by R S Surtees
The pack were doubtless tired of the long, cold, trashing, stooping day they had had, and gladly followed the example of this juvenile who, though an excellent workman, and a grandson of old Furrier to boot, has a penchant for hare. He is shaped like a greyhound, which perhaps may account for his extraordinary speed; he is one of the fastest hounds in the pack. Well, all this was provoking enough, but the sequel is worse. Monarch, an old favourite that Mr Osbaldeston wanted to keep as a stallion hound, had been ridden over and smashed to pieces. He was not dead when I came up, though it was extraordinary that he lived a minute after the accident; on dissection his ribs were found broken to splinters, as if a cannon ball had passed through him.
So ended the day. The old hound ended his life like a well-bred one, for after tottering along for a mile or two, he reached the Fox and Hounds public house on the Kettering road, and died.
And what said the Squire? Did he foam and rage and storm and abuse or talk at the man who did it? No such thing. The man was a sportsman, and the Squire knew he would no more have ridden over a hound than he would over its master, if he could help it: and, in answer to some one who inquired who had done it, he said, “Why, Mr — , though no man can be more careful, unfortunately jumped upon him.”
The feeling introduction of those words ‘though no man can be more careful’ at such a moment, conveys a better idea of Mr Osbaldeston’s temper and manner in the field than the panegyrics of a thousand writers.
Squire, Farewell!
IV. DORSETSHIRE: MR FARQUHARSON’S.
(1834-1835.)
IDEAS OF DORSETSHIRE — BLOXWORTH DOWNS — DORSETSHIRE MILESTONES — MEET AT CALME — BEN JENNINGS — THE HOUNDS — MR TATCHELL — DORSETSHIRE STILES — THE REV. WM. BUTLER — HIS ADVICE ABOUT HORSES — MEMBERS OF THE HUNT — YELLOWHAM WOOD — A NEW YEAR’S DAY CAP TAKEN.
ABOUT no county in England has more been written than Dorsetshire, and yet there is none of which a stranger can form so slight an idea of its sporting capabilities. Mr Beckford set an example which has been rigidly followed by all subsequent writers; he says the country he hunted was composed of three different sorts, but I do not recollect that in the course of his letters he ever mentioned specifically in what counties those three sorts of country were situated. For this many a day we have had details innumerable, not only of the straightforward progress of old Reynard, but of the devious windings of poor pussy; tracing which the writers invariably confine themselves to the lines run, to opinions of the packs, their Masters and management, as though their readers were as well acquainted with the country, style of the establishments, &c., as themselves. Nimrod, I believe, never hunted in Dorsetshire; and in a volume lately published which contains the pith of all his hunting tours, the sole mention made of Mr Farquharson’s hounds relates to a look he had at them one summer day when he overtook them at exercise near Blandford Race-course.
My own ideas of the county had been based entirely on the stories (and ‘stories’ they very often prove) of people who perhaps were indebted to some one else for their information. I expected to find Mr Farquharson’s country swarming with foxes — foxes streaming in all directions, like ropes of sand, as the poacher said of the hares; to see the hounds chopping one about every half-hour, and old Ben’s cap off half a dozen times in the day, collecting half-crowns for the exploit in the manner of the old Brighton Muggers. As to the country itself, I was prepared for a bad provincial — desperately mountainous, full of impassable ravines, large woods, high banks with hedges on the top, and yawning drains. Of the mountainous nature of it I could have little doubt, having seen the performances of Mr Harding’s mountain harriers so frequently acclaimed.
About ten o’clock one night in the early part of last December I found myself turned out of a Weymouth coach at Blandford; and having transferred myself and traps into a yellow post-chaise, I set out for Bloxworth House, the then hospitable mansion of Colonel Lethbridge, whither I had despatched some horses a few days previously. After rattling a few miles along the Dorchester road the line suddenly diverged up a country lane to the left; and after passing divers fields, commons and opens, and winding about in the tortuous way bye-roads in all countries delight to follow, I found we were on an open down and the road had vanished. The post-boy, who had got off to open a gate, now came past the window to resume his seat, and I hailed him to ask if he was sure he was right. “Oh yez, zur,” he said with a touch of the Zummerzetzhire twang, “it be all right; these be Bloxworth Downs, and the house be just over the hill before us. These ere white heaps you zee mark the road; they be what we call Dorzetshire milestones.” I looked out of the window on the right, and by the light of the moon which gleamed dimly through passing clouds, I saw small heaps of chalk laid at intervals of five or six yards; these, contrasting with the dark sward, pointed out the fine. Thus we eventually arrived at Bloxworth House, a roomy old-fashioned family mansion, the property of Mr Pickard; it stands near Woodbury Hill, the site of a great annual horse-fair.
The first hounds I saw were those of Mr Portman; but, it being only a bye-day (at Bryanstone), and a very bad scenting day to boot, I reserve my remarks upon his establishment until I can place him in the scene of his glory, Stock House in the Vale. I did not meet him there, however, until later; and will give Mr Farquharson the precedence to which he is entitled, not only as the oldest Master of Hounds, but as the one who hunts the largest portion of the country. The first time I met his hounds was at Calme, a handsome residence on the Weymouth side of the country, then occupied by Mr Tobyn, late of the Queen’s Bays. Calme is in the Cadstock, or Cattistock, country, and the hounds came from that kennel.
Of all the countries I have ever been in, this is the most difficult for a stranger to find his way. Finger-posts there are none, downs with their Dorsetshire milestones stretch in all directions, and the cross-roads over the bleak, barren heaths are puzzling beyond description. My line to cover that morning gave me a good insight into the nature of the locality, and had I not had a good pilot in Colonel Lethbridge, who has lived and hunted in the country for many years, I could never have found my way at all.
Calme, I believe, is one of the show meets with Mr Farquharson’s hounds — at all events it is a favourite, as it lets in the Weymouth and Dorchester people, and is moreover in an open country. Notwithstanding the unpropitious weather, a drizzling rain with fog having accompanied us to the meet, there was an immense assemblage in the park; but the sun began to break through just as we arrived. After passing innumerable servants with horses on the carriage road, and making our way through the goodly collection of scarlet coats congregated in the park, we met the hounds coming over the slope of a hill; and Ben, stopping his horse, gave me an opportunity of looking him and them over.
Ben Jennings is precisely the sort of man I had pictured; an extremely clean, most respectablelooking old fellow, with white hair peering from the sides of his black cap, a good intelligent eye, and the mildest, most placid expression of countenance I ever beheld. He is, in fact, an exceedingly fine-looking old man, and I know no servant in England with so respectable and prepossessing an exterior. The other veteran of the establishment, Solomon, was not out this morning, being on the sick-list; but as he showed up a day or two afterwards at Ilsington Wood, I will give his description here. Taller than Ben, he has a long, grave face and white hair; he looks less of the sportsman than I expected, but I believe he is keen, and I saw him exert himself tremendously one day, trying to whip a fox out of a very thick gorse somewhere near Chetterwood. The second whip, Tom, is Ben’s son; he is a sharp, dashing fellow and a fine horseman.
The only peculiarity I remarked in the costume of the hunt servants was that they all wore long brown leather knee-caps, nearly covering the boot-top and reaching above the knee. I have seen servants in other countries where they have to contend with large and deep woodlands, wear such knee-caps; but they do not look sporting. The hounds, I understand, were purchased by Mr Farquharson off Mr Humphrey Sturt of
Critchell, ancestor of the present Mr Sturt, one of the representatives of the county, who succeeded Mr Beckford. They are fine, large, muscular hounds, larger headed, heavier, and more “John Wardeish,” if I may use the expression, than the generality of fox-hounds of the present day, but having a very business-like look about them. The coup d’œil this morning was very brilliant; there were fully two hundred well-mounted horsemen, the majority in scarlet, nearly all wearing the hunt uniform — viz., white collars and F. on the button; the show of beauty on horseback and in the numerous carriages that glided about among the field was such as would have done honour to Leicestershire itself. Indeed the whole scene was highly creditable to the sporting character of Dorsetshire, and showed that the gentry retain the reputation given them by Mr Beckford when he said that “in the country where he lived most of the gentlemen were sportsmen.”
Mr Tobyn gave a sumptuous breakfast to the whole field, and similar hospitality is shown in all parts of the county.
Among other great workmen out this day was the celebrated Mr Tatchell, allowed by all to be one of the very boldest riders, if not the boldest, in England. For a short period he figured in the list of Masters of Foxhounds, hunting part of the country now occupied by Mr Hall. Standing nearly six feet high, large-limbed, and of amazing strength, he is an awful weight on a horse; but notwithstanding this, no man can beat him; in the course of a severe run he takes every opportunity of easing his horse, and all his stud are trained to follow him over gates, Dorsetshire stiles, or any fence he takes on foot. It is at timber that he chiefly saves his mount, jumping off as he approaches and vaulting over with one hand while with the other he puts the horse to it. He bestrode this day a famous weight-carrier, a thoroughbred grey he bought of Mr Hall; one of the most powerful animals of his height I ever saw; a horse, however, that requires a horseman to keep him in order, and in Mr Tatchell he has certainly found his match.
Dorsetshire stiles, I may observe, are a species peculiar to the country — at least I have never seen such in any other; they are substantial deal planks nearly as large as those used in flooring a room, put into posts, but easily taken down by pushing them a little back at one end. At first sight a stranger regards them as rather formidable, and, of course, when talking of the difficulties of their country the Dorsetians generally insinuate that nobody thinks of displacing the timber; but I soon found that this does happen — somehow — making the leap a mere trifle; for it is the stiffness of the plank, not the height of the jump, that makes the place difficult. These stiles are to be found in almost every enclosure as substitutes for the hazel hurdle which so often stops a convenient gap, and the field generally make for the stile in preference to taking the hedge.
Every man who has set foot in Dorsetshire for the purpose of hunting is sure to have met the renowned Mr Butler, called ‘Billy’ by his intimates; for to say that hounds are out is tantamount to saying that he is out, neither weather nor distance ever standing in his way. He is a most extraordinary man, being far advanced towards fourscore, yet retaining all the fun and vivacity of youth; a real sportsman, good sport or bad, he is always good-humoured and gay. Even Mr Meager, with all his antipathy to hunting parsons, must have liked the Rev. William Butler; he was such a kind, sociable, entertaining, agreeable old man. With two horses he would hunt five days a week; but then he rode to hunt, not, like many many men, hunting to ride. All he cared about was seeing hounds work. I remember his observing one day in the midst of one of those interminable woods on the east side of Dorsetshire, that he wished he had a balloon in which to hover over the pack and see all they were doing.
I had the honour of making my bow to this veteran, who observed that he was always glad to be introduced to fox-hunters. “For,” said he, “that simple title tells a man’s tale and saves all unnecessary explanation; and having proved the breed to be a good one I have no desire to change it for any other.” There is a great deal of quaint humour and shrewdness about Mr Butler; I was pleased with a piece of advice I heard him give Colonel Lethbridge at the cover-side one morning. Most men say they always sell their horses when they can get their prices, and the colonel is rather addicted to this. Last winter he had a famous bay horse called The Miller, which he had purchased of Hartley, the sporting miller, immortalised by Ackermann in his Sporting Anecdotes; the fame of this nag reached the ears of Mr Assheton Smith, and hearing that Colonel Lethbridge had set a price upon him, Mr Assheton Smith sent his groom to the meet one morning when Mr Farquharson s hounds met at Ashley Wood on the Hampshire side of the country. The man appeared with a bridle hanging to the pommel of his saddle, looking as though he meant to dismount some gentleman. After dodging about for some time he accosted Colonel Lethbridge, and the latter, after talking a little about the horse, rode on and joined Mr Butler.
“I have had Mr Smith’s groom looking at the horse,” he said.
“Why, you are not going to sell him, are you?” said Mr Butler. “What’s the matter with him?”
“Nothing,” replied the colonel. “I have no fault whatever to find with him.”
“Does he suit you?”
“Capitally! I never had a pleasanter horse in my life.”
“Then,” said Mr Butler, “don’t sell him! Never part with your comforts, my good friend.”
I saw the colonel ride this horse over a five-barred gate in cold blood; the animal took it without the slightest hesitation.
[But here again pen! Here again! Hark back to Calme!]
Mr Farquharson was not out this day, and his place as director of the movements was supplied by his eldest son, James, a very excellent and well-mounted sportsman. His weight being light, he generally rides thoroughbred horses. The place of old Solomon, the first whip, was filled by a groom riding Mr Farquharson’s famous old white horse, on which it was proposed the Master should be painted when the subscription was commenced for the picture for which afterwards was substituted the celebrated Farquharson Vase. The horse is very finely shaped, and looks a hunter all over.
Lord Ilchester was in the field this day, and though somewhat past the age at which deeds of daring are expected, and one who has suffered not a little from accidents in the chase, he is still a very good man with hounds, and there is in his appearance that which bespeaks the sportsman. His lordship is very popular in the Hunt; he took the chair at the presentation of the Vase to Mr Farquharson.
Sir Henry Blackwood, who is, I believe, a sailor, though a welter weight, is one of their very best; and Sir Edward Baker, considering the disadvantage under which he labours, goes well. Mr Hanham is one of the best appointed men in the Hunt; his horses are uncommonly well turned out and he rides neatly. Mr Lyster of Rowton Castle, Shropshire, a son-in-law of the Earl of Shaftesbury, a member of the Hunt, was staying at St Giles’ when I was in Dorsetshire; he is a fine admixture of the gentleman and the sportsman, and does credit to the sporting reputation of the county from which he comes. He had with him some very clever, well-bred horses, low but with great substance and very compact. He is an elegant horseman and a famous man across country. Major Shirley is esteemed a good man, and Colonel Lethbridge, when he liked his horse and was in the humour, could go with any of them: he has now left the county, but will doubtless retain his white collar. Captain Caldwell, formerly of the Queen’s Bays, now a resident in Dorsetshire, goes well and sees more sport with a limited stud than any man there. He is held an excellent judge of a horse, and certainly turns out on a good stamp himself. Besides these I have named there are many others, both among the gentry and yeomen whose names will doubtless occur to me as I proceed on my ramble; so for the present we will turn to the hounds and the day’s sport.
Every person who was so inclined having partaken of Mr Tobyn’s hospitality, the sportsmen mounted their horses and hounds were thrown into cover, drawing some plantations in the neighbourhood of Calme, and going thence in the direction of Weymouth, of which town and of Portland Island in the distance we obtained a view from the heights. We were
unfortunate in not finding, for the wild, open nature of the country and the gorse that straggled about in all directions gave promise of a fox. About two o’clock, having crossed to Bradford Plantations, we did find, but, owing either to want of scent or want of patience on the part of the field or from some of the innumerable wants that attend foxhunting, we made nothing of him. A curious circumstance of the day was the capture of a cock pheasant, which, after leaving a belt of wood for the open, changed its mind and actually flew back in the face of the whole field, and suffered itself to be caught.
