Complete Works of R S Surtees

by R S Surtees

“When you are established in a country never interfere with politics; when you turn politician, give up your hounds. If possible, be on terms with all parties, and if they have liberality they will preserve foxes for you; but you must in return do all in your power to oblige them, consistently with the general good of the Hunt. You should also endeavour to gain the goodwill of the farmers; if any respectable body of persons suffer from hunting it is them; and I think it not only ungentleman-like, but impolitic, to treat them in the field or elsewhere otherwise than with kindness and civility. They have a great deal in their power; and if you once gain their respect and esteem, whilst becoming popular amongst them in general, it will save you many a fitter of foxes, and you will go on pleasantly, without any grumbling.”

  Such advice as this may appear almost superfluous, especially that recommendation to be civil to the farmers — gentlemen being supposed to be civil to every one; still, it is well-timed, and, we are sorry to say, not altogether unnecessary. We have seen stiff-backed fools turning up their noses at farmers as if they were altogether unworthy of notice, forgetful of the fact contained in Colonel Cook’s last sentence. The advice about politics ought never to be forgotten: politics should be excluded from fox-hunting as they are from agricultural associations.

  We wish Mr Beckford had given some idea of the cost of hunting a country and keeping a pack of hounds in his time. It would be very interesting and curious to remark the gradual change or increase in expense that has taken place since he wrote. To be sure, he lived in a cheap country — at least in a country where covert-rent, we believe, is little known even at the present day; but his calculations would be just as much a guide with respect to other countries now as they would have been then.

  The country called the Vale of Blackmore, so well known as always possessing the most wonderful hares and remarkable harriers, does not seem to have been included in his range; at least, the general idea derived from the Thoughts is that of a wild, open country, with good covert hunting; not the pewey, hopping, jumping sort of country we find about the “Caundles” and in the Vale. Beckford, in his description of a run, throws in a wood-covert, a far finer idea than the artificiality of a gorse. “How well the hounds spread the covert,” says he; and it is the inability to see them spread that is one of the great drawbacks in a gorse. We know no finer sight than twenty couple of hounds each drawing on his line up a dene, where the movements of every hound, nose to ground, are seen. Putting them into a gorse is very much like swimming them in the sea; in one you see their heads, in the other their stems. “How steadily they draw!” says Beckford. We fancy we see our Master on the opposite side, cheering them on. In a gorse half the hounds may lie down if they like, and take a nap till the horn blows. “How steadily they draw!” You hear not a single hound; yet none are idle. Is this not better than subjection to the continued disappointment from the eternal babbling of unsteady hounds?

  See! How they range

  Dispersed, how busily this way and that

  They cross, examining with curious nose

  Each likely haunt. Hark! on the drag I hear

  Their doubtful notes, preluding to a cry

  More nobly full, and swell’d with every mouth.

  Beckford apprehends that “our friend Somerville was no great fox-hunter”; but we really think those lines would incline us to a contrary opinion. Indeed, Dr Aikin, in his short biographical preface, prefixed to “The Chase” in his Select Works of the British Poets, shows Beckford to have been mistaken. Somerville lived in Warwickshire, which county in his time must have presented one of the finest arenas for field-sports in the kingdom; and we think he not only followed the chase but profited by it — at least profited in one sense, for according to the authority quoted he “injured his fortune” by his attachment to field sports. With every respect for Beckford’s opinion, we confess it would puzzle us to understand how a man, not a sportsman at heart, could write so well and so beautifully on the subject of hunting.

  For a bad scenting country, which the greater part of it is, perhaps no county of its size has so many packs of different sorts within its boundaries as Dorsetshire. Indeed, while other countries are begging for masters, gentlemen in Dorsetshire are contending who shall have the pleasure of keeping packs for the amusement of their neighbours — not who shall have the subscription of their neighbours, but who shall be allowed to spend their own means in the public service. As usual in all cases, there are two sides of the question, and we only allude to the circumstance here (though we hope the differences are adjusted) for the purpose of congratulating the county upon its fortunate position. Nor is the hunting prosperity of Dorsetshire of that flashy, evanescent character that damages other countries — now up, now down, now in request, now deserted; its sporting welfare has been uniform and continuous; and the career of the principal Master, Mr Far-quharson, popular, steady, and unostentatious.

  There may be men who give one the idea of greater keenness and greater love of hunting; but for real quiet, efficient, sporting management, and liberality of the most unassuming kind, there is no superior to Mr Farquharson. There is an apparent system about him and everything belonging to him that looks like permanence. He is getting high up in the list of the “lasting” sort of Masters, entering as he does, we believe, this year on his thirty-eighth season, and having worn out a huntsman and whipper-in since he began. There was something venerable, substantial and business-like in Mr Farquharson’s turn-out during the administration of Ben Jennings and Solomon, the late huntsman and first whip; they were quite patterns of the old style of respectable family servants, now becoming so rare, owing to the migratory habits railroads and the march of intellect have introduced among the present race. Ben and Solomon filled their situations nearly thirty years, and retired with the hearty respect and goodwill of the country, emphasised by the gifts of arm-chairs and silver tankards.

  By the way, mention of these presents brings to our mind the rather inappropriate gifts servants sometimes receive at the hands of brother sportsmen. Far be it from us to say a word in disparagement of that most respectable and praiseworthy class of men, kennel servants; but we cannot help thinking that good, sound, yellow, full-weight sovereigns a much better and more useful gift than silver-gilt hunting horns, fox-head cups, inkstands and other gewgaws; and we cannot regard with approval presentations at “public dinners” after the health of the men has been proposed in neat and appropriate terms, as the newspapers phrase it. All this is burlesque and out of keeping. It does the men little good and tends to bring into ridicule if not contempt marks of respect, suited only to the upper ranks of life. Moreover, the process of converting the guineas into gewgaws has a very diminishing influence on the value of the investment. Take a silver-gilt Race Cup, for instance — a hundred guineas worth: — will any silversmith — will the maker himself — after a lapse of a year, allow one-half the price paid in solid cash? We doubt it: we have heard of a great Cup holder being offered £30 apiece for his valuable acquirements! The same principle applies to minor presents. You cannot convert your Three per Cents into cash without something sticking to the fingers of the banker or broker; and there will be something lost — a good deal, generally — in the transit of the guineas between the pockets of the donors and receivers if they travel round by the jeweller’s shop.

  Encourage meritorious servants by all means; but let your encouragement be such as will be most useful, acceptable and suitable. Money divides and subdivides; but silver tankards and morocco arm-chairs are of use to only one person; and to that one they are frequently an incumbrance rather than a convenience. Though the mention of tankards and easy-chairs has brought the subject to our mind, we beg to add that these presents were utility itself compared to many.

  Presents of plate to the men almost caused us to forget the splendid vase presented to Mr Far-quharson. It was a magnificent gift, worthy of the country, the donors, and the recipient. A portrait of the Master had been proposed, but so much money was
subscribed it was considered impossible to invest it in canvas and paint; the testimonial therefore was given the form of a vase. The gifts to Mr Farquharson’s men represented surplus money.

  We have spoken in detail of Mr Farquharson’s establishment because his name has been longest associated with hunting in the county of Dorset; Lord Portman is an exemplary Master, combining zeal for sport with the higher duties of life; and Mr Drax’s turn-out is inferior to none in the kingdom.

  If the expense of hunting a country had increased so much between Beckford’s time and that of Colonel Cook as to draw from the latter the observation that “a pack of fox-hounds formerly was quite a different thing from what it was in his day, not one-tenth part of the money being expended on the establishment,” we wonder what the colonel would say could he see the increase that has taken place since he wrote some twenty years ago. Of course, we are now speaking generally, and more with reference to the great hunting countries — Leicestershire, Lincolnshire, Northamptonshire, Warwickshire, &c.

  Almost every country in England, good, bad, or indifferent, has latterly had its fox-hounds, and though many of the establishments were doubtless much better on paper than in practice, they looked quite as important as the best to those who did not know them.

  Thoughts on Fortune-Hunting

  IN A SERIES OF VERY FAMILIAR LETTERS ADDRESSED TO THE NICE YOUNG MEN OF THE PRESENT DAY.

  From ‘Ainsworth’s Magazine, 1843’

  CONTENTS

  I.

  II.

  III.

  NOTE.

  “Oh, what a world of vile, ill-favoured faults

  Looks handsome in three thousand pounds a year.”

  SHAKESPEARE.

  “I own I cannot felicitate anybody that marries for love.”

  HORACE WALPOLE.

  I.

  PETER BECKFORD WROTE a large book upon foxhunting; poor Nimrod wrote treatises without end on sporting; we have periodicals devoted to the cause of the horse and the hound; the chase of the stag, the fox and the hare: but never a word that we are aware of on Fortune-Hunting. Fortune-Hunting! That dear, delightful, will-o’- the-wisp pursuit! That pleasantest of all delusions! That most exciting of all exhilarating, soul - stirring, heart - bursting recreations! That brilliant and irresistible torch at which so many gay moths and butterflies flutter and burn their wings! Never has Fortune-Hunting been considered as it deserves. Whether it is that the parties are unwilling to renew their disappointments, or whether the success of the successful makes them indifferent to after - concerns, or whether the chase is so precarious, capricious and uncertain as to defy all rules and regulations, or whatever may be the cause for the silence we know not; but in these days of universal ink-shed it does seem surprising that no one should have attempted to reduce a subject so popular, so comprehensive and so alluring to something like rule. Not only does it embrace the schemes and subtlety of the hunter; it embraces also the wiles, the wariness, the watchfulness of the hunted.

  Only the hand that trimmed the hook, spread the net and set the snare, can tell how nearly the victim took the bait, entered the meshes or grazed the noose. Better far than the fox-hunter can he tell to what point he ran with a breast-high scent when the ardour began to slacken and how the game was ultimately lost. Lord! A good run beginning with the acquaintance of the parties, the manœuvrings of the mother, the innocence of the father, the calculations of the gentleman, the deductions of the lady, the eggings on of the aunt, the interrogations of the ‘friend,’ the cross-purposing of both; and above all, the plaudits of the lookers-on. And then the cold-blowings when the engagement is announced, and the eagerness with which former promoters assist the ‘break-off.’ These matters would furnish a whole encyclopaedia of instruction for the young and entertainment for our popular friend the Million.

  From that last sentence it will be inferred that we are not going to write a sighing, lackadaisical, marrying-for-lovical treatise. Certainly not; indeed our title and mottoes would acquit us of so foul an aspersion.

  We will be very honest on that point — much more honest than the ladies who are oftentimes quite as mercenary without our candour. Of course there are some bright exceptions, dear, delightful little darlings who think of nothing but the man himself; but then — od rot it! — they seldom have anything! We don’t blame any girl for feeling happier with a man who can keep her four, than she would with another who could keep her only a pair of horses; all we mean to say is that upon the ‘balance,’ as the betting men say, women are quite as mercenary as men.

  They mayn’t care for money — merely as money — but they think quite as much of the enjoyments to be procured with money — the diamonds, the opera-boxes, the barouche, the dash, the dinnerparties, the dances and the devil knows what! Nay, more; for most men — real men, we mean, in contradistinction to boys — marry for quiet, whereas nine girls out of ten marry for the sake of being their own mistresses, and beginning to racket.

  And upon our life, now we have the pen in our hand, we may add our belief that the less a girl brings the more she thinks herself entitled to spend — on the principle, most likely, of long previous privation.

  Our uncle, Solomon Skinflint of Aldermanbury, a man whose name will be held in reverential esteem so long as money is adored and the Monument on Fish Street Hill

  “Like a tall bully

  Lifts its head and lies” —

  our uncle Solomon Skinflint, we say, a man of infinite prudence and frugality, albeit of the Goldsmiths’ Company, always said, “Whatever you do, Jack, marry an heiress; they are just as easy caught as other girls and not half so extravagant.” But, Lord bless us! How can a man judge unless he has a fortune of his own to catch one with?

  Our uncle had no receipt for heiress-catching — at least if he had it was not left among his papers. Still that was the opinion of a man who knew what was what, for he elbowed his way through life for 82 years and left £100,000 behind him. Glorious man! It shows we have a real veneration for money, for, although we did not get a stiver of it we still feel a sort of honour reflected on ourself as being the nephew of a man who was “Proctored” and “Doctors Commonsed” to the melody of One Hundred Thousand Pounds!

  There’s music in the sound of it!

  But we digress — Fortune-Hunting is our theme.

  We look upon Fortune-Hunting as quite as much a science as any of those that are taught in the schools; nay, more so; for many a proficient in classics and mathematics would cut but a sorry figure cramming a pupil for its pursuit. The main qualifications are plenty of impudence and a knowledge of human nature — the latter a knowledge generally widely apart from scholastic attainments. Moreover, it is a peculiar branch of human nature, for every woman, as somebody has said, is a separate enigma; and we question whether Solomon Skinflint, with all his worldly experience and knowledge of the usury laws could have made a successful venture among the girls. Between ourselves we think he couldn’t, and that was why he preferred talking to trying.

  But let us get on with our subject — Fortune-Hunting! Fortune-Hunting! What a charming name it is; but oh! the difficulty of achieving an heiress! Men who started in the pursuit with the fullest confidence in the invincibility of moustache and big calves — dreadful to see such “nice young men” supplanted by lank-haired, weaseleyed, mangy-looking mongrels who happen to have been born first, or whose long purses make up for the deficiency of their persons! Odious cubs! How we hate all rich men! (All, at least, except our uncle aforesaid, and we might as well hate him for any good we got of him.)

  But, confound it! There we are, digressing again!

  In Fortune-Hunting the order of Nature is reversed and the male sex stands most in need of our counsel and consideration. To it then, we purpose offering the first fruits of observation, without interfering further with the fair sex at present than as they are necessarily interwoven with the web of our subject. When we have steered the youthful bark through the shoals and quicksands of fo
rtune-hunting life we may perhaps devote a few pages to the service of the gentler craft; not that we think they stand much in need of it, for to tell the truth, we never met a monied woman yet who did not know uncommonly well how to take care of herself.

  And here we may explain that by ‘monied woman’ we mean the woman with money in her own right — in absolute possession—” seised in fee,” as the lawyers say; at once the noblest, the finest, most inspiriting game of all. By Heavens! We fancy we see the majestic creature! The buxom widow of yesterday, childless and well-jointured; she moves like the antlered monarch of the forest! Her eye beams radiant; there is a soft confidence in her look; and her footman and fat carriage-horses seem as if they lived for no other purpose than eating. Widows without doubt are the noblest and wildest game; but, like the coursed hare, they are the most difficult to catch. Boys, however, must not enter for widows; and the hackneyed man of the world knows how to go about his work quite as well as we can direct him. No! Our instruction is for Youth. Delightful task! To teach the young idea how to fortune-hunt!

  We take it, there is not one of our overgrown English families without some member too good-looking to work who must therefore go into the army and marry an heiress. The capture of an heiress is a sort of tacit condition annexed to the purchase of a commission. “A tall, good-looking young fellow that can marry anybody he likes,” says an indiscreet friend in his hearing; and forthwith our hero makes up his mind that he has nothing to do but “propose.” Luckless youth! Did he but know the horror all steadygoing, drab-gaitered papas have of tall young subs, he would use less Macassar and practice less before the glass. We believe we may say there is not one rich father in a thousand sufficiently reasonable in his expectations to allow of his daughters marrying in his lifetime; and we will not, therefore, consider the bearings of so unusual a case. If we could imagine such a thing as an affluent father complaisant enough to take his departure to the other world before his daughters got passée we would say they offered the grandest chance for a nice young man; but such things seldom are. We had almost forgotten to say — what perhaps is necessary to tell Youth, though quite superfluous for Age — that real fortunes — Solomon Skinflint sort of fortunes — are only to be found among merchants and City people; three-per-cent-to-the-day men, government security; four per cent on parchment; ten per cent on paper. Land is well enough to look at, but it doesn’t cut up half so comfortably or conveniently as money; besides which, your great land-owners have absurd notions of their importance; and if they have not eldest sons to whom all the land goes, they think nothing under coronets will do for the girls.