by R S Surtees
This brings Northamptonshire down to present times, and gives us half a dozen Masters in ten years — rather more than the average that Leicestershire enjoyed.
Having adverted to the increasing luxury of the times with the diminished inclination to support fox-hunting by comparison with the spirit that formerly prevailed, we will resume our observations with an enquiry into that point.
No one with any experience of life will deny that there has been a very great extension of wealth among the middle classes of society within the last quarter of a century, and greatly increased expenditure on their part. We might even reduce the field of observation and say that the last dozen years have produced a great change in the habits of the people. Formerly the man who kept a carriage was looked upon as a sort of independent person; now, or latterly at least, the wonder has been to find a person without a carriage. He who was a Squire in the last century would be little better than a topping farmer in this.
The Metropolis shows this quite as markedly as the country: twenty years ago half a dozen clubs comprised all that existed; now we have them in lines on each side of St James’s Street, along Pall Mall, Cockspur Street, and scattered about St James’s Square, up Waterloo Place, Albemarle Street, Oxford Street, Bond Street, and we know not where else. It is not to be supposed that Londoners fill all these; not at all; they are supported by gentlemen in the country who pay as much for belonging to them as their fathers paid towards the support of a pack of hounds. But the Club fee is a mere drop in the ocean compared to the expense of the annual trip to London — that approved modern mode of spending six months’ income in as many weeks.
Railroads were denounced as detrimental to hunting; but they do far more harm by drawing the superfluous cash into London than by any impediments they present to the chase. “They’ve ruined the country!” exclaimed a politician in the hearing of Lord Althorp’s huntsman, in reference to some great question of the day. “They did that when they made the Grand Junction Canal,” observed the huntsman. “They’ve ruined fox-hunting by the railroads,” exclaims some gentleman, glad to be done with the thing. “So they have,” respond we, “but it is by sucking all the money into London.”
Railroads have brought temptations in the way of many who can neither afford to go to London nor resist it. People hear of Time being Money, which it undoubtedly is to active business men; but every idler adopts the idea, and because he gets to London much more quickly and easily than he used to do, flatters himself with the notion that he is therefore economising. What has he to do when, with all the puffing pace the best built engine can raise, he reaches London? Nothing, most likely; but then he gets up in half a day, instead of a day and a half as formerly. If it hadn’t been for the railway he would never have thought of London. However, there it is; notoriously there is no class of men so hard worked as these same “flying Squires” who cram a fortnight’s doings into a week, go and see everything, wear gloves, strap their trousers under their Wellington boots, and blister their feet strolling on the hot pavements. From Epsom over Ascot is generally the time of their coming, whereby they have the additional opportunity of being ‘done’ over the races or in a gambling booth, or both. The result usually is that, though or Squire gets ‘up and down’ very cheaply, he still spends a great deal more money than he anticipated; money that he would never have thought of spending if it hadn’t been for the confounded railway running near his house and making the journey so easy.
This is a bachelor’s progress, and bachelors are supposed to be the principal supporters of hounds; but when the family subscriber, with his bachelor sons and train of marriageable daughters, is seized with the London mania the consequences are truly disastrous. To be sure the gentleman is seldom to blame; it is generally Madame’s doing, but the consequences are the same. All this arises from the diffusion of wealth among the middle orders, and a willingness to go a little in advance instead of a little in the rear of what they have been. Men in the same class in the last century thought they did uncommonly well if they endured the misery of a couple of assize balls and a race ball during the year, and got their daughters suitably married to neighbours’ sons. Now, like the breeders of hounds, they are all for going from home for fresh blood. To be sure, in enumerating country festivities we have forgotten to mention the Hunt balls of which our worthy man would be a ready promoter; and we really question whether there was not more real business done at these hearty, few-and-far-between festivals than at all the Almacks’, operas, fêtes, and Addlements that bring people together in daily and nightly contact in a London season.
Hounds, we maintain, have always been great conducers to country society, conviviality, and consequently matrimony. They are a comprehensive attraction, enlisting all ages and classes.
The Atherstone Hunt never flourished so vigorously as during the reign of Mr Osbaldeston, aided by his mother’s balls and parties. The Stratfordon-Avon balls given by the Warwickshire Hunt may also be instanced as a favourable example; and what, may we ask, would Cheltenham be in winter without Lord Seagrave and his hounds and their concomitant attractions? Hunt balls, to be sure, are now given in a very different style to what they were formerly; bands from London — Weippert or Collinet — bouquets from Co vent Garden — cakes from Gunter’s; everything expensive. We had almost forgotten to mention the chief expense — champagne; nothing perfect nowadays without champagne! Where it all comes from is the wonder; champagne breakfasts, champagne luncheons, champagne dinners, and champagne suppers. We read in the papers not long ago of a Derby Sweep among grooms, where the winner had to give a couple of dozen champagne to the Club! Fine times indeed! We remember when champagne was thought such a rarity that the giver was generally looked upon as on the highroad to ruin. Now, the wonder — or the scandal — is to dine without it. It is not surprising that the consumption of port wine has decreased. But as we asked before — Where does all the champagne come from?
Returning to our subject — when men turned out at daybreak, or perhaps a little before, in bottle-green coats, drab breeches and mahogany-coloured tops, to find their fox by the drag, hunting for fashion was quite out of the question. During the war the army accommodated all young gentlemen smitten with scarlatina who have since had to be accommodated in the ranks of fox-hunters. We wish Hume or Williams, or some other bothering, question-moving Member, would get a return from all the Hunts in the kingdom showing the number of men who really hunt for the sake of the sport, allowing the huntsman to be judge in the case and make the return. We fear the number would be small. We like to hear the honest confession of a once-fashionable fox-hunter, tired of “fencing alarms” when he lays aside the red coat, candidly admitting that he never had any taste for the sport — punishment, rather. We find no fault with men for not liking fox-hunting; but we pity those who punish themselves and annoy the field by pretending to do so when their every act bespeaks the contrary. One great consolation is that it is a piece of deceit that carries its own punishment with it; and a very severe punishment it is — harder than the treadmill or oakumpicking; for the victim is obliged to appear delighted, whereas in reality he can hardly support himself under the infliction. What a blessing to him is a blank day!
However, there is soon an end to fashionable fox-hunting, for where neither sympathy nor credulity exists it is well to retire and try the hand at something else; but the annual spawn of spurious fox-hunters in some countries seems to keep a perpetual blister on the back of the sport. These youths for the most part are high-bred, high-couraged fellows just starting into life — real life, in contradistinction to College life; which, being a wonderful improvement on school life, is oftentimes mistaken for the real thing until our hero is launched upon the grand arena and finds out the difference. These youths, we say, start with a tremendous dash as if the season could never come early enough or last long enough, and they go at it best pace in the way of expense, leading many of that fine independent breed of sportsmen called Tuft-hunters a weary and mo
st unprofitable dance; they are the admiration of grooms and stablemen until the novelty is exhausted. Then — the bubble bursts; and their places are supplied by a fresh influx of the same green sort. These youths may deceive themselves, but they can never deceive the real fox-hunter; there are certain signs there is no mistaking.
Some men say that fox-hunting does not possess sufficient excitement; meaning thereby that there is no money to be made at it. This is a standard our forefathers never thought of applying; they looked upon fox-hunting as the grand enjoyment of life, the neutral field in which cares and contention were banished, where all met in the common bond of brotherly union; and if they indulged in a bet on the finding of a fox, that was the extent of the extra excitement in which they indulged. The man who thinks fox-hunting does not possess sufficient excitement can have no real liking for the chase. It was, however, that feeling — that hunting lacked due excitement — which introduced the unsportsmanlike steeplechase among us. In calling steeplechases unsportsmanlike we perhaps may offend some who adopted them for the mere purpose of the amusement and excitement they afford, divested of all mercenary feeling in the matter: but very few steeplechases are got up on the principle of mere amusement; and it is the conversion of the generous hunter into a money-making machine and the unfairly heavy taxation of the animals’ powers that we regard as the chief reasons for which steeplechasing is to be condemned. Confound it! In these days of science and improved machinery the greediest among us may spare our hunters from the general occupation of money-making.
That the Steeplechase could long stand its ground, even with fair play, was out of the question; at best it was but an hermaphrodite sort of business, hah hunting, half racing; but the bevy of scamps and vagabonds it brought into the field was enough to drive all respectable competitors out of it and leave the sharks to eat each other. Every year we see steeplechases become fewer and fewer; these and Hurdle-racing were a grievous nuisance to Masters of Hounds in many countries, bringing a lot of lane-riding, skirting, nicking riders into the field, “qualifying,” as they called it; they were always getting before him at critical times, with a grin as if to say, “Here I am, mind! Entitled to my ticket!”
As an off-shoot from these may be mentioned horse-dealing hunters, who are often terrible nuisances. H they have nerve enough they are sure to go ramming and cramming at the start, regardless of hounds, horses or men, to show off over some tremendous fence, and so lay £5 or £10 on to their horse’s price.
If they are short of nerve themselves they generally have some stableman in their confidence who shows off for them, while they go skirting about, pointing out the performance of the animal and recommending it; coining a pedigree, and creating all sorts of bother and confusion, and not unseldom heading the fox. Some men are never happy unless they are selling horses, changing or dealing in some way or other; an unworthy occupation and one which no man with any regard for character will ever take up. We remember a good story in circulation at Cheltenham some years ago respecting a very smart worthy of this sort — a gentleman whose various and curious apparel might admit of his being taken either for a tailor’s son or a horse-dealer’s man; he was a would-be very great man, one you might think would hardly condescend to speak to his groom, let alone fraternise with him. However, he did, and uncommonly thick they were behind the scenes until, as is often the case in such partnerships, the groom proved rather the cuter of the two, and they quarrelled and parted. The groom was very indignant at his treatment, and blabbed all kinds of horse-dealing stories, showing what assistance he had been to his master in selling screws, always winding up with, “The idea of using me so! I who have always treated him as a brother!”
III.
WOULD-BE HORSE-DEALERS — IN THE STREET — ON THE COUNTRY RACE-COURSE — ON THE COACH-BOX — TYPES OF HUNTING MEN — THE HEALTH-HUNTER — DRESS OF TRUE FOX-HUNTER — MR JOHN WARDE — THE INVALID — THE COFFEE-HOUSER— ‘DRESS’ FOX-HUNTERS — THE IMAGINARY — THE ‘MAHOGANY’ — THE POLITICAL — THE SPORTING PARSON.
AFTER HORSE-DEALING FOX-HUNTERS, but lower in the scale, come your small would-be-horse-dealing sportsmen; fellows in duck-hunters, carrying short sticks which are generally acting the part of chin-props or tooth-picks, or straddling with their thumbs stuck in a certain part of their white cord trousers. Every country town has its man or two of this sort; men always on the look-out for a £15 or £20 horse at half-price, or with one they are ready to exchange for a good buggy, a couple of pointers or a quantity of port wine. It is not that these men want a horse or are fond of a horse; it is that they think there is something important in being connected with a horse, and they lug him in on all occasions, just as others lug in their cock acquaintance or great relations, if they have any. If three or four of them get together with an unfortunate wight of a stranger among them, they talk of their brown horses by Flash out of Flam by Fancy out of Flit (for they are devils of fellows at pedigrees), or their chestnut mares by Slang out of Booby’s dam by Blockhead, her dam by Thickhead out of Numskull by Noodle; until a stranger would think they were the greatest stud-owners in the world, instead of mere talkers, generally without a horse at all during three-quarters of the year, or always getting rid of them as fast as ever they can. Weary times the poor horses have while in their hands; weary as a newly joined ensign’s, which is always on the go or getting blistered.
But we have not fully limned our friends yet. These fellows generally infest corners of streets, or if they walk, roll rather, for they have a distinctive gait of their own, they halt suddenly at every passing horse, and stand scrutinising his shape and action until he is out of sight or another comes their way. To watch them you would fancy they had their eye on every horse in the country, and might expect to see them leave the town followed by whole strings tied head and tail, according to the usual approved method, instead of being men that funk the very idea of being closed with for a twenty-pounder, and who are never happy until they get him off their hands again. When in possession of one their usual salute is, “Fine day! Do you know anybody wanting a good horse?” or, “I’ll sell you a horse,” thrust in at every interval in conversation. A naturalist arranging mankind would certainly establish an “I’ll sell-you-a-horse” class of men. The title would be very distinguishing.
The country race-course is the small man’s paradise. How these fellows spurt and scuttle and bustle about, persecute stray dogs crossing the course, look at their watches to see the saddling-bell is rung at the exact moment, jump off their steeds in breathless haste as soon as the horses have started, and rush, book in hand, up to the rickety stand to pull out another half-crown in defence of the first, in consequence of “late intelligence”; all of which is booked with metallic pencil in orthodox betting book, still held open as if they were thinking of more. The horses now come in view; it’s a glorious race; the small man bites his lips and rises on tiptoe. Now he shouts and works an imaginary horse with his arms as if his energy would lend impetus to the favourite; and as pink jacket is proclaimed the winner, he throws his shaved hat in the air, and assumes all the airs of a made man. Should green, however, win his brow lowers, curses long and deep are breathed forth, he slouches his hat over his forehead, and stalks away vowing he must sell his horses and give up all idea of hunting next season.
Another favourite occupation of these men is buying horses and hiring servants for friends; the greatest compliment you can pay them is to request their advice or assistance on such occasions, and woe betide the character of the horse that is bought without their approbation! It is a cheesy, soft, buttery, numb, clumsy, awkward, cross-grained, good-for-nothing brute: or bought far too high; could have got him for ten pounds less. Some men of this description do not hesitate to stand in as middle-men, and get from either buyer or seller, both if they can, a fee for their good word or opinion.
Let us now look at our friend on the coach-box, that fast departing eminence of the flash man’s ambition. How intimate, how confidential, he is wit
h the coachman! He squares his toes exactly as his friend does and gives his coat the orthodox fold over his legs, but speaks not till they are off the stones. Then he opens out — talks over the horses — how each stands his work — how one has worsened, another improved — what they gave for one, what they got for another. The open country attracts his notice; he talks of fences; tells how he would take such a one or negotiate such another; points out the line the fox took on New Year’s Day when he led the field on old Barebones, and devil a man could touch him for seven miles and three-quarters over the stiffest fenced country in the world. (These great feats are generally performed on New Year’s Day.) But though he may talk thus largely to his friend on the box, whose love of baccy and brandy makes him too complaisant to doubt or contradict, our hero knows full well he’s far more of a man for the muggers or long dogs. A great jack hare is a far finer sight in his eyes than ruddy-coated reynard. With what exultation he holds up puss by the hind-legs, and with what delicate care he performs the last rites of the chase lest she be injured for the spit!
