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BOOKS FOR SPORTSMEN

PUBLISHED BY

BELLAIRS & CO.,

9 HART STREET, BLOOMSBURY.


IN SCARLET AND SILK. Recollections of Hunting and Steeplechase riding.
By FOX RUSSELL. With two drawings in colour by FINCH MASON. 5s. net.

NEW SPORTING STORIES. By G. G. 3s. 6d. net.

_The Times_ says: - "New Sporting Stories are written by a man who
evidently knows what he is writing about.... The sketches are
short, racy and to the point."

TRAVEL AND BIG GAME. By PERCY SELOUS and H. A. BRYDEN. With
Illustrations by CHARLES WHYMPER. 10s. 6d. net.

THE CHASE: a Poem. By WILLIAM SOMERVILLE. Illustrated by HUGH THOMSON.
5s. net.

In this fine old poem now ably illustrated by Mr Hugh Thomson are
the original lines, quoted by the immortal Jorrocks -

"My hoarse-sounding horn
Invites thee to the chace, the sport of kings,
Image of war, without its guilt."

GREAT SCOT THE CHASER, and other Sporting Stories. By G. G. With
Portrait of the Author. 4s. 6d. net.

_The Daily Telegraph_ says: - "G. G. is a benefactor to his
species."

CURIOSITIES OF BIRD LIFE. By CHARLES DIXON, Author of "The Migration of
Birds." [_In the Press._

ANIMAL EPISODES AND STUDIES IN SENSATION. By GEORGE H. POWELL. 3s. 6d.
net.

TALES OF THE CINDER PATH. By an Amateur Athlete [W. LINDSEY]. 2s. 6d.
net.

REMINISCENCES OF A YORKSHIRE NATURALIST. By the late W. CRAWFORD
WILLIAMSON, LL.D., F.R.S. Edited by his wife. 5s. net.




ENTERTAINING BOOKS

PUBLISHED BY

BELLAIRS & CO.,

9 HART STREET, BLOOMSBURY.


A MAN AND A WOMAN. Faithfully presented by STANLEY WATERLOO. 3s. 6d.
net.

BEYOND ATONEMENT. A Story of London Life. By A. ST JOHN ADCOCK. 4s. 6d.
net.

A HUSBAND'S ORDEAL; or, the Confessions of Gerald Brownson, late of
Coora Coora, Queensland. By PERCY RUSSELL. 3s. 6d. net.

A BRIDE'S EXPERIMENT. A Story of Australian Bush Life. By CHARLES J.
MANSFORD. 3s. 6d. net.

EIGHTY YEARS AGO; or, the Recollections of an Old Army Doctor, his
adventures on the fields of Quatre Bras and Waterloo, and during the
occupation of Paris, 1815. By the late Dr GIBNEY of Cheltenham. Edited
by his son, MAJOR GIBNEY. 5s. net.

THE SOLDIER IN BATTLE; or, Life in the Ranks of the Army of the
Potomac. By FRANK WILKESON, a Survivor of Grant's last campaign. 2s.
6d. net.

NEPHELÈ. The Story of a Sonata for violin and piano. By F. W.
BOURDILLON. 2s. 6d. net.

A DARN ON A BLUE STOCKING. A Story of To-day. By G. G. CHATTERTON. 2s.
6d. net.

THE MYSTERY OF THE CORDILLERA. A Tale of Adventure in the Andes. By A.
MASON BOURNE. Illustrated. 3s. 6d. net.

THE LURE OF FAME. By CLIVE HOLLAND, Author of "My Japanese Wife." 3s.
6d. net.

THE OLD ECSTASIES. A Modern Romance. By GASPARD TOURNIER. 4s. 6d. net.

THE TANTALUS TOUR. A Theatrical Venture. By WALTER PARKE, joint-author
of "Les Manteaux Noirs," and other comic operas. Illustrated. 2s. 6d.
net.




SPORTING SOCIETY


[Illustration: IN FULL CRY. By R. CALDECOTT.]




SPORTING SOCIETY

OR

_SPORTING CHAT AND SPORTING MEMORIES_


STORIES HUMOROUS AND CURIOUS; WRINKLES OF THE FIELD
AND THE RACE-COURSE; ANECDOTES OF THE STABLE AND
THE KENNEL; WITH NUMEROUS PRACTICAL
NOTES ON SHOOTING AND FISHING

FROM THE PEN OF

VARIOUS SPORTING CELEBRITIES AND
WELL-KNOWN WRITERS ON THE TURF AND THE CHASE

EDITED BY
FOX RUSSELL

Illustrations by Randolph Caldecott.

_IN TWO VOLUMES - VOL. II._

LONDON
BELLAIRS & CO.
1897




CONTENTS


PAGE

SPORTING OF THE PAST AND THE PRESENT DAY 1
By "OLD CALABAR"

DOWN THE BECK 23
By G. CHRISTOPHER DAVIES

AN APOLOGY FOR FISHING 45

DOGS I HAVE KNOWN 58
By Captain R. BIRD THOMPSON

NOVEMBER SHOOTING 85
By "OLD CALABAR"

SPORTING ADVENTURES OF CHARLES CARRINGTON, ESQ. 94
By "OLD CALABAR"

MY FIRST DAY'S FOX-HUNTING 121
By the Owner of "Iron Duke"

MY FIRST AND LAST STEEPLE-CHASE 139
A Story of a "Dark" Horse

SALMON-SPEARING 165

CARPE DIEM 182
By the Author of "Mountain, Meadow and Mere"

NEWMARKET 192
By Captain R. BIRD THOMPSON

KATE'S DAY WITH THE OLD HORSE 207
By CLIVE PHILLIPS WOLLEY

SOME CURIOUS HORSES 235
By Captain R. BIRD THOMPSON

SPORTING FOR MEN OF MODERATE MEANS 259
By "OLD CALABAR"

PARTRIDGE MANORS AND ROUGH SHOOTING 285
By "OLD CALABAR"

WHO IS TO RIDE HIM? 302
By "OLD CALABAR"

A CUB-HUNTING INVITATION 331
By the EDITOR

TOLD AFTER MESS 336
By the EDITOR




SPORTING OF THE PAST AND THE PRESENT DAY


"O tempora! O mores!" how our grandsires would stare if they could
only see how differently sporting in all its branches is carried on
now-a-days; it would make their pigtails stand on end, and the brass
buttons fly off their blue coats in very fright.

There are few of the Squire Western school now left; but occasionally
you may still come across some jovial old sportsman of eighty years
or more, who, though his form is shrunken, and his snow-white head
proclaims that many winters have passed over it, yet carries a pair of
eyes as bright and keen as of yore, eyes that glisten again when he
launches forth on his favourite hobby.

I know several gentlemen nearer eighty than seventy who still shoot,
and keep a fine kennel of dogs. One of these gentlemen only last year
took a moor in Scotland for five years. May he live to enjoy it and
renew his lease.

I could name many close on, ay, over fourscore, who ride well yet to
hounds; and though they may not be such bruisers as they once were
across country, yet are difficult to choke off.

It is just forty-one years [this was written twenty years ago] since I
had my first mount to hounds. There is no _non mi ricordo_ with me. I
can recollect the day as well as yesterday, the pinks, the beaver-hats
of curious shape, the short-tailed horses, are too vividly impressed on
my memory ever to be effaced. Men went out in those days for hunting,
and not merely for a gallop. Time changes all things, and I suppose we
must change with the times; but are these changes for the better? Well,
I will not give an opinion, but leave others to decide.

The hounds of those days were not nearly so fast as those of the
present; and I am inclined to think that our hounds are now bred too
fine and speedy - for some countries they certainly are - and often flash
over and lose a scent which ought not to be lost.

Hunting, in the days I speak of, could be enjoyed by men of very
moderate means, for it was not necessary to have two or three horses
out. In some countries, especially woodland ones, one horse may still
do; but, as a rule, hounds are now so fast, and horses so lightly bred
to what they were, that no hunter, however good he may be, can live
with them from find to finish. If you wish to see a run out, you must
have your first and second horsemen riding to points. These men must
not only be light-weights, but steady, know the country, save their
animals, and be there when wanted.

You seldom, at least where I hunted, saw men driving up to the meet in
their well-appointed broughams, mail-phaetons, or what-not. A long
distance was done, in my early days, on a cover hack; and one hunter
did where three are now required.

In the present day you see men stepping from their close carriages with
the morning papers in their hands, beautifully got up - a choice regalia
between their lips, with holland overalls to keep their spotless
buckskins from speck of dirt or cigar ashes. Very different from the
hardy men you encountered years gone by, alas! never to return
again - cantering along on a corky tit, with _leather_ overalls. Now you
have all sorts of devices - waterproof aprons _before_ and _behind_ - in
my idea it only wants some enterprising man to bring out a hunting-crop
with an umbrella, something similar to the ladies' driving-whips, whip
and parasol in one, to complete the picture. Fancy men hunting with
_waterproof aprons_ - they should go out for _nurses_!

Perhaps, as years creep on, one is wont to look back on his youthful
days and fondly imagine nothing is done so well now as then. Understand,
I do not say hunting and shooting are not as good as they were. I do
both still, and enjoy them as much as ever; but there is not so much
_sport_ in them, to my mind, as formerly - men are not the _hardy_,
genuine sportsmen they were.

Horses are much dearer now than twenty, thirty, forty years
back - provender also. Where £1 would go thirty years ago, you require
now nearly £1, 10s.; this alone prevents many men from following their
favourite pursuits.

The time is not far distant when hunting will be given up in England;
railways, the price of land, and the high market prices which must
necessarily come with an increase of population, are doing their work
slowly but surely. The present generation are not likely to witness it:
so much the better, for it would break the hearts of some to see the
noble pastime of hunting on its "last legs." Waste land, too, is being
rapidly enclosed, and what are now wilds, fifty or sixty years hence
may be flourishing districts.

How many country villages are now huge towns! I remember, years ago,
when I used to meet the Queen's hounds, before the South-Western line
was made, there was only one old wayside inn at Woking, which was much
resorted to by "the fancy," for it was a noted spot for pugilists. Many
and many a prize-fight have I seen there. Now Woking is a little
town - I mean the new town, not the old town some four miles distant;
and the spots where I used to knock over the snipe and plover are now
built on and enclosed. And so it will go on to the end of all time;
bricks and mortar, iron and compo, will rise up, large and small
buildings, all over the face of the country, and those whose hearts are
still bent on sport will have to go farther afield for it.

But this is already done. France, Sweden, Norway, Hungary, Bohemia,
Bavaria, and other countries, have their English sportsmen. Railways
have made nearly all places within reach of those with means. Scotch
moors that you could rent thirty years ago for £50 a year, are now
£500; the rivers the same; and grouse that are killed one day in
Scotland are eaten the next in all parts of the United Kingdom.

Some men meet the hounds now thirty and forty miles away from home.
They breakfast comfortably at home, then step into the train, and are
whirled away with their horses and grooms; have a gallop, come home, or
perhaps go out to a grand luncheon; lounge down to their club, or do a
few calls, then dine, and go to one of the theatres to see the last new
thing; finish up with a supper or a ball, or perhaps both.

Old Squire Broadfurrow has ridden his stout, easy-going hack to cover,
has had a clinking day, and a fox run into, as the crow flies, about
eight-and-twenty miles from his home. The old man, nothing daunted,
jogs quietly along and pulls up at the first country inn, orders a chop
for himself and a bucket of gruel for his horse, gets home in good time
to entertain three or four choice souls at dinner, ride the run over
again, and talk of some shooting they are going to have on the morrow.
Reader, which is the pleasanter style of the two? which the most
healthy? Railways and hunting I cannot reconcile with my ideas of
sport; there is a sort of cockneyism about it that I do not like; it
seems to me poor "form."

Men change, too, in their ideas as well as their dress. I was talking
some time ago to an old friend of mine who had been an inveterate
fox-hunter, did his six days a week, and spent the seventh in the
kennel; if you asked him what Sunday it was, you always got the same
answer, "Infliction Sunday."

I asked him how he was getting on in the hunting line.

"Hunting, my dear fellow; why, I have given it up years ago - all
humbug! What on earth is the use of a man making a guy of himself,
putting on a pink coat, top-boots, and uncomfortable leather breeches,
and for what? - to gallop after a lot of yelping dogs, and to catch a
fox which is of no earthly use to any one when he is brought to hand;
endangering your neck, breaking fences, and destroying land and the
crops. Hunting is an idiotic fashion; half the men only hunt for the
sake of dress, and for mounting the pink. If they must hunt, why not
dress like reasonable beings, in comfortable cords, gaiters, and a
shooting-jacket? Ah! then you would not see half the men out you do
now. I am quite ashamed to think I ever hunted. Just come and look at
my shorthorns, will you?"

In sporting parlance, I was "knocked clean out of time;" this was the
inveterate six-days-a-week man.

"But you shoot?" I asked, seeing it was necessary to say something.

"Oh yes! I shoot, and fish occasionally, when the May-fly is
up - anything but hunting. There, what do you think of that bull?"

Shooting, too, is wonderfully changed. Where are the high stubbles we
so eagerly sought on the first of September? - gone, gone for ever. The
reaping-machine cuts it off now as close as the cloth on a billiard
table.

It has often been said the birds are wilder at present than they were:
admitting this to be the case, the cause probably is the high state of
cultivation, and nothing more. There is not the cover there was
formerly to hold them, and therefore they are more difficult to get at.
Turnips are now sown in drills, and not broadcast, as grain usually
was. If you work down the drills, the birds see you, and are off the
other end: the only way is to take them across. Yet there are thousands
of places where the cover is good and plentiful; and where this is the
case the birds lie as well as ever.

Game is scarcer than it was, except on manors that are highly
preserved: it must be remembered that where there was one shooter
formerly, there are twenty now. It is a difficult matter at present to
rent a shooting, for directly there is anything good in the market it
is snatched up at once.

The general style of shooting of the present day is odious - large bags
are "the go." In some countries it has done away with the noble pointer
and setter altogether; nothing but retrievers are used. The guns,
beaters, and keepers are all in a line: a gun, then a keeper with a
retriever, a beater, another gun, and so on. The word is given, and
away they go, taking a field in a beat. As you fire - possibly there are
two or three guns popping at the same bird - a keeper falls out, and
finds it with his retriever, whilst you are going on. Can this be
called sport? It is nothing more than pot-hunting, wholesale butchery.
Give me my brace of pointers and setters, and let me shoot my game to
points; there is some pleasure in that. What can be a more beautiful
sight to the shooting man than to see a brace of well-bred dogs,
ranging and quartering their ground like clockwork, backing and
standing like rocks, steady before and behind, and dropping to fur and
wing, as if they were shot? Working to hand, and obeying your slightest
word - beautiful, intelligent creatures - there is some pleasure in
shooting over such animals as these.

Then driving is another pot-hunting system, and does no end of harm;
and so those who practise it will find out before many years are over.
More game is wounded and left to pine away and die than many have an
idea of - a more cruel and unsportsmanlike system has never been thought
of, and I much regret it has its votaries. A heavy hot luncheon from a
Norwegian kitchener is now the correct thing - heavy eating and drinking
must form a prominent feature in the day's programme, otherwise it is
not sport.

A few men are still content with their sherry-flask and sandwich, and I
would back these to beat the others into fits in a day's sport. One
does not go out to eat, but to shoot, and a man that has laid in a
heavy luncheon can neither walk well up to his dogs nor shoot straight
after it.

Great improvements have been made in guns. The old flint that took half
an hour to load was a bore; the flint had every now and then to be
chipped and renewed, the pans fresh steeled, the touch-hole pricked,
powder put in the pan, and even then there were constant misfires and
disappointments. The flint in time gave way to the percussion, a great
improvement; but there are many inconveniences with this; unless the
nipples are kept clean, and the gun washed each time after using,
constant misfires are the consequence. Then, in cold weather it is no
end of trouble to get the caps on. With half-frozen fingers it is a
difficult job; but this has been remedied by a cap-holder, which sends
the caps up with a spring as you want them. With both flint and
percussion there were great inconveniences in loading; the spring of
your powder or shot flask might break, and then you had to judge your
charge till they were repaired. All this trouble was put an end to by
the introduction of the breech-loader, which has not half the danger,
is ten times quicker, and much more convenient in every way; the
ammunition more easily carried, and there are very few misfires. The
gun wants no washing, merely a rag passed through, and it is clean. But
I am not going into the subject of guns and all their improvements; I
have merely mentioned these to show the great stride that has been made
in the last fifty years in shot guns.

Steeplechasing and racing I must touch on, and the little I have to say
will not be in its favour.

The hateful passion of betting is slowly but surely ruining the turf;
for there are not the same class of men on it that there were thirty
years ago.

Where do you see fine old sportsmen like the late Sir Gilbert
Heathcote? He raced for the pleasure of racing, and so did many others
who never betted a shilling; but it is all altered now, and not for the
better.

Young men - ay, and old ones too - ruin themselves by betting; Government
and other clerks squander their salaries away, which might maintain
them, and perhaps a mother or a sister who is totally dependent upon
them; the butlers and footmen pawn the family plate _to meet their
engagements_; and the shop-boy is often detected _in flagrante
delicto_, with his hands in the till, purloining a half-crown or two to
enable him to go with Mary Hann to 'Ampton. You are pestered with
letters from tipsters - scoundrels who know just as much of a horse or
racing as they do of the man in the moon. The man from whom you can get
nothing else, is always ready with his advice on the momentous subject
of "what to back" for this race or that, quite ignoring the question of
whether he really does or does not "know anything," to use turf
parlance.

Betting will never be put down entirely, but much might be done. Were I
to commence racing again, I would hit the ring and the betting
fraternity as hard as I could to scare them from backing my horses for
the future. This cannot always be done, but after one or two such
lessons people would be shy of burning their fingers over my stable. I
daresay I should be called an "old curmudgeon," "selfish brute," and
"no sportsman;" but after all said and done, you race to please
yourself, not the public. You have to pay the hay and corn bill,
trainer's expenses, and, above all, entry fees, far the heaviest item
in the whole list; and surely, if any money is to be had over a race,
the owner should be allowed "first run" at it.

We see no Alice Hawthorns or Beeswings now-a-days; racing men cannot
afford to let their colts or fillies come to maturity: most are broken
down before they are three years old. Government ought to interfere and
put a veto on two-year-old races; this done, and the One and Two
Thousand, the Derby, Oaks, and Leger made for four-year-olds, then we
might hope to see our racehorses and hunters coming back to their
former stout form. But this we shall never see. John Bull, with his
proverbial stubbornness, will stick to his old line.

I was one and twenty years riding and racing in France, and was highly
amused when the French first began sending over horses to us; we
generously allowed them seven pounds - half a stone. How I laughed and
chuckled in my sleeve when I heard this! After a little time Mr Bull
found this would not do, so he came to even weights; but he received
such a lesson with Fille de l'Air and Gladiateur, that it made the old
gentleman stare considerably, and pull rather a long face.

Racing men, I will tell you what you probably already know, but will
not admit - the French could better give us seven pounds than we them:
their three-year-olds are nearly as forward as our four-year-olds.

The climate of France is warmer than ours, horses do better and furnish
quicker there, and the time is not far distant when they will beat us
as easily as we used to beat them. It is no use disguising it; it is a
fact, and a fact, too, that is being accomplished; for no one will deny
that the French already take a pretty good share of our best stakes.
They have a climate better suited for horses, they buy our best sires
and mares, have English trainers and riders, therefore what is to
prevent them from beating us? They have done it already, and will
continue doing so.

We have found out that when we take horses over there we are generally
beaten, and this alone ought to convince us that the French horses are
more forward than ours. Racing now-a-days is nothing more than a very
precarious speculation, and the practice of some on the turf to gain
their own ends is anything but (not to use a stronger word) creditable.

Within the last few years, gentleman after gentleman has left the turf
disgusted and disheartened; and well they might be, for if a man is not
very careful, there is no finer school than a racecourse to pick up
swindling, dishonesty, and blackguardism.

Your fashionable light-weight jocks of the present day have their
country houses, their valets, their broughams, hunters, and what-not.
The old riding fee of £3 for a losing race and £5 for a winning one is
seldom heard of except at little country meetings. Trainers and jockeys
are at present much bigger men than their masters; and why? because
they allow them to be so; they may owe them a long bill, or be
foolishly good-natured in putting their servants on the same footing as
themselves by undue familiarity - 'Hail fellow well met' with them.

Racing will never be what it was again, for the reasons I have
mentioned. Speculation is too rife to allow it a healthy tone. Shortly
but few gentlemen will be left as racing men, and the turf will be
represented by the lower five, and men to whom the meaning of the words
honour, honesty, principle, and conscience, are unknown.

Coursing too, a healthy and fine amusement, even this cannot be enjoyed
without the presence of the betting fraternity, bawling and shouting. A
clean sweep should be made of them.

Pigeon-shooting as well. Although I am not an admirer of this pastime
(sport I will not call it), yet one cannot stroll down to Hurlingham or
the Bush, to look on, but what one must be pestered with odds offered
on the gun or bird. Your shady and doubtful betting men are nuisances.
Who on earth wants to lose a lot of money to moneyless scoundrels? But
there are fools who do so, and they deserve to be fleeced.

Many of our old sports have died out. The Ring is a thing of the past,
and so is the Cock-pit. I am savage enough to say I liked a prize-fight
and a cock-fight. When it was on the square, a prize-fight was a most
exciting scene. Yet both have very wisely been put down, and athletic
sports take their place.

I seldom see the fine old game of bowls played now. Le gras, too, has
gone out.

Polo, which I think nothing of, is the rage amongst gentlemen now. I
see nothing in it whatever; it is a wretched game for the _lookers-on_;


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