THE SPORTSMAN.
There were many various forms of sport open to the Englishman fifty
years ago which are now wholly, or partly, closed. For instance,
there was the P. R., then flourishing in great vigour--they are at
this moment trying to revive it. A prize-fight was accompanied by
every kind of blackguardism and villainy; not the least was the fact
that the fights, towards the end of the record, were almost always
conducted on the cross, so that honest betting men never knew where to
lay their money. At the same time, the decay of boxing during the last
twenty-five years has been certainly followed by a great decay of the
national pluck and pugnacity, and therefore, naturally, by a decay of
national enterprise. We may fairly congratulate ourselves, therefore,
that the noble art of self-defence is reviving, and promises to become
as great and favourite a sport as before. Let all our boys be taught
to fight. Fifty years ago there was not a day in a public school when
there was not a fight between two of the boys; there was not a day
when there was not a street fight; did not the mail-coach drivers who
accompanied Mr. Samuel Weller on a memorable occasion leave behind them
one of their number to fight a street porter in Fleet Street? There
was never a day when some young fellow did not take off his coat and
handle his fives for a quarter of an hour with a drayman, a driver, a
working man. It was a disgrace not to be able to fight. Let all our
boys be taught again and encouraged to fight. Only the other day I read
that there are no fights at Eton any more because the boys ‘funk each
other.’ Eton boys funk each other! But we need not believe it. Let
there be no nonsense listened to about brutality. The world belongs to
the men who can fight.
There were, besides the street fights, which kept things lively and
gave animation to the dullest parts of the town, many other things
which we see no longer. The bear who danced: the bull who was baited:
the pigeons which were shot in Battersea Fields: the badger which was
drawn: the dogs which were fought: the rats which were killed: the
cocks which were fought: the cats which were thrown into the ponds: the
ducks which were hunted--these amusements exist no longer; fifty years
ago they afforded sport for many.
Hunting, coursing, horse-racing, shooting, went on bravely. As regards
game preserves, the laws were more rigidly enforced, and there was a
much more bitter feeling towards them on the part of farmers then than
now. On the other hand, there were no such wholesale battues; sport
involved uncertainty; gentlemen did not sell their game; rabbits,
instead of being sent off to the nearest poulterer, were given to the
labourers as they should be.
The sporting instincts of the Londoner gave the comic person an endless
theme for fun. He was always hiring a horse and coming to grief; he was
perpetually tumbling off, losing his stirrups, letting his whip fall,
having his hat blown off and carried away, and generally disgracing
himself in the eyes of those with whom he wished to appear to the
best advantage. There was the Epping Hunt on Easter Monday, where the
sporting Londoners turned out in thousands; there were the ponies on
hire at any open place all round London--at Clapham Common, Blackheath,
Hampstead, Epping. To ride was the young Londoner’s greatest ambition:
even to this day there is not one young man in ten who will own without
a blush that he cannot ride. To ride in the Park was impossible for
him, because he had to be at his desk at ten; a man who rides in the
Park is independent of the City; but there were occasions on which
everyone would long to be able to sit in the saddle.
Rowing, athletics, and, above all, the cycle, have done much to
counterbalance the attractions of the saddle.
[Illustration: COCKNEY SPORTSMEN]
It seems certain, unless the comic papers all lie, that fifty years ago
every young man also wanted to go shooting. Remember how Mr. Winkle--an
arrant Cockney, though represented as coming from Bristol--not only
pretended to love the sport, but always went about attired as one
ready to take the field. The Londoner went out into the fields, which
then lay within his reach all round the City, popping at everything.
Let us illustrate the subject with the following description of a First
of September taken from the ‘Comic Almanack’ of 1837. Perhaps Thackeray
wrote it:--
‘Up at six.--Told Mrs. D. I’d got wery pressing business at
Woolwich, and off to Old Fish Street, where a werry sporting
breakfast, consisting of jugged hare, partridge pie, tally-ho
sauce, gunpowder tea, and-cætera, vos laid out in Figgins’s
warehouse; as he didn’t choose Mrs. F. and his young hinfant family
to know he vos a-goin to hexpose himself vith fire-harms.--After
a good blowout, sallied forth vith our dogs and guns, namely Mrs.
Wiggins’s French poodle, Miss Selina Higgins’s real Blenheim
spaniel, young Hicks’s ditto, Mrs. Figgins’s pet bull-dog, and
my little thoroughbred tarrier; all vich had been smuggled
to Figgins’s warehouse the night before, to perwent domestic
disagreeables.--Got into a Paddington bus at the Bank.--Row, with
Tiger, who hobjected to take the dogs, unless paid hextra.--Hicks
said we’d a rights to take ’em, and quoted the hact.--Tiger said
the hact only allowed parcels carried on the lap.--Accordingly
tied up the dogs in our pocket-handkerchiefs, and carried them and
the guns on our knees.--Got down at Paddington; and, after glasses
round, valked on till ve got into the fields, to a place vich
Higgins had baited vith corn and penny rolls every day for a month
past. Found a covey of birds feeding. Dogs wery eager, and barked
beautiful. Birds got up and turned out to be pigeons. Debate as to
vether pigeons vos game or not. Hicks said they vos made game on
by the new hact. Fired accordingly, and half killed two or three,
vich half fell to the ground; but suddenly got up again and flew
off. Reloaded, and pigeons came round again. Let fly a second time,
and tumbled two or three more over, but didn’t bag any. Tired at
last, and turned in to the _Dog and Partridge_, to get a snack.
Landlord laughed, and asked how ve vos hoff for tumblers. Didn’t
understand him, but got some waluable hinformation about loading
our guns; vich he strongly recommended mixing the powder and shot
well up together before putting into the barrel; and showed Figgins
how to charge his percussion; vich being Figgins’s first attempt
under the new system, he had made the mistake of putting a charge
of copper caps into the barrel instead of sticking von of ’em
atop of the touch-hole.--Left the _Dog and Partridge_, and took a
north-easterly direction, so as to have the adwantage of the vind
on our backs. Dogs getting wery riotous, and refusing to answer to
Figgins’s vhistle, vich had unfortunately got a pea in it.--Getting
over an edge into a field, Hicks’s gun haccidently hexploded, and
shot Wiggins behind; and my gun going off hunexpectedly at the
same moment, singed avay von of my viskers and blinded von of
my heyes.--Carried Wiggins back to the inn: dressed his wound,
and rubbed my heye with cherry brandy and my visker with bear’s
grease.--Sent poor W. home by a short stage, and resumed our
sport.--Heard some pheasants crowing by the side of a plantation.
Resolved to stop their cockadoodledooing, so set off at a jog-trot.
Passing thro’ a field of bone manure, the dogs unfortunately set to
work upon the bones, and we couldn’t get ’em to go a step further
at no price. Got vithin gun-shot of two of the birds, vich Higgins
said they vos two game cocks: but Hicks, who had often been to
Vestminster Pit, said no sitch thing; as game cocks had got short
square tails, and smooth necks, and long military spurs; and these
had got long curly tails, and necks all over hair, and scarce any
spurs at all. Shot at ’em as pheasants, and believe we killed ’em
both; but, hearing some orrid screams come out of the plantation
immediately hafter, ve all took to our ’eels and ran avay vithout
stopping to pick either of ’em up.--After running about two miles,
Hicks called out to stop, as he had hobserved a covey of wild ducks
feeding on a pond by the road side. Got behind a haystack and shot
at the ducks, vich svam avay hunder the trees. Figgins wolunteered
to scramble down the bank, and hook out the dead uns vith the
but-hend of his gun. Unfortunately bank failed, and poor F. tumbled
up to his neck in the pit. Made a rope of our pocket-handkerchiefs,
got it round his neck, and dragged him to the _Dog and Doublet_,
vere ve had him put to bed, and dried. Werry sleepy with the
hair and hexercise, so after dinner took a nap a-piece.--Woke by
the landlord coming in to know if ve vos the gentlemen as had
shot the hunfortunate nursemaid and child in Mr. Smithville’s
plantation. Swore ve knew nothing about it, and vile the landlord
was gone to deliver our message, got out of the back vindow, and
ran avay across the fields. At the end of a mile, came suddenly
upon a strange sort of bird, vich Hicks declared to be the
cock-of-the-woods. Sneaked behind him and killed him. Turned out to
be a peacock. Took to our heels again, as ve saw the lord of the
manor and two of his servants vith bludgeons coming down the gravel
valk towards us. Found it getting late, so agreed to shoot our vay
home. Didn’t know vere ve vos, but kept going on.--At last got to a
sort of plantation, vere ve saw a great many birds perching about.
Gave ’em a broadside, and brought down several. Loaded again, and
killed another brace. Thought ve should make a good day’s vork of
it at last, and vas preparing to charge again, ven two of the new
police came and took us up in the name of the Zolorogical Society,
in whose gardens it seems ve had been shooting. Handed off to
the Public Hoffice, and werry heavily fined, and werry sewerely
reprimanded by the sitting magistrate.--Coming away, met by the
landlord of the _Dog and Doublet_, who charged us with running off
without paying our shot; and Mr. Smithville, who accused us of
manslaughtering his nurse-maid and child; and, their wounds not
having been declared immortal, ve vos sent to spend the night in
prison--and thus ended my last First of September.’
[Illustration: RETURN FROM THE RACES.]
Those who wish to know what a Derby Day was fifty years ago may read
the following contemporary narrative:--
Here’s a right and true list of all the running horses! Dorling’s
correct card for the Derby day!----Hollo, old un! hand us up one
here, will you: and let it be a good un: there, now what’s to pay?
Only sixpence. Sixpence! I never gave more than a penny at Hookem
Snivey in all my days.----May be not, your honour: but Hookem
Snivey aint Hepsom: and sixpence is what every gemman, as is a
gemman, pays.
I can buy ’em for less than that on the course, and I’ll wait till
I get there. Beg your honour’s pardon----They sells ’em a shillin’
on the course. Give you threepence. They cost _me_ fippence ha’p’ny
farden.
Well, here then, take your list back again. Come, come; your honour
shall have it at your own price:----I wouldn’t sell it nob’dy else
for no sitch money: but I likes the sound of your wice.
Here, then, give me the change, will you?--Oh, certainly: but your
honour’s honcommon ard:----Let’s see: you want two-and-threepence:
wait a moment, there’s another gentleman calling out for a card.
Hollo, coachman, stop, stop! Coachman, do you hear? stop your
horses this moment, and let me get down:--The fellow’s run away
behind an omnibus without giving me change out of my half-crown.
That’s alvays the vay they does on these here hoccasions: they
calls it catching a flat:--Sorry I can’t stop. Where’s the new
police? Pretty police truly, to suffer such work as that!
Well, if ever I come to Epsom again! but let’s look at the list:
it’s cost me precious dear!--Ascot, Mundig, Pelops! why, good
heavens, coachman! they’ve sold me a list for last year!
‘Oh, ma! look there! what a beautiful carriage! scarlet and gold
liveries, and horses with long tails.--And stodge-full of gentlemen
with mustaches, and cigars and macintoshes, and green veils:
Whose is it, ma? Don’t know, my dear; but no doubt belongs to some
duke, or marquis, or other great nob.--Beg your pardon, ma’am: but
that carriage as you’re looking at is a party of the swell mob.
And, oh my! ma: look at that other, full of beautiful ladies,
dressed like queens and princesses.--Silks and satins and velvets,
and gauze sleeves and ermine tippets: I never saw such elegant
dresses:
And how merry they look, laughing and smiling! they seem determined
to enjoy the sport:--Who are they, ma? Don’t know, dear; but no
doubt they’re Court ladies. Yes, ma’am, Cranbourne Court.
How do, Smith? nice sort of tit you’ve got there. Very nice
indeed: _very_ nice sort of mare.--Beautiful legs she’s got, and
nicely-turned ancles, and ’pon my word, a most elegant head of hair.
How old is she? and how high does she stand? I should like to
buy her if she’s for sale.--Oh, she’s quite young: not above
five-and-twenty or thirty; and her height exactly a yard and a half
and a nail:
Price eighty guineas. She’d be just the thing for you; capital
hunter as ever appeared at a fixture.--Only part with her on
account of her colour; not that _I_ mind: only Mrs. S. don’t like
an _Oxford mixture_.
Hehlo! you faylow! you person smoking the pipe, I wish you’d
take your quadruped out of the way.--Quadruped, eh? you be blowed!
it’s no quadruped, but as good a donkey as ever was fed upon hay.
Oh, my! ma: there’s the course. What lots of people, and horses,
and booths, and grand stands!--And what oceans of gipsies and
jugglers, and barrel organs, and military bands!
And was ever such sights of Savoyards and French women singing and
E-O-tables;--And horses rode up and down by little boys, or tied
together in bundles, and put up in calimanco stables;
And look at that one, they call him _Boney_-parte. Did you ever in
all your lifetime see a leaner?--And ‘Royal Dinner Saloons’ (for
royalty the knives might have been a little brighter, and the linen
a little cleaner);
And women with last-dying speeches in one hand, and in the other
all the best new comic songs;--And, dear me! how funnily that
gentleman sits his horse; for all the world just like a pair of
tongs.
And--clear the course! clear the course! Oh, dear! now the great
Derby race is going to be run.--Twelve to one! Ten to one! Six to
one! Nine to two! Sixteen to three! Done, done, done, done!
Here they come! here they come! blue, green, buff, yellow, black,
brown, white, harlequin, and red!--Sir, I wish you’d stand off our
carriage steps: it’s quite impossible to see through your head.
There, now they’re gone: how many times round? Times round, eh?
why, bless your innocent face!--It’s all over. All over! you don’t
say so! I wish I’d never come: such a take in! call that a Derby
race!
After being stifled with dust almost, and spoiling all our best
bonnets and shawls and cloaks!--Call that a Derby race, indeed! I’m
sure it’s no Derby, but nothing but a right-down, regular _Oaks_.
But come, let’s have a bit of lunch; I’m as hungry as if I hadn’t
had a bit all day.--Smith, what are you staring at? why don’t you
make haste, and hand us the hamper this way?
We shall never have anything to eat all day if you don’t stir
yourself, and not go on at that horrid slow rate.--Oh, Lord! the
bottom’s out, and every bit of meat and drink, and worse than all,
the knives and forks and plate,--
Stole and gone clean away! Good heavenlies! and I told you to keep
your eye on the basket, you stupid lout!--Well, so I did, on the
_top_ of it, but who’d have thought of their taking the bottom out?
Well, never mind: they’ll be prettily disappointed: for you know,
betwixt you and me and the wall,--Our ivory knives and forks were
nothing but bone; and our plate nothing but German silver, after
all.
What race is to be run next? No more, ma’am: the others were all
run afore you come.--Well, then, have the horses put to, Smith:
I’ll never come a Derbying again; and let us be off home.
Oh, lawk! what a stodge of carriages! I’m sure we shall never
get off the course alive!--Oh, dear! do knock that young drunken
gentleman off the box: I’m sure he’s not in a fit state to drive.
There, I told you how it would be. Oh, law! you’ve broke my arm,
and compound-fractured my leg!--Oh! for ’eaven’s sake, lift them
two ’orrid osses off my darter! Sir, take your hands out of my
pocket-hole, I beg!
I say, the next time you crawl out of a coach window, I wish you
wouldn’t put your foot on a lady’s chest.--Vell, if ever I seed
such a purl as that (and I’ve seed many a good un in my time), I’ll
be blest.
Oh, dear! going home’s worse than coming! It’s ten to one if ever
we get back to Tooley Street alive.--Such jostling, and pushing,
and prancing of horses! and always the tipsiest gentleman of every
party _will_ drive.
I wish I was one of those ladies at the windows; or even one of the
servant maids giggling behind the garden walls.--And oh! there’s
Kennington turnpike! what shouting and hooting, and blowing those
horrid cat-calls!
Ticket, sir? got a ticket? No, I’ve lost it. A shilling, then. A
shilling! I’ve paid you once to-day.--Oh, yes, I suppose so: the
old tale; but it won’t do. That’s what all you sporting gentlemen
say.
Hinsolent feller! I’ll have you up before your betters. Come, sir,
you mustn’t stop up the way. Well, I’ll pay you again; but, oh
Lord! somebody’s stole my purse! good gracious, what shall I do!--I
suppose I must leave my watch, and call for it to-morrow. Oh,
ruination! blow’d if that isn’t gone too!
Get on there, will you?--Well, stop a moment. Will anybody lend me
a shilling? No? Well, here then, take my hat:--But if I don’t show
you up in _Bell’s Life in London_, next Sunday morning, my name’s
not Timothy Flat.
Well, this is my last journey to Epsom, my last appearance on
any course as a backer or hedger:--For I see plain enough a
betting-book aint a day-book, and a Derby’s a very different thing
from a Ledger.