THE SPORT OF OUR ANCESTORS ..y^^^^^^ f f ,.;;. uf .*; I tiSf^ v-* f V/f-i- V m^'p; ■i? \. , \ ''i-,,^^'V^y/ ^f ' 11/ i TllK l'o\. THE SPORT OF OUR ANCESTORS BEING A COLLECTION OF PROSE AND VERSE SETTING FORTH THE SPORT OF FOX-HUNTING AS THEY KNEW IT EDITED AND SELECTED WITH AN INTRODUCTION AND APPRECIATIONS BY LORD WILLOUGHBY DE BROKE ILLUSTRATED BY G. D. ARMOUR I NEW YORK E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY PUBLISHERS Printed in Great Britain PREFACE BY the ' Sport of our Ancestors ' is meant the sport of Fox-hunting. Anything to do with Sport has always been so popular in these islands that the word is now used to dignify almost anything in the nature of a competition, being applied to golf, football, lawn-tennis, hockey, or battledore and shuttlecock. But perhaps a better testimony to the supreme value of the idea of Sport in the Englishman's mind is the natural way in which he designates as a good sportsman any one whom he particularly wishes to praise. No man can have greater honour in this country than to be known as a good sportsman, or, in the vernacular of those who are regardless of grammar, as a * Sport.' He may achieve this reputation without ever having been on a horse or handled a gun or a fishing-rod. But he must possess a sense of humour and, above all, an ability to take risks and to play for his side. These attributes, added, of course, to a certain standard of kindliness and good conduct, are what distinguish the good sportsman or ' Sport ' among his fellows. But for the purpose of these papers the term Sport will be only applied to field sports, meaning the pursuit of wild vii The Sport of Our 228 * Kept in condition by being exercised by the man with the big birch broom ' . . • » » 238 * '' It 's p'ison, my lord " ' . ,. • » » 260 Larry and Kate Masters . . . • >» » 272 Xll CHAPTER I INTRODUCTORY THE songs and the chapters which are illustrated in this book by Mr. G. D. Armour's unrivalled pencil have been chosen mainly on account of the manner in which they signify the deliberate, matter-of-course, almost leisurely, but none the less whole-hearted, devotion to Fox- hunting which was once the distinguishing characteristic of the country gentlemen of England. The spacious days of country life from a.d. 1750, when Foxhounds began to be bred for speed, to a.d. 1900, when wars and rumours of wars both at home and abroad heralded the birth of a more hectic existence, must have afforded some rare moments. The culminating point of the comfortable England that some of us have been privileged to enjoy may fairly be said to have been reached at the Diamond Jubilee of Queen Victoria. Then came the Boer War, and with it the first twinges of the suspicion that after all we might have more trouble and less junketing in days to come. Some of us began to feel a draught. It is true that peace was arranged in time for the Coronation of King Edward vii. ; but the short reign of that popular monarch witnessed the final flicker of the luxury and leisure that had for so many generations made the life of comfortable England in the country the easiest A I The Sport of Our (^Ancestors of all forms of existence that this planet has produced. But during these first years of the twentieth century signs were not wanting that peace at home and abroad might come to an end. Life became more restless. Party feeling was bitter. There was incitement to class warfare. There was much shouting on the platform. The very Constitution in Church and State was called into question. No thoughtful person could ignore the German menace. And all the time the automobile in the hunting - field was causing grave searchings of heart among the conservative temperaments. And not without some reason. Certain aspects of Fox- hunting have never been quite the same since self-propelled traffic took possession of our country roads. The most plausible defence of hunting by motor-car is that the time saved in this manner can be profitably devoted to the trans- action of business, domestic or otherwise. When people say this, they probably mean that the time can be comfort- ably devoted to lying in bed. But granted that the busy man can leave the door at 10.15 ^•^- ^^ ^ motor-car instead of at 9.30 A.M. in a carriage, is there much real saving of tissue ? The time between 9.30 a.m. and 10.15 a.m. might be more restfully spent in the phaeton or the buggy than in talking on the telephone, interviewing the agent, or com- posing letters to creditors. But w^hether one goes to the meet in a motor-car, in a carriage, or on horseback is entirely a question of taste. Although a motor-car in the hunting- field is sadly out of the picture, its use as a covert hack has had no real effect on the sport. But it has probably had some 2 Introductory effect upon the sportsman. All boys and girls ought to learn how to jog their hunters quietly to the meet, how to ride them all day with a view to having to get them home at night, and how to get them home after a hard day. Until they have done all these things, and done them in the right way, they are not fit to be called Fox-hunters, or to have horses of their own. Experience is the best school. But the tendency of motor transport is to rob the young genera- tion of this experience. Horse-mastership is left to the servants, and as soon as the fur coat, the thermos bottle, and the car can be found by telephone or otherwise, the horse is handed over to the groom to get home in the best way he can. Equally, the fatal facility with which the motor-car covers long distances to the meet, not previously attempted, may very well make people a little careless about asking their men and horses to cover these same distances, starting while their masters are in bed. But this is not all. The general use of mechanical transport on the public roads has caused them to be treated in such a manner as to make riding on them a real danger, a far worse one than jumping the fences. No horse, how- ever quiet, can travel to-day on the glazed surface of our roads without being in constant danger of slipping up, breaking his rider's leg, and very likely injuring himself. This with a quiet horse. To mount a horse that is inclined to jump about on these hard, black, shiny, slippery superficies re- quires courage of no mean order. It was bad enough to have to get on to a snorting animal in the old days before 3 The Sport of Our <*Ancestors the roads were polished and burnished as they are to-day. The road was even then a hard place to fall on, but at least there was foothold for the horse when he began to dance. In the present state of the roads any movement at all, unless it be a very slow walk, is almost suicidal. The casualty list is already formidable. But when one has got to the meet without disaster by the aid of short cuts and grass sidings to the roads — though what happens in some countries where there are no grass sidings is terrible to contemplate — what becomes of our good old friend the turnpike road, who has so often enabled us all to save our horses during the run, and to see so many Foxes killed ? It has been turned into a sheet of ice, hard, hideous, and convex, more death-dealing than the stiff est of timber or the blindest of ditches. The motor-car, then, seems to have made Fox-hunting more of a luxury and less of a business, and has made riding on the turnpike road almost impossible. In a certain sense it has had more influence than the railway train as an acces- sory of the chase. A railroad is, of course, a horrible nuisance, and has spoilt many a good run, but the general effect of railways on Fox-hunting was so gradual that the change was hardly perceptible. Motor-cars, on the other hand, came in battalions, almost without warning, penetrated places where the railroad did not run, and marked a new era in the general outlook of the Fox-hunter, as they have marked a completely new era in the customs and indeed the manners of the nation. It is with the object of recalling something of the spirit 4 Introductory of an age when comfortable England was contented to think of sport rather than speed that these papers are now offered to the public. Whether those boys and girls who first saw the light about the dawn of this century will enjoy field sports as much as did their ancestors is an open question. What is not an open question is that most of them, for the present at any rate, will enjoy them in a different manner, and from a different point of view. What is the nature of this differ- ence } The answer probably is that for some years past, even before the War, life was becoming more complex, particularly for the agricultural landlords, who for many generations had directed the field sports of the British Isles. The agri- cultural depression which began in the late seventies took away from many county families their hereditary privilege of being the chief financiers of Fox-hunting. Here and there one or two of the great houses whose revenues were perhaps independent of agricultural rents solemnly continued to keep on the family pack with no subscription, as if nothing had happened — or ever would happen. But many of the landlords had either to give up the mastership of Foxhounds altogether, or else to be paid a salary. Concurrently with the fall in revenue, political pressure began to occupy more of their time in public duty. They perceived that if they were to keep their influence, their service to the State could no longer be confined to having a good luncheon four times a year at Quarter Sessions, and sitting on the local Bench once a month on a non-hunting day. The whole para- 5 The Sport of Our Ancestors phernalia of local government compelled their attention, if even from no other instinct than that of self-preservation. Parliamentary elections ceased to be a choice between a Whig and a Tory landlord ; the squire was opposed by the Radical, who was not ashamed to confess that he was out to demolish the existing order, and to lay his hands on the very Ark of the Covenant in the shape of the hereditary principle. The electors ceased to take things for granted. The spirit of that pleasant age indicated by the Eton boy who said, ' Don't bother about farming or politics ; all father's tenants have to do is to walk a Foxhound puppy and vote for the Conservatives,' was quickly passing. Leaflets, pamphlets, and all the other horrors of that terrible thing called propaganda were brought into full play. The com- fortable evening at home had to give way, with distressing frequency, to the village meeting. A wise and witty Tory ' grande dame ' is said to have remarked that unless this privation were cheerfully borne, ' the eight o'clock dinner would ruin the Conservative Party.' All these things, quite independently of war, combined to make life at the beginning of this century much more of a hustle than ever it had been before. Instances of the sealed pattern existence of the affluent country gentleman became very rare. In former times it had been his custom to change his seat of government from his country house to his London house on the same date every year. He purchased a commission for his eldest son in the Household Troops, or sent him into Parliament. The younger sons divided 6 Introductory the family living, the army, and the navy between themselves, having received from their father a sufficient allowance to make them independent of their not too exacting professions. This arrangement formed a convenient setting for the enjoy- ment of field sports in the autumn and winter, and of other delights in the summer. It is true that there may have been a certain period of boredom for * the sad Meltonian ' in the spring. But this was shortly to be relieved by the festive Yeomanry Week, followed by the London season with Epsom, Ascot, Newmarket, and Goodwood, to say nothing of a country house cricket party, of all forms of junketing one of the most enchanting. The original picture from which this brief sketch is drawn of a certain aspect of leisured life is to be found in the novels of Whyte Melville, who knew the whole subject intimately, and must be accepted as an authority. It is not presented as the lament of laudator temporis acti, still less is it intended to be a defence of a social system as it manifested itself to some of us during a certain epoch. It is rather offered with the idea of trying to trace the change in the atmosphere of country life which was taking place during the last quarter of the nineteenth cen- tury and the first decade of the twentieth. An amusing and touching symptom of the devout attitude of our an- cestors towards field sports marks the contrast between the spirit of this period and that of the age that was passing. They thought it quite natural that even the Church should be the instrument for registering the public veneration for Fox- hunting and horsemanship. It may be within the memory 7 The Sport of Our ^/ / '■''««c=sss«i^" ^>. '//§^ ■'^■/j0i^'^ -.^^ ""01^ ,.^^ y ("OMK IT. IlOKSKl' Mri IKkS CllARI.KS IN Rl JUajor Whyte JHelville jected rider can still bear witness to the exhaustive pro- perties of that black adhesive soil, many a dirty coat and stationary hunter rues the noble impulse that would follow the fleeting pack over such a country as this after a three- days' rain. Some of them begin to hope he may have entered the thick holding covert of Naseby Thorns, and that the conclusion of so rapid a burst may save their own and their horses' credit. But a countryman on the opposite hill is holloaing as if his throat must crack. Our fox is forward still ; he has not a notion of entering the covert, warmed as he is by the merry pace of the last mile or so. * No occasion to lift them, Charles,' observes Mr. Villiers, as he lends an ear to the far-off countryman, and points to the streaming pack wheeling with every turn of the scent, like pigeons on the wing. * Couldn't get near enough if there was. Come up, horse ! ' mutters Charles in reply, as he bores through a black close-cut hedge, sinking up to the hocks on the taking off side. There is no chance of a check now ; and as the professed Jester of the Hunt remarks, * If he don't stop at Tally-ho, he may go on to Texas ! ' The field, that enterprising body whose self-depend- ence is so touchingly illustrated at every sign-post, are already somewhat hopelessly behindhand and considerably puzzled by the coincidence of two safe practicable lanes, leading equally in the direction of the line of chase. It F 8i The Sport of Our Ancestors divides accordingly into two hurrying columns, neither of which will in all probability see a hound again to-day. So * on we go again,' leaving Tally-ho Gorse to the left, and up the hill for Hazelbeech, threading the fine old trees that tower upon its heights, and pointing ever onwards for the wide grassy vale of Cottesbrooke, spread out like a panorama before us, shut in by wooded hills, dotted with fine old standard trees, and smiling beauteous and peaceful in the chequered light of a February sun. Thank Heaven ! a check at last. Pegasus was begin- ning to want it sadly. He struck that top-rail uncommonly hard, and has dropped his hind-legs in the last two conse- cutive ditches. There are still some half-dozen men with the hounds, but their horses look as if they had had nearly enough, and we are inclined to believe one or two of the riders are beginning to wish it was over. The country for miles back is dotted with equestrians of every rank and every hue. A child on a pony has turned, not headed, the fox. Charles Payne opines he cannot have entered the gorse with so ' warm a jacket,' as he phrases it ; so he holds his hounds towards the plantations on his right. Fairplay whisks her stern about her sides, and drops a note or two to her comrades as they gather to the line. * Ye-geote, old lady ! ' says Charles, in the inexplicable language of a huntsman. ' She 's always right, that old bitch,' remarks Mr. Villiers, who has just turned Olympian's head for an instant to the wind. 82 JUajor Whyte JHehille ' Twang ' goes the horn once more, and away score the hounds through ' Pursar's Hills,' as if they were fresh out of the kennel, and over the wide grassy pastures below, and up the opposite rise, with untiring energy, leaving the foremost horseman toiling a field and a half behind them, till a pause and momentary hover in the Welford Road enables Pegasus and his comrades to reach them once more. It is labour and sorrow now, yet is it a sweet and joyous pain. Still, we can hardly call that enjoyment which we wish was over ; and most devoutly now do we all hope that we may soon kill this gallant fox, before he kills our gallant horses. The best blood of Newmarket is but mortal, after all ; and Pegasus is by this time going most unreservedly on his own shoulders and his rider's hands. Down the hill between Creaton and Hol3rwell we make a tolerable fight ; but though Olympian clears the brook at the bottom, the rest of us flounder through. We have no false pride now, and do not any of us turn up our noses at gates or gaps, or other friendly egress. Everything is com- parative. A country doctor on his fresh hack, meeting us at this period, opines we are going quite slow, but we know better ; so does Pegasus, so does old Fairplay, so does the fox. He is not travelling so straight now. Up and down yonder hedgerow the pack turn like harriers, and we think we must be very near him. But see ! the crows 83 The Sport of Our <^ncestors are stooping yonder over a low black object in the distance. 'Tis the hunted fox, pointing straight for the coverts of Althorpe. He v^ill never reach them, for the hounds are now close upon his track, and they run into him in the large grass field by Holmby House under the old oak tree. 84 CHAPTER V MR. BROMLEY-DAVENPORT MR. WILLIAM BROMLEY-DAVENPORT of Capes- thorne in the county of Cheshire was born in 1821, was educated at Eton and Christ Church, and was a Tory, a Member of Parhament, a Colonel of Yeomanry, an accomplished sportsman, and a witty writer and speaker. There was no branch of field sports in which he was not thoroughly proficient, and he could write about them like few other people. Just before he died in 1884 he wrote the last lines of a volume entitled * Sport, ^ illustrated by General Hope-Crealocke, which is doubtless familiar to many who read these pages. It contains four papers : upon Fox-hunting, salmon-fishing, deer-stalking, and covert- shooting respectively ; each one of them a charming little descriptive essay on its own subject, with much good advice which every young sportsman will do well to read and follow, Mr. Bromley-Davenport was, however, something more than a sporting writer. He not only thoroughly understood the values of field sports, but he also had a shrewd apprecia- tion of the signs and portents of the age in which he lived. What Disraeli called * the miserable philosophy of the day which ascribes everything to "the spirit of the age'** 85 The Sport of Our Jincestors caused him much uneasiness. He had no use for the schemer and the doctrinaire. He saw that some of these gentlemen were taking themselves too seriously, and feared ' lest in grasping after the shadow of national perfection we only attain the reality of a saturnalia of prigs — an apotheosis of claptrap.' What would he have had to say about the League of Nations ? This point of view of life is expressed in the pages of * Sporty particularly in the paper on Fox-hunting. This paper is indeed a kind of prose epi- logue to * The Dream of the Old Meltonian ' and to * Lowesby Hall.' Fox-hunting, he says, is the national sport, because it is a manifestation of ' the manly predilection inherent in our Anglo-Saxon nature for a sport into which the element of danger conspicuously enters,' and because * all classes enjoy it.' To the accomplished rider to Hounds it is an anodyne for all kinds of trouble. ' There is a burning scent, a good fox, a good country ; he is on a good horse, and has got a good start ; then for the next twenty or thirty minutes (Elysium on earth can scarcely ever last longer) he absorbs as much happiness into his mental and physical organisation as human nature is capable of containing at one time . . . that very morning, perchance, he was full of care, worried by letters from lawyers and stewards, an- nouncements of farms thrown upon his hands ; and, if an M.P., of a certain contest at the coming election. Where are all these now ? Ask of the winds ! They are vanished. His whole system is steeped in delight ; there is not space in it for the absorption of another sensation. Talk of 86 3\ir. Bromley-Davenport opium ? Of hashish ? They cannot supply such a volup- tuous entrancement as a run like this.' A run like this is almost the same run, with names of places left out, that he describes in * The Dream of the Old Meltonian.' It is not too much to say that this is the best imaginary run which the Fox-hunting verse of the last century has given to us. Had it been set to music and to an air that would have tickled the ear, it might well have been the most popular hunting-song of the day. Read it aloud, and you will find that the lilt of the metre is like the gallop of a horse. A sporting recitation at a convivial gathering is apt to be dangerous, and conjures up in the memory such masterpieces as * Kissing Cup's Race.' But we have heard Mr. Bromley-Davenport's stanzas roll trip- pingly off the tongue and hold spell-bound the attention of such a critical audience as a Bullingdon dinner-party, who would surely have pelted with bread, or whatever came handy, any one who tried to charm them with * Kissing Cup's Race.' * Lowesby Hall ' was pronounced by Major Whyte Melville to be the best parody in the English language. If parodies are to be allowed at all, this must surely be one of them. It is free from offence, and does not detract from the dignity of the original. It is not mere parody for the sake of parody ; rather does Mr. Bromley-Daven- port make use of Lord Tennyson's vehicle for the sake of telling his own story and uttering his own prophecy, and in the doing of it occasionally yields to the temptation to 87 The Sport of Our (Ancestors sharpen his brains on his model, and indulges for the moment in sheer irreverent parody. * Lowesby Hall ' sparkles with wit, is studded with epigram, and contains some remarkable prophecies. Lord Tennyson's own pro- phecy about airships is startling : — * For I dipt into the future, far as human eye could see, Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be ; Saw the heavens fill with commerce, argosies of magic sails, Pilots of the purple twilight, dropping down with costly bales ; Heard the heavens fill with shouting, and there rain'd a ghastly dew From the nations' airy navies grappling in the central blue.' Now look at Mr. Bromley-Davenport's picture of the condition of England when the Whigs and the prigs whom he hated so cordially had completed their handiwork ; and see that as a prophet he is not far behind his model, even though Fox-hunting is not yet abolished by an Order in Council. Such objection to field sports, particularly to Fox- hunting, as there may have been was probably political in part and in part humanitarian. To-day it has no platform. In truth, it never had a very strong one. No humanitarian who is squeamish about field sports can expect a hearing until he has set forth his views on the condition of such countries as Russia and Ireland. There may have been at one time a sort of abstract political animosity to the whole idea of the Chase on the part of the heresy hunter with a mind tinctured by class feeling. Fox-hunting might appear to such a one to be a rudiment of a haughty and 88 JUr. Bromley-Davenport rapacious feudalism. But although red coats, and hunting- horns, and liveried servants, and meets of the Foxhounds within the drawbridge of the ducal castle or the courtyard of the baronial hall give some colour to this picture, the Sport of our Ancestors is in fact and in practice entirely national. If it were based upon exclusiveness it would have deservedly perished long ago. Those who are re- sponsible for the management of Fox-hunting cannot do better than bear in mind this great truth. A substantial subscription is necessary nowadays to pay the M.F.H. a sufficient salary to enable him to carry on. But a high tariff, difficult as it is to avoid, carries with it the seed of danger if it be too rigidly enforced. And the danger is that Fox-hunting may tend to become the exclusive pleasure of the well-to-do. Now there is one class of man whom on every count it is most undesirable to exclude from the hunting-field. And that is the professional or business man from the country town, be he solicitor, wine-merchant, doctor, or even parson. All these men in the exercise of their various callings see among their clients many sorts and conditions of men and women, and, if they are Fox-hunters, carry with them on their daily round the atmosphere of the sport into sundry and divers places, and indirectly contribute enormously to its popularity. Some of them may even hunt only once a fortnight, or perhaps less, but it will be a bad day for Fox-hunting if ever they and their kind have to give it up altogether under pressure from the tax-gatherer of the hunt. There is no exclusiveness 89 The Sport of Our Ancestors so odious or so vulgar as the exclusiveness which is avowedly based upon nothing except a cash consideration. The practice of capping may possibly be defended on grounds of convenience or utility. But the spectacle of gentlemen dropping half-crowns into a hat looks more like the preliminaries to a sweepstake on board a liner than the beginning of a day's hunting. The thing is sordid and out of the picture, besides being a great nuisance. Part of the delight of Fox-hunting is to steep the senses in forgetfulness of everything to do with finance. Nobody understood all this better than Mr. Bromley-Davenport. He was never tired of pointing out the equality between all the classes that exists in the hunting-field, and has rightly diagnosed this equality as being the principal guarantee for the continuance of the Sport of our Ancestors. But once the Fox had broken covert, and the Hounds had settled to him, he himself had very few if any equals in the knack of going the shortest way. The rest of the field he speaks of as ' the blundering mass ' from whom in his dream he extri- cates himself by jumping in and out of the turnpike road ; and although no class privilege hindered any one from being first over the fences, his own dash and dexterity secured to the author the position of leader. He is not ashamed to exult in his pride of place, and to admit the satisfaction of cutting down all his friends save the three who got over the Whissendine without a fall. Equality is now at a discount : it disappears, as always, in the presence of individual character and skill. 90 ^r. Bromley-Davenport There is no humbug about * The Dream of the Old Meltonian.' It connotes the attitude of the country gentle- men to the House of Commons when it was * the best club in London.' There was, no doubt, a hereditary obligation to represent the county in Parliament, but of course the whole thing was a bore, and every one who knew what was good was naturally thinking about Fox-hunting. So the prosiness of the Member for Boreham sends the Fox- hunter to sleep, and his dream brings him the ecstasy of the hunting-field, which he sets before us with the pen and the imagination of the artist and the enthusiast. * Lowesby Hall ' is different from ' The Dream of the Old Meltonian.' Into this fine parody, always with the tongue in the cheek, he introduces one after another of his pet aversions — money - lenders, pacifists, Cobdenites, plough countries, and plain women — and chastises them publicly. It is a political satire from the point of view of a Tory. Lord Tennyson seems to have written ' Locksley Hall ' in serious vein from the point of view of the International. Not so Mr. Bromley-Davenport. One feels pretty sure that if he and his friends were here to- day they would not have approved of the fusion of either the nations of Europe or the political parties of England. And then he finds the point in Fox-hunting where the ridiculous meets the sublime, and discovers that it is * Weakness to be wroth with weakness ! I 'm an idiot for my pains ; Nature made for every sportsman an inferior set of brains.' 91 The Sport of Our (^Ancestors This line has been pronounced by more than one good judge to be the best in the whole field of parody. It is a fine piece of satire with a double edge. It gently rallies that type that consists of nothing but more or less glorified Tony Lumpkins ; but more subtly still does it express what the prig and the intellectual were really thinking about the Fox-hunter, and would have said if they had dared. Here is the original : — * Weakness to be wroth with weakness ! Woman's pleasure, woman's pain, Nature made them blinder motions bounded in a shallower brain.' With both pieces open before one, it is difficult not to go on comparing the two. But they must be read through from beginning to end to be appreciated. Perhaps those who think it sacrilege to make fun of the really grand music of the then Poet Laureate had better not make the experi- ment. On the other hand, it is not impossible to keep the mind in water-tight compartments, and at one moment to revel in the poetry and rhythm of Lord Tennyson and at another to be tickled by the audacity and clever- ness of Mr. Bromley-Davenport. What is it that invites parody ? Classic or claptrap ? Claptrap certainly deserves it. But ' Locksley Hall ' is a classic, and * Lowesby Hall ' is not its only imitation. * The Lay of the Lovelorn * in the ' Bon Gaultier Ballads,' written by Sir Theodore Martin and Professor William Aytoun, has some shrewd if rather cheap couplets. But it has not the ease and the breadth 92 3\lr. Bromley-Davenport of * Lowesby Hall,' which we have included in this collec- tion of sporting literature because it is worth preserving, and because an acquaintance with it will add greatly to the humours of the hunting-field. A young lady once went out hunting by train, and looked forward to returning in the same conveyance. But it was not to be. A long point made it necessary to ride home some sixteen or seventeen miles ; the saddle did not get any softer, but some of the long weary miles were made to seem short and less tiring by the fact that her companion was able to recite to her ' The Dream of an Old Meltonian ' and ' Lowesby Hall.' THE DREAM OF AN OLD MELTONIAN I am old, I am old, and my eyes are grown weaker, My beard is as white as the foam on the sea, Yet pass me the bottle, and fill me a beaker, A bright brimming toast in a bumper for me. Back, back through long vistas of years I am wafted. But the glow at my heart 's undiminished in force, Deep, deep in that heart has fond memory engrafted Those quick thirty minutes from Ranksboro' Gorse. What is time .? the effluxion of life Zoophitic In dreary pursuit of position or gain. What is life ? The absorption of vapours mephitic, And the bursting of sunlight on senses and brain ! 93 The Sport of Our Jincestors Such a life have I lived — though so speedily over, Condensing the joys of a century's course, From the find till we eat him near Woodwellhead Cover, In thirty bright minutes from Ranksboro' Gorse. Last night in St. Stephen's so w^earily sitting (The member for Boreham sustained the debate), Some pitying spirit that round me was flitting Vouchsafed a sweet vision my pains to abate. The Mace, and the Speaker, and House disappearing, The leather-clad bench is a thorough-bred horse ; 'Tis the whimpering cry of the foxhound I 'm hearing, And my * seat ' is a pig-skin at Ranksboro' Gorse. He 's away ! I can hear the identical holloa ! I can feel my young thorough-bred strain down the ride, I can hear the dull thunder of hundreds that follow, I can see my old comrades in life by my side. Do I dream ? all around me I see the dead riding, And voices long silent re-echo with glee ; I can hear the far wail of the Master's vain chiding. As vain as the Norseman's reproof to the sea. Vain indeed ! for the bitches are racing before us — Not a nose to the earth: — not a stern in the air ; And we know by the notes of that modified chorus How straight we must ride if we wish to be there ! With a crash o'er the turnpike, and onward I 'm sailing. Released from the throes of the blundering mass. Which dispersed right and left as I topped the high railing. And shape my own course o'er the billowy grass. 94 ^r. Bromley-Davenport Select is the circle in which I am moving, Yet open and free the admission to all ; Still, still more select is that company proving, Weeded out by the funker and thinned by the fall ; Yet here all are equal — no class legislation, No privilege hinders, no family pride : In the * image of war ' show the pluck of the nation ; Ride, ancient patrician ! democracy, ride ! Oh ! gently, my young one ; the fence we are nearing Is leaning towards us — 'tis hairy and black. The binders are strong, and necessitate clearing. Or the wide ditch beyond will find room for your back. Well saved ! We are over ! now far down the pastures Of Ashwell the willows betoken the line Of the dull-flowing stream of historic disasters ; We must face, my bold young one, the dread Whissendine I No shallow-dug pan with a hurdle to screen it. That cock-tail imposture the steeple chase brook ; But the steep broken banks tell us plain, if we mean it, The less we shall like it the longer we look. Then steady, my young one, my place I 've selected. Above the dwarf willow 'tis sound I '11 be bail. With your muscular quarters beneath you collected. Prepare for a rush like the * limited mail.' Oh ! now let me know the full worth of your breeding, Brave son of Belzoni, be true to your sires. Sustain old traditions — remember you 're leading The cream of the cream in the shire of the shires ! 95 The Sport of Our ctAncestors With a quick shortened stride as the distance you measure, With a crack of the nostril and cock of the ear, And a rocketing bound, and we 're over, my treasure, Twice nine feet of water, and landed all clear ! What ! four of us only ? Are these the survivors Of all that rode gaily from Ranksboro's ridge ? I hear the faint splash of a few hardy divers, The rest are in hopeless research of a bridge ; Vae Victis ! the way of the world and the winners ! Do we ne'er ride away from a friend in distress ? Alas ! we are anti-Samaritan sinners, And streaming past Stapleford, onward we press. Ah ! don't they mean mischief, the merciless ladies ? What fox can escape such implacable foes ? Of the sex cruel slaughter for ever the trade is. Whether human or animal — ^Yonder he goes ! Never more for the woodland ! his purpose has failed him, Though to gain the old shelter he gallantly tries ; In vain the last double, for Jezebel 's nailed him ! Whoohoop ! in the open the veteran dies ! Yes, four of us only ! but is it a vision ? Dear lost ones, how came ye with mortals to mix ? Methought that ye hunted the pastures Elysian, And between us there rolled the unjumpable St}/^^ ! Stay, stay but a moment ! the grass fields are fading. And heavy obscurity palsies my brain : Through what country, what ploughs, and what sloughs am 1 wading ? Alas ! 'tis the member for Boreham again ! 96 3\lr. Bromley-Davenport Oh, glory of youth ! consolation of age ! SubHmest of ecstasies under the sun ; Though the veteran may Hnger too long on the stage, Yet he '11 drink a last toast to a fox-hunting run. And oh ! young descendants of ancient top-sawyers ! By your lives to the world their example enforce ; Whether landlords, or parsons, or statesmen, or lawyers, Ride straight as they rode it from Ranksboro' Gorse. Though a rough-riding world may bespatter your breeches. Though sorrow may cross you, or slander revile, Though you plunge overhead in misfortune's blind ditches. Shun the gap of deception, the hand-gate of guile : Oh, avoid them ! for there, see the crowd is contending, Ignoble the object — ill-mannered the throng ; Shun the miry lane, falsehood, with turns never ending. Ride straight for truth's timber, no matter how strong. I '11 pound you safe over ! sit steady and quiet ; Along the sound headland of honesty steer ; Beware of false holloas and juvenile riot. Though the oxer of duty be wide, never fear ! And when the run 's over of earthly existence. And you get safe to ground, you will fear no remorse. If you ride it — no matter what line or what distance — As straight as your fathers from Ranksboro' Gorse. 97 The Sport of Our (Ancestors LOWESBY HALL Gilmour, leave me here a little, and when John of Gaunt is drawn, If you find the raw material, let Jack Morgan blow his horn. 'Tis the place, and all around me, as of old, the magpies call, Boding evil to the Lord, and flying over Lowesby Hall. Lowesby Hall that in the distance overlooks the grassy plains, Swamped from Twyford to the Coplow by the everlasting rains. Many a day from yonder spinney in November moist and chill Have I watched the wily animal sneak slowly up the hill. Many a night I Ve watched the vapours of my last remaining weed, When my spurs have ceased to animate my apathetic steed. Here in search of sport I 've wandered, nourishing a verdant youth With the fairy tales of gallops — ancient runs devoid of truth. When I dip't into my prospects far as ever I could get. And felt the wild, delirious joy of getting into debt. In the spring the pink no longer clothes the sad Meltonian's breast, In the spring his stumped-up horses are at least allowed a rest. In the spring too he must settle for the cursed corn and hay, In the spring the dire conviction comes upon him — he must pay. 98 OWr. Bromley-Davenport Then my tradesmen all about my doors most obstinately clung, And their eyes on all my movements with a grave observance hung. So I said, * My faithful tailor, do a bit of stiff for me, Trust me yet — my uncle 's shaky — all his coin shall flow to thee.' On his greasy cheek and forehead came a colour and a light. As I Ve seen the nimble lamplighter turn on the gas at night. And he said, * I 'm proud to serve thee, sir, as any gent in town. If so shaky be thine uncle, thou shalt have the money down.' Credit seized the glass of time and dribbled out the golden sand. Every day became more valueless my frequent note of hand. Health revived my hardy uncle ; now, alas ! he coughed no more, And the day of his decease appeared more distant than before. Many a morning have I waited with my hopes upon the rack. Vainly waited for the footman and a letter sealed with black. Oh, my tailor ! shallow-hearted ! oh, my tailor, mine no more ! Oh, the dreary, dreary Bond Street ! oh, the Strand's unhappy shore ! Is it well to use me thus, sir — having known me, to decline Any further cash advances — with securities like mine } But it shall be — thou shalt lower to the level of a dun. Seeking custom with acrostics like the Moseses and Son. As the tradesman, so the customer, and thou shalt measure clowns. They shall pay thee for thy corduroys in ignominious browns. 99 The Sport of Our <*Ancestors I would practise — oh, how gladly ! in the fulness of my hate, All the slasher's best instructions on thine ugly dial-plate. What is that which I could turn to ? Can a gentleman descend To dig the gold which nature intended him to spend ? Every ship is filled with footmen, and Australia overflows With the Piccadilly porters and the butlers whom one knows. I had been content to perish on the sandy Sussex shore Where Militia men are marshalled to the Minie rifle's roar. But the gentle voice of Cobden drowns the first invader's drum. And the Frenchmen do but bluster, and Napoleon funks to come. Can I but relive in fancy ? Can I view the past again ? Hide me from my deep emotion — oh, thou wonderful champagne ! Make me feel the wild pulsation I have often felt before, When my horse went on before me and my hack was at the door. Yearning for the large excitement that the coming sport would yield, And rejoicing in the cropper which I got the second field. And at night along the highway, in the evening dark and chill, I saw the lights of Melton from the top of Burton Hill. 100 0\lr. Bromley-Davenport Then my spirit rushed before me, and I felt the * thirty-four ' Percolating through my system. Noble vintage ! Now no more. Brother thrusters ! Brother funkers ! You may well look rather blue, For the future that 's impending is a queerish one for you. For I looked into its pages, and I read the book of fate. And saw Fox-hunting abolished by an order from the State ; Saw the heavens filled with guano, and the clouds at men's command Raining down unsavoury liquids for the benefit of land ; Saw the airy navies earthward bear the planetary swell, And the long projected railroad made from Halifax to H — 1 ; Saw the landlords yield their acres after centuries of wrongs, Cotton lords turn country gentlemen in patriotic throngs ; Queen, religion, State abandoned, and the flags of party furled In the Government of Cobden, and the dotage of the world. Then shall exiled common sense espouse some other country's cause. And the rogues shall thrive in England, bonneting the slumbering laws. lOI The Sport of Our .t\fH^ovft, .1-^1 I.M.M. 11' 111 i[ \ 1 '.> A-. 1^ ^Nimrod ' he was'^ hunted, it was among rocks and crags, or woods inaccessible to horsemen ; such a scene, in short, or very nearly so, as we have, drawn to the life, in Dandie Dinmont's primitive chasse in * Guy Mannering.' If the reader will turn to the author of Hudibras's essay, entitled ' Of the Bumpkin, or Country Squire/ he will find a great deal about the hare, but not one word of the fox. What a revolution had occurred before Squire Western sat for his picture ! About half- way between these pieces appeared Somervile's poem of ' The Chase,' in which fox-hunting is treated of with less of detail, and much less of enthusiasm, than either stag- hunting or hare-hunting ! It is difficult to determine when the first regularly ap- pointed pack of foxhounds appeared among us. Dan Chaucer gives us the thing in embryo : — ' Aha, the fox ! and after him they ran ; And eke with staves many another man. Ran Coll our dogge, and Talbot, and Gerlond, And Malkin with her distaff in her hond, Ran cow and calf, and eke the veray hogges. So fered were for berking of the dogges, And shouting of the men and women eke. They ronnen so, hem thought her hertes brake.' At the next stage, no doubt, neighbouring farmers kept one or two hounds each, and, on stated days, met for the purpose of destroying a fox that had been doing damage in their poultry-yards. By-and-by a few couple of strong hounds seem to have been kept by small country esquires, 1 The words in italics are in italics in the original. The Sport of Our