. Had we the pen of Washington Irving we would make old Warde do duty for a thoroughbred example of an old-fashioned English gentleman. Peace to his manes!
To return to the antipodes of John Warde — the invalid. The health-hunting fox-hunter is perhaps the most inoffensive of all the illegitimate off-shoots from the great sporting tree, being as a rule a quiet, timid man always munching biscuits or looking at his watch to see if it is not time to go home to take his medicine. Moreover, he is generally a large subscriber and a good payer too, having no other use for his money but to buy physic, which perhaps he considers hunting saves him. The great spas abound in men of this description, particularly Cheltenham, where the liverless Indians try to bump themselves flesh-colour.
The coffee-housing fox-hunter is also pretty harmless, generally expending his jabber and nonsense before the hounds throw off. We knew a man of this description who, either by chance or design, had established himself in the centre of a country abounding with hounds, where there would be two and sometimes three packs out on a day. He used to send a horse to one meet, ride another to a second, and having “How-do-ye-do’d” to that field, gallop off to see who was out with the other and change his horse; and if he didn’t like his partners in the chase he would proceed in quest of a third pack or try and rejoin the first. Strange to say, this man passed for a sportsman for half a season!
The dress fox-hunter is a terrible bore. These people affect watering-places chiefly, though every Hunt has one or more of such cattle. They are noisy, rattling, jabbering, rapid blockheads, always on the blab or showing off before women. They are generally great swells; everything of the newest and most approved pattern, from the button at their hats to the spur at their heels. They mostly come up at the last moment, just as the Master has exhausted his patience in waiting, and are generally cased in some new-fangled contrivance for keeping that clean which was put on to be dirtied — at least such is the presumption; but the fact is that unless these men get dirtied in coming to covert there is little chance of their getting so after, for if they stay for the find, they are off at the first check, vowing that all chance of sport is over and venting anathemas at a pig, a post or a ploughman. Then see them on the pavé among the ladies! How they strut, how they swagger, how they ring their bright spurs on the flags, and what lies they tell about leaping! Magistrates ought to have jurisdiction over these fellows.
An imaginary fox-hunter is a man who becomes desperately smitten towards the end of a season, or when he is half drunk, and makes all sorts of declarations as to how he means to commence the next one. The former case is usually pure humbug, resorted to for the purpose of lady-catching, dinner-getting or “soft-sawdering” somebody, as Sam Slick would say. We knew an old cavalry colonel who was desperately given that way; and, regiments being moved in the spring of the year, he was afforded great opportunities for practising it. H there happened to be a woodland or late country that carried hounds on in the spring, our hero would appear on the first opportunity after his arrival in an old mulberry-lapped red coat that l
ooked like business, and having introduced himself, or got somebody to introduce him, to the M.F.H., would forthwith give him such a basting of butter as no mortal man could withstand — Horses splendid! Hounds perfection! Master unrivalled! Nothing could be better! Could never be sufficiently grateful to the Commander-in-Chief for sending him into that district! Might he be allowed to take so great liberty as to ask to see the hounds in kennel?
What Master could withstand such adulation? “Pray, my dear sir, come over on Wednesday next, and dine and stay all night; and let us have a regular day of it in the kennel.”
Thus the colonel established a house for himself for the summer. As autumn drew on his keenness increased; he was always riding over to see how the harvest got on — or to dine; beseeching to be informed the very first day there was any possibility of their cub-hunting: “Any time! Daybreak! Middle of the night! All were alike to him; he could not sleep a wink if there was any hunting going on.” When it did begin he took himself off to Town.
Many men have made hunting a stepping-stone to society, and we think it was Nimrod who said that there is no better introduction for a young man of fortune than at the covert-side; an opinion in which we are inclined to concur, provided the young man has gumption enough to keep himself in society when he gets there; but if he merely goes in to get kicked out again, perhaps he may be better away altogether.
The “mahogany” fox-hunter, if we may so christen those who are eager only in their drink, are generally men who have some passion for the chase repressed perhaps by circumstances or bodily infirmity. There are a good many of them, and it is amusing to hear how the proposed stud increases with the increased confidence produced by each succeeding bottle of wine. They generally get out of the difficulty next morning by pretending to be a little drunker than they were, and to have forgotten all about it.
The “political” fox-hunter is another class of sportsman totally unthought of by our ancestors. Counties were not so liable to be disturbed in their days, and the Boroughs carried off all the effervescence of party strife. Politics have now become as widely diffused as fox-hunting; every fellow talks of his political opinions as if they were one of the necessaries of life. We wish Peel would tax them.
We have thus in a rambling sort of way glanced at the various additions fox-hunting has received in modern times, and we think it will be admitted that if subscriptions had kept pace with the influx of followers, the Chase would be in a better condition than it is at present. On the “per contra” account, as the merchants would say, we are sorry to have to write off the once numerous and very respectable class of ecclesiastical sportsmen. The sporting parson of former days was invariably a good fellow; a good fellow in the field, a good companion in the evening, and a good man in his parish. We wish we could say as much for the new-fangled, Jim-Crow-jumping set. Whenever we see one of these over-righteous men that “will not hunt nor shoot, nor lute, nor flute, nor dine with the Squire on Sunday,” we always wish for the good old days of bottle noses and black boots. Agreeing, perhaps, with the Bishop who had no objection to his clergy hunting “provided they didn’t tally ho,” we would ask what harm it can do a parson to enjoy the exhilarating exercise and spirit-giving excitement of hunting? Will he not return to his parish a healthier, a happier, a more contented man? And wifi this communion with the works of his Creator render him less sensible of the duties he owes to the Most High? We think not; we have known many sporting parsons — we have many in our mind’s eye at this moment; and we can safely aver that we never knew a bad man or an insincere friend among them. Nay, more: we will add that we never knew one who was not exemplary in the duties of his parish; and though they might not be quite so flash in the pulpit as some of the cushion-thumpers of the present day, their exemplary lives and their Christian charities did far more towards promoting real religion and happiness among the people than all the cant, the mock humility, pretended abstinence and humbug that characterise the rising generation of ecclesiastics.
IV.
FOX-HUNTING EXPENSES IN EDWARD I.’S TIME — MR DELMÉ RAD-CLIFFE’S ESTIMATE OF COST — EXPENSES OF HUNTING THE CRAVEN COUNTRY — COL. COOK ON PUNCTUAL SUBSCRIBERS — HIS ADVICE TO AVOID POLITICS — BECKFORD’S COUNTRY — FORTUNATE POSITION OF DORSETSHIRE — MR FARQUHARSON’S HUNT SERVANTS — GIFTS TO HUNT SERVANTS — THE FARQU- HARSON VASE.
IT IS RATHER singular, considering how important and prolific a subject it is, that there are but two published estimates of the expense of keeping hounds. One is an account of the cost in the time of Edward the First of keeping what we suppose was then the Royal Hunt; a somewhat different establishment from that of the present day. “Twelve fox-dogs” were all they had, for whose keep an appropriately named person, William de Foxhunte, the King’s huntsman of foxes in divers forests or parks, contracted at the rate of a halfpenny per diem per dog. They hired a horse for the season only; though from the wording of the item “to carry the nets,” and from a subsequent charge of seven shillings for winter shoes for the huntsman and his two boys, we may infer that the whole ceremony was performed on foot, the horse most likely carrying not only the nets but the produce thereof. The annual cost of the whole establishment was £23, 7s. Id.: an amount rather different from that reckoned by Colonel Cook, a practical Master who published his statement about twenty years ago. It is singular, we say, considering in how many breasts the secret reposes, that none but the colonel should have enlightened the public on this point, seeing that, even if his calculations were right in his day, many changes have taken place since both in the value of money and many necessary articles.
Both Mr Grantley Berkeley and Mr Delmé Radcliffe adopt Colonel Cook’s estimate as a basis; Mr Smith and Mr Vyner, we think, are silent on the subject. Mr Berkeley, if we recollect rightly, merely expresses his opinion that Colonel Cook was under the mark; while Mr Delmé Radcliffe says he has not been able to bring his expenses down to the figure at which it is stated the thing should be done. He thinks £2000 a year should hunt Hertfordshire handsomely three days a week, or seven days a fortnight; and certainly, considering the description of country, its propinquity to the great mart of everything, we may expect to find things as dear in Hertfordshire as in any county in England; but we are quite sure that in more remote regions it can be done for a very great deal less money. We may instance the Craven country in Mr Smith’s time; it was hunted four days a week for £1400 a year. Warwickshire in its best days never raised more than £2000 for four and five days a week, and that with two kennels — always a great additional expense.
Subscriptions on paper and realised subscriptions are very different things, as all Masters who have tried can vouch; as also, we make no doubt, for the fact that the noisiest, most troublesome and most presuming fellows in the field are generally the worst and most unpunctual payers. Colonel Cook read a very useful lesson to subscribers on this point — the importance of punctuality in payment — and one that cannot too often be repeated, particularly at the present juncture when we are about to begin another season. Speaking of fox-hunting near London, he says: —
“Should you happen to keep hounds at no great distance from London, you will find many of the inhabitants of the Capital (Cockneys, if you please) good sportsmen, well mounted and riding well to hounds: they never interfere with the management of them when in the field, contribute liberally to the expense and pay their subscriptions regularly. The sum of £50 or £100 is nothing out of an individual’s pocket; but to the Manager of a subscription pack the fact of twenty subscribers, each paying his fifty to a day, is a thing of no small consequence, as he is required to pay for almost every article in advance — old oats, hay, meal, &c.; and the interest of the money amounts to one subscription at least.”
Doubtless the colonel wrote feelingly. Indeed, his work, though infinitely inferior to Beckford’s, gives evidence of ardent and practical sportsmanship. Fox-hunting literature was in its infancy in his day; indeed, we believe Beckford was the only writer extant o
n the subject; and the assertion Colonel Cook makes, that he “had not read Beckford for many years,” is apparent in the different style and structure of his work. We believe it may be said that Beckford and Cook teach all that can be taught by books on hunting: experience after all is the real thing. Still, we like to read the thoughts of practical sportsmen, and time gives importance and authority to what might not have commanded much attention in its own day. Colonel Cook’s estimate, doubtless, was founded on the presumption that everything connected with the hunting establishment was so much additional expense to the Master’s home menage, if we may use the expression; also that everything was paid for at full market price — circumstances that do not generally attend the keeping of a pack of hounds, most men having a certain something of their own that dovetails in with the extra establishment, keeping down the expenses of both; while a local and resident sportsman has many “pulls” in his favour, as the gambling-house keepers say. Resident in his country, he ought to be; for, as Colonel Cook well says, the man who undertakes the management of a pack of fox-hounds will have very little time for other occupation, provided he pays it the attention he ought; and which the gentlemen of the country have a right to expect of him. This, of course, refers to what is called a “hunting country,” where the general feeling of the gentry is in favour of hounds, and where they club their money in proportion to their expectations. Colonel Cook hunted what was then called the Thurlow country, part of Essex and Suffolk; also, we believe, part of Shropshire.
The following is a piece of excellent advice he gives brother Masters of Hounds: —