by R S Surtees
His forte was Hounds, Hunting, and Horses, and on these subjects he was great. Whatever he wrote on other topics only tended to prove this. He had the honour of originating a career that died with him; we shall never see another Nimrod — another man taking the field as he did; received — we might almost say courted — by the great and affluent. He was an acquisition to the hunting world, for he travelled widely, heard all that was going on, and had an abundant stock of stories and anecdotes which, being always told before fresh audiences, were quite as good as if they had been new. He was not an original talker, but his conversation was free from the apparent self-sufficiency of his writing; this characteristic, we believe, was a good deal assumed, from a mistaken idea of keeping up his name in the market. Nimrod was a great character; his name was known throughout the world, and his works will always be in demand among sportsmen.
IV. POMPONIUS EGO.
A CHARACTER.
“HE WILL ABUSE himself into the character of every good quality under the sun.” — Spectator.
Friend. My dear Ego, I’m glad to see you; sit down.
Ego. No thank you; not now. I certainly did come to enjoy an hour’s gossip with you, but that huge brief before you is a hint to me to be gone. I saw by the paper that that cause comes on to-morrow, and understand you are engaged for the defence. I am aware of my infirmity — for that is the best name I can give to the propensity I allude to — so I never take a seat when I call on a friend who happens to be occupied at the time, for, if I do, there I remain. It is a habit I cannot conquer, so I’ll stand for fear of consequences. While one is standing one is going away, as they say. I told Tom Osborne the same thing of myself when I called at his chambers yesterday—” I know I’m a bore,” says I, “when once I sit down; once seated I talk, talk, talk.” But Tom, who certainly is a clever fellow, and does converse better than most men I am acquainted with, insisted that when I do talk, I talk well and to the purpose.
It was civil on his part, but he couldn’t have meant it. I chatter, to be sure, and may pass in a crowd; but as to anything like eminence in conversation — ! By-the-bye, I may as well take a chair while I do stay. As I was saying, he couldn’t have meant it — certainly not in a large sense. I am willing to admit that there are subjects I am as well acquainted with as are the ordinary run of men; broach them, and without vanity I may say I am afraid of no one. But what of that? Where is the merit of talking passably — nay, even of talking in a way which now and then produces an effect that — however, that is not for me to say. I know myself — at least I think I do; and if I excel in anything it most assuredly is not in conversation. Those who are well acquainted with me, indeed, insist on the contrary; but what does that prove? Friends are partial. No, no; believe me, I am a very stupid fellow.
F. Pray, did Osborne say anything to you about a horse he has advised me to buy?
E. — No — not to me — ha, ha, ha! I don’t think he would to me. Well as he understands horseflesh (and few men know more about it) I am positively ashamed to say I am his master there. I have given too much attention to horses — at least I think so, — for I have acquired a knowledge of that subject which few jockeys or dealers have attained. Upon my soul, I think it scarcely a gentlemanlike attainment — I mean to the extent to which I have carried it. I’ll give you my opinion of that horse, but remember you don’t quote me afterwards — I’d rather not be thought critical about horses.
F. — Why, where’s the harm of that? The greatest men in the country —
E. — Yes, that’s true enough. But don’t you think the case of a private gentleman is somewhat different? though I am willing to allow that men of the highest rank do not disdain to — . Well, be it how it may, I am rather knowing upon that point; at any rate it is generally thought so. Lord Scamper, who is the very best judge in all England, said the other day — and he said it in the presence of some of the leaders at Melton and Members of the Jockey Club — that my judgment was superior to that of any man he knew. I don’t think he meant it though — indeed I should hope he did not; for I have no ambition to rank supreme in the circle of — But tell me candidly, now, for you know Scamper — no man knows him better — is he a sincere man? I think he is; and I verily believe he would not utter an opinion he did not entertain. Whether or not, if there be any one subject I am more au fait at than another, it is a knowledge of horses — contemptuously as you may think of me for the confession.
F. To say the truth I think Scamper was laughing at you. You know his lordship is fond of a jest. You remember his extravagant praise of your dancing?
E. You think, then, he was quizzing my dancing? Quiz my dancing! Come, I like that. Mine, who have no pretensions that way. And even if I had, where is the merit of dancing well? I should be ashamed of myself if I were remarkable for so paltry an accomplishment. Nothing annoys me more than to hear it said that I dance well. I do believe it is on that very account that Miss Gossamer is always praising me. You know her? She’s a charming creature. She has good sense, judgment, taste. Now she is an excellent dancer, a pupil of D’Egville’s, and unquestionably understands the thing better than any other person I am acquainted with. An indifferent dancer is her aversion. She will never dance with any one but me if I happen to be present. Isn’t it annoying?
F. No; for my part I should be delighted were it in my power to do anything deserving of praise.
E. — That depends altogether on the nature of what you may be praised for. Now, playing the fiddle, for instance. Would you like to have it said of you that you fiddle well? Would you? And yet, my dear fellow, it has been my misfortune to be told that. No matter! I have a broad back and can bear a great deal. I think it was Lord Chesterfield who said fiddling was not an accomplishment for a gentleman.
F. — Yet I have heard you play.
E. — Oh! — if you call my scraping play! It was Lord Chesterfield, too, who said that whatever is worth doing at all is worth doing well. When I reflect on the time I have thrown away in the practice of that most difficult of all instruments! Well, I am not naturally vain, so I may say there was a time when I thought myself not the very worst performer in the world. But when I heard PaganinI! Bless my soul!
I felt my own littleness. Yet he is not always perfectly in tune; and stopping out of tune is a fault for which no merit can compensate. But then his execution is wonderful — more wonderful than pleasing, perhaps. But expression is my idol. Do you think — never mind what the sapient public have decided — but, between ourselves, do you think expression was his forte? I say nothing; but — Pray, have you a violin in your chambers?
F. — No; but I have a flute.
E. — I hate the flute. I never enter a house where there is a flute but they positively nail me down to play; on that account the very sight of a flute is worse than an emetic to me. But I’m glad you haven’t got a violin, for if I had once got it in my hands (even hating the thing as I do) I shouldn’t have laid it down for an hour. By-the-bye, whose make is your flute? I should just like to try it.
F. — I don’t know where to look for it just now.
E. — I’m right glad you don’t. You know Nichol son? He never sees me but he makes me play “Rode’s Variations,” and two or three other favourite pieces of his. He says that, for an amateur — in short that very few professors could compete with — Haven’t you remarked the pro pensity of certain professors to degrade one to their own level? To pretend that I blow through a stick like a professor of that sublime art! It is cursed impudent, isn’t it?
F. — Yes — to pretend so. As it was in Willis, when he asked you the other day how many lessons in drawing you had given Turner.
E. — That was an impudent sneer. The notion of my giving lessons to Turner, an R.A.! Why, Turner could teach me! Yet I can draw; that I may and will say; for drawing is a gentlemanlike and a manly art — like riding, which, perhaps, I carry a leetle too far. But then I was set on a horse before I could well walk, and have been a constant rid
er all my life. Paradoxical as it may seem, it is nevertheless true, that I should ride better if I did not ride so well.
F. — I don’t clearly understand that.
E. Why, I fear I am remarkable; to confess the truth, I know I am. Who do you think I was mistaken for the day before yesterday?
F. I cannot possibly guess.
E. — A celebrated person, I assure you. In Piccadilly, my horse threw me into a pond of M’Adam’s slush. As I was remounting, a boy called out, “There goes Ducrow!” One hates to be remarkable — at least I do. ’Tis the same thing in driving. Any one who has a tolerable share of practice can handle the ribbons. There’s no merit in it — none in the world. Yet, do the thing in the slightest way differently from other people — I won’t say better — you are a marked man. I once upset the Southampton Telegraph; yet, will you believe me? there wasn’t a soul hurt — except the coachman and guard, and one outside passenger who broke his own leg by falling awkwardly. That was no fault of mine. It was the neatest thing in the way of an overturn I ever saw. Well, I never go that road but I am pointed out as “the gentleman wot upset the Telegraph.”
F. — What have you done with your cab?
E. — Sold it. It was infamously ill-built. It was continually upsetting. There is an awkward post at the corner of Dover Street. Well, three days successively that confounded cab ran against it, went over and spilt me. The last time, as we were getting it upon the wheels again, one of the stage-coach cads bellowed out, “It aren’t worth while to set it up; it will be just in the same way again to-morrow.” Apropos of driving — my tilbury is at the door; so if you have a mind for a ride with me —
F. — No, no, no thank you. But now, Ego, I shall use no ceremony with you — you must go. And let me assure you that whatever else may be said of you, it cannot be said that you are either a vain man or an egoist.
E. Why, I flatter myself — If I know myself at all, certainly vanity is not my foible. And as to egotism, I make it a rule to avoid talking about myself. I never do. I hate the subject. I hate the personal pronoun I. I never use it. I would discard it from the alphabet. I never say I if I can avoid it; and I’m right. There are few points upon which I pretend to be right except this — unless, indeed, when I’m sure I’m right, and then I Well, no one understands my character as well as you do; and, though it may hardly be worth knowing, yet there are points about me which I do think I Good day, I go. No one perceives the proper moment for terminating a visit better than I; and if any body hates boring his friends or talking of himself— ’tis I.
Fox-Hunting
CONTENTS
I. THE DUKE OF BEAUFORT’S AND MR HORLOCK’S.
II. THE PYTCHLEY.
III. THE PYTCHLEY — Continued.
IV. DORSETSHIRE: MR FARQUHARSON’S.
V. DORSETSHIRE — Continued.
VI. LORD ELCHO’S COUNTRY.
VII. THE BEAUTIES OF BECKFORD.
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
I. THE DUKE OF BEAUFORT’S AND MR HORLOCK’S.
MR ROBT. CODRINGTON’S DEATH — MEET AT BADMINTON — THE BLUE AND BUFF — THE DUKE’S HOUNDS — THE KENNELS AND STABLES — THE DUKE’S MULES — MR HORLOCK’S HOUNDS COMPARED WITH OTHERS — THE PACK AT WORK — HIGH REPUTATION OF THE HOUNDS.
I HAD LONG and anxiously desired to see these two celebrated packs; but notwithstanding repeated attempts to do so, have never succeeded until this year [1835].
With regard to the Duke of Beaufort’s, my failure has been due to the fact of his hunting two different countries; though I have frequently hunted within reach of his Oxfordshire country, it has always happened that His Grace was hunting the other: and as to Mr Horlock’s, I rode many miles one morning to meet them on the extremity of their Wiltshire country, and they did not come owing to the frost which had prevented their leaving the home kennel on the previous day. Mention of that morning arouses a painful memory: I accompanied one of the best and most amiable of sportsmen in all Wiltshire, who, having scarcely reached the prime of life and full of health and vigour, bid fair to attain to a good old age, has since passed away.
All who knew Mr Robert Codrington will agree that a more kind-hearted, liberal, excellent man never breathed, and that the blank caused by his untimely death cannot be filled. Wiltshire was justly proud of him.
When I did succeed in seeing the Duke of Beaufort’s hounds I saw them to great advantage. On the 17th January they met at Badminton in Gloucestershire. It was a regular show day; I never saw, even in Leicestershire on a Kirby Gate day, a larger assemblage: there were at least four hundred horsemen, and vehicles of every description from the carriage and four to the one-horse bath-fly. Badminton is a noble place; the house, though large, is not what I should call a fine one, being rather a massive and irregular pile than an elegant mansion; but its height and extent make it grand and imposing, while the extensive well-wooded park and grounds are worthy the residence of one of the most respected of our nobility.
By reason of the frost hounds dad not leave the kennel until a little after the appointed hour which, if I recollect aright, was eleven o’clock; and consequently I had ample time to observe the field mustering without the chains that encircle the carriage drive before the door. I could never bring myself to fancy any colour but scarlet for hunting; and though the Duke of Beaufort’s colour — dark blue lined with buff — looks very well on Mr John Bailey, Mr Anstice, or any man who has his clothes well-made and his appointments in proper keeping, well-cleaned leathers and gloves, bright boots, shining spurs, good saddle and bridle, and good horse, yet, unless the wearer has everything ‘quite tip-top,’ it does not do: — the man looks more like a prosperous farmer or a groom in a footman’s coat than a genuine fox-hunter. Moreover, no colour has the gay dashing appearance of scarlet, and none save yellow is so visible at a distance. The Dukes of Beaufort and Grafton are, I think, the only Masters whose hunts wear the dark colour now; and of the two I prefer the Grafton green to the Beaufort blue; it has the more sporting look, though still wide of the proper mark, or rather, colour.
If, however, I could not admire the style of the followers I was delighted with the hounds as they came trotting on to the lawn attended by the huntsman and two whips in green plush coats, red waistcoats, and black caps, looking as clean and bright as newly-coined sovereigns.
And the hounds! Hunting dogs and bitches together, and perhaps drawing them with an eye to equality of speed rather than to evenness of size, they present a less level appearance than many packs; but, taking any single hound, one is astonished by his beautiful symmetry and immense power. The Duke’s hounds are not large in the sense of high; but for muscularity of limb and strength of loin they are as good as any hounds I ever saw. When so much attention and talent is devoted to the breeding of hounds, it would be presumptuous to pretend that this pack or the other is the best. The Duke hunts from eighteen to twenty couple, and that was the strength of the pack on this day.
Will Long, the huntsman, is a nice weight and a smart figure on horseback; sparely made, he looks taller than he actually is. The first whip is Bullen, formerly whipper-in to Lord Derby’s stag-hounds in Surrey, also a light weight, and one of Nimrod’s Crack Riders; the second whip, Long, a nephew of the huntsman, is a two-season hunter of whom report speaks very favourably.
After Long had paraded his hounds before the house for quarter of an hour or so, the Badminton party mounted; amongst them were young Lord Glamorgan, the Marquess of Worcester’s eldest son, a regular varmint young fellow, and his brother, who rode ponies, and were attended by a groom. Lord Granville Somerset bestrode a handsome chestnut. Everything being ready for a start, Shock Bullen chucked his chin in the air like a pig in windy weather, and the whole cavalcade moved towards the cover.
Real sport is not expected on such occasions — a show place and day; but this was an exception; wonderful to relate, we had an excellent day.
The kennel at Badminton is
not remarkable; it answers all purposes, and that is as much as can be said of the buildings: the hounds are the attraction. The stables, too, which adjoin the house, are old-fashioned; rather narrow stalls, high mangers, and above the head of each horse a ventilator like a candle extinguisher. They are well kept; plenty of good clean straw, and a well-cleaned exercise bridle hanging at each stall. There is something substantial and venerable about everything.
The Duke has a most extraordinary breed of mules; I forget how many he keeps, but one that came through the yard drawing a water-cart was almost as large as a horse.
Mr Horlock’s hounds, as every sportsman knows, were the property of the celebrated John Warde who was M.F.H. for fifty-seven years, during a considerable portion of which he hunted one of the best countries in England — namely, Northamptonshire. Mr Warde devoted no small measure of attention to breeding what he considered the right sort; and one naturally expects something very superior from the hand of so great an authority. The style of hound was, of course, familiar to me, for there is scarcely a kennel in England which does not include some big-headed, heavy, bony-looking animals to which a man may point, saying, “that’s one of John Warde’s sort,” without much fear of being wrong; but I confess that these solitary specimens among the small, sharp-faced, wriggling hounds that are the fashion of the present day, never prepossessed me much in their favour.
There is nothing like judging for oneself, however, and I was glad of an opportunity to see Mr Horlock’s in the field before inspecting them in the kennel. On the 23rd January the meet was at the village of Freshford on the Gloucestershire side of the river Avon, some five or six miles south of Bath. It was just at the break-up of the frost — indeed the thaw had come so suddenly on the evening of the previous day that it was doubtful whether hounds would hunt: and on arriving at the place of meeting the only equestrian on the spot was a miller on a broken-knee’d chestnut pony. This sportsman assured me that “y’earths” were stopped and Mr Horlock was sure to come or send. Thus comforted, I proceeded to ride about the village, slipping and sliding on the sheets of half-melted ice; and presently a scarlet-coated man, accompanied by a friend on a little long-tailed white pony all bespattered with mud, arrived fro in the south; and these were followed from the opposite direction by Sir Louis Lewin Glynn, who brought the joyful tidings that hounds were on the road. Just as the gentleman in scarlet had completed the job of cutting off half the tail of the white pony with a pair of scissors he borrowed for the purpose, an operation he performed with great dexterity in the middle of the street, up came the pack, headed by Charles Treadwell, formerly whipper-in to the Craven. Mr Horlock occupied the huntsman’s place among the hounds, five and twenty couple of them.
