CIRENCESTER.
The ancient town of Cirencester--the Caerceri of the early Britons, the
Corinium of the Romans, and the Saxon Cyrencerne--has been a place of
importance on the Cotswolds from time immemorial. The abbreviations
Cisetre and Cysseter were in use as long ago as the fifteenth century,
though some of the natives are now in the habit of calling it Ciren. The
correct modern abbreviation is Ciceter.
The place is so rich in Roman antiquities that we must perforce devote a
few lines to their consideration. A whole book would not be sufficient
to do full justice to them.
No less than four important Roman roads meet within a short distance of
Cirencester; and very fine and broad ones they are, generally running as
straight as the proverbial arrow.
1. The Irmin Way, between Cricklade and Gloucester, _viâ_ Cirencester.
2. Acman Street connects Cirencester with Bath.
3. Icknield Street, running to Oxford.
4. The Fossway, extending far into the north of England. This
magnificent road may be said to connect Exeter in the south with Lincoln
in the north. It is raised several feet above the natural level of the
country, and in many places there still remain traces of the ancient
ditch which was dug on either side of its course.
In the year 1849 two very fine tessellated pavements were unearthed in
Dyer Street, and removed to a museum which Lord Bathurst built purposely
for their reception and preservation. Another fine specimen of this kind
of work may be seen in its original position at a house called the
"Barton" in the park. It is a representation of Orpheus and his lute;
and the various animals which he is said to have charmed are wonderfully
worked in the coloured pavements. Even as far back as three hundred
years ago these beautiful relics were being discovered in this town; for
Leland in his "Itinerary," mentions the finding of some tesserae;
unfortunately but few have been preserved.
There are two inscribed stones in this collection which deserve special
mention, as they are marvellously well preserved, considering the fact
that they are probably eighteen hundred years old. They are about six
feet in height and about half that breadth; on each is carved the figure
of a mounted soldier, spear in hand. On the ground lies his prostrate
foe, pierced by his adversary's spear. Underneath one of these carvings
are inscribed the following words:--
DANNICVS. EQES. AIAE.
INDIAN. TVR. ALBANI.
STIP. XVI. CIVES. RAVR.
CVR. FVLVIVS. NATALIS. IT.
FVLIVS. BITVCVS. EX. TESTAME.
H S E.
The meaning of the above words is as follows:--
"Dannicus, a horseman of Indus's Cavalry, of the squadron of Albanus. He
had seen sixteen years' service. A citizen of Rauricum. Fulvius Natalis
and Fulvius Bitucus have caused this monument to be made in accordance
with his will. He is buried here."
The other stone has a somewhat similar inscription.
The Romans, who did not use wallpapers, were in the habit of colouring
their plaster with various pigments. Some very interesting specimens of
wall-painting are preserved at Cirencester, and may be seen in the
museum. The most remarkable example of the kind is a piece of coloured
plaster, with the following square scratched on its surface:--
ROTAS
OPERA
TENET
AREPO
SATOR
It will be noticed that these five words, the meaning of which is,
"Arepo, the sower, guides the wheels at work," form a kind of puzzle;
they may be read in eight different directions.
A large variety of sepulchral urns have been found at Cirencester. When
dug up they usually contain little besides the ashes of the dead, though
a few coins are sometimes included. There is a very perfect specimen of
a glass urn--a large green bottle, square, wide-mouthed, and absolutely
intact--in this collection. It was found, wrapped in lead and enclosed
in a hollow stone, somewhere near the town about the year 1758.
A fine specimen of a stone coffin is likewise to be seen. When
discovered at Latton it was found to contain an iron axe, a dish of
black ware of the kind frequently discovered at Upchurch in Kent, a
juglike-handled vase of a light red colour, and some human bones.
The various kinds of pottery in the Corinium Museum are interesting on
account of the potters' marks found on them. There must be considerably
over a hundred different marks in this collection, chiefly of the
following kind:--
_Putri M_. (Manû Putri), by the hand of Putrus.
_Mara. F_. (Formâ Marci), from the mould of Marcus.
_Olini Off_. (Officinâ Olini), from the workshop of Olinus.
The museum contains many good specimens of iron and bronze implements,
as well as coins and stonework, and is well worthy of the attention
bestowed on it, not only by antiquaries, but by the public at large.
At a place called the Querns, a short distance from the town, is a very
interesting old amphitheatre called the Bull-ring. This is an ellipse of
about sixty yards long by forty-five wide; it is surrounded by mounds
twenty feet high. Originally the scene of the combats of Roman
gladiators, in mediaeval times it was probably used for the pastime of
bull-baiting, a barbarous amusement which has happily long since
died out.
Amphitheatres of the same type are to be seen at Dorchester, Old Sarum,
Silchester, and other Roman stations.
Mr. Wilfred Cripps, C.B., the head of a family that has been seated at
Cirencester for many hundreds of years, has an interesting private
collection of Roman antiquities which have been found in the
neighbourhood from time to time. He has quite recently discovered the
remnants of the Basilica or Roman law-courts.
Turning to the place as it now stands, one is struck on entering the
town by the breadth and clean appearance of the main street, known as
the market-place. The shops are almost as good as those to be found in
the principal thoroughfares of London.
I have spoken before of the magnificent old church. There is, perhaps,
no sacred building, except St. Mary Redcliffe at Bristol and Beverley
Minster, that we know of in England which for perfect proportion and
symmetry can vie with the imposing grandeur of this pile, as seen from
the Cricklade-street end of Cirencester market-place.
The south porch is a very beautiful and ornamental piece of
architecture. The work is of fifteenth-century design, the interior of
the porch consisting of delicately wrought fan-tracery groining. The
carving outside is most picturesque, there being many handsome niches
and six fine oriel windows. The whole of the _façade_ is crowned with
very large pierced battlements and crocketed pinnacles. Over this porch
is one of those grand old sixteenth-century halls such as were built in
former times in front of the churches. It is called the "Parvise," a
word derived from the same source as Paradise, which in the language of
architecture means a cloistered court adjoining a church. Many of these
beautiful old apartments existed at one time in England, but were pulled
down by religious enthusiasts because they were considered to be out of
place when attached to the church and used for secular purposes. This is
now known as the town hall, and contrasts very favourably with the
hideous erections built in modern times in some of our English towns for
this purpose.
The church of Cirencester contains a large amount of beautiful
Perpendicular work.
In the grand old tower are twelve bells of excellent tone. The Early
English stonework in the chancel and chapels is very curious, a fine
arch opening from the nave to the tower. There is, in fact, a great deal
to be seen on all sides which would delight the lover of architecture.
Some ancient brasses of great interest and beautiful design in various
parts of this church claim attention; the earliest of them is as old as
1360; a pulpit cloth of blue velvet, made from the cape of one Ralph
Parsons in 1478 and presented by him, is still preserved.
Cirencester House stands but a stone's throw from the railway station,
but is hidden from sight by a high wall and a gigantic yew hedge. Behind
it and on all sides, save one, the park--one of the largest in
England--stretches away for miles. So beautiful and rural are the
surroundings that the visitor to the house can hardly realise that the
place is not far removed from the busy haunts of men.
The Cirencester estate was purchased by Sir Benjamin Bathurst rather
more than two hundred years ago. This family has done good service to
their king and country for many centuries. We read the other day that no
less than _six_ of Sir Benjamin's brothers died fighting for the king in
the Civil Wars. Nor have they been less conspicuous in serving their
country in times of peace.
The park, which was designed to a great extent by the first earl, with
the assistance of Pope, has been entirely thrown open to the people of
Cirencester; and "the future and as yet visionary beauties of the noble
scenes, openings, and avenues" which that great poet used to delight in
dwelling upon have become accomplished facts. The "ten rides"--lengthy
avenues of fine trees radiating in all directions from a central point
in the middle of the park--are a picturesque feature of the landscape.
The lover of horses and riding finds here a paradise of grassy glades,
where he can gallop for miles on end, and tire the most obstinate of
"pullers."
Picnic parties, horse shows, cricket matches, and the chase of the fox
all find a place in this romantic demesne in their proper seasons. The
enthusiast for woodland hunting, or the man who hates the sight of a
fence of any description, may hunt the fox here day after day and never
leave the recesses of the park.
The antiquary will find much to delight him. Here is the ancient high
cross, erected in the fourteenth century, which once stood in front of
the old Ram Inn. The pedestal is hewn from a single block of stone, and
beautifully wrought with Gothic arcades and panelled quatrefoils; this
and the shaft are the sole relics of the old cross. We may go into
raptures over the ivy-covered ruin known as Alfred's Hall, fitted up as
it is with black oak and rusty armour and all the pompous simplicity of
the old baronial halls of England. Antiquaries of a certain order are
easily deceived; and this delightful old ruin, though but two hundred
years old, has been so skilfully put together as to represent an ancient
British castle. That celebrated, though indelicate divine, Dean Swift,
was, like Alexander Pope, deeply interested in the designing of
this park.
As long ago as 1733 Alfred's Hall was a snare and delusion to
antiquaries. In that year Swift received a letter stating that "My Lord
Bathurst has greatly improved the Wood-House, which you may remember was
a cottage, not a bit better than an Irish cabin. It is now a venerable
castle, and has been taken by an antiquary for one of King Arthur's."
The kennels of the V.W.H. hounds are in the park. Here the lover of
hounds can spend hours discussing the merits of "Songster" and
"Rosebud," or the latest and most promising additions to the families of
"Brocklesby Acrobat" or "Cotteswold Flier."
In this house are some very interesting portraits. Full-length pictures
of the members of the Cabal Ministry adorn the dining-room--all fine
examples of Lely's brush; then there is a very large representation of
the Duke of Wellington at Waterloo mounted on his favourite charger
"Copenhagen" by Lawrence; two "Romneys," one "Sir Joshua," and several
"Knellers."
Turning to the Abbey, the seat for the last three hundred and thirty
years of the Master family, we find another instance of a large country
house standing practically in a town. The house is situated immediately
behind the church and within a stone's throw of the market-place. But on
the side away from the town the view from this house extends over a
large extent of rural scenery. The site of the mitred Abbey of Saint
Mary is somewhere hereabouts, but in the time of the suppression of the
monasteries every stone of the old abbey was pulled down and carried
away; so that the twelfth-century gateway and some remnants of pillars
are the sole traces that remain. This gateway, which is a very fine one,
is still used as a lodge entrance. Queen Elizabeth granted this estate
to Richard Master in 1564. When King Charles was at Cirencester in the
time of the Rebellion he twice stayed at this house. In 1642 the
townspeople of Cirencester rose in a body, and tried to prevent the lord
lieutenant of the county, Lord Chandos, from carrying out the King's
Commission of Array. For a time they gained their ends, but in the
following year there was a sharp encounter between Prince Rupert's force
and the people of Cirencester, resulting in the total defeat of the
latter. Three hundred of them were killed, and over a thousand taken
prisoners. They were confined in the church, and eventually taken to
Oxford, where, upon their submitting humbly to the king, he pardoned
them, and they were released. This is one account. It is only fair to
state that another account is less complimentary to Charles.
When Charles II. escaped from Worcester he put up at an old hostelry in
Cirencester called the Sun. King James and, still later, Queen Anne paid
visits to this town.
Altogether the town of Cirencester is a very fascinating old place. The
lot of its inhabitants is indeed cast in pleasant places. The grand
bracing air of the Cotswold Hills is a tonic which drives dull care away
from these Gloucestershire people; and when it is remembered that they
enjoy the freedom of Lord Bathurst's beautiful park, that the
neighbourhood is, in spite of agricultural depression, well off in this
world's goods, it is not surprising that the pallid cheeks and drooping
figures to be met with in most of our towns are conspicuous by their
absence here. The Cotswold farmers may be making no profit in these days
of low prices and competition, but against this must be set the fact
that their fathers and grandfathers made considerable fortunes in
farming three decades ago, and for this we must be thankful.
The merry capital of the Cotswolds abounds in good cheer and good
fellowship all the year round; and one has only to pay a visit to the
market-place on a Monday to meet the best of fellows and the most genial
sportsmen anywhere to be found amongst the farming community of England.
One of the old institutions which still remain in the Cotswolds is the
annual "mop," or hiring fair. At Cirencester these take place twice in
October. Every labouring man in the district hurries into the town,
where all sorts of entertainments are held in the market-place,
including "whirly-go-rounds," discordant music, and the usual "shows"
which go to make up a country fair. "Hiring" used to be the great
feature of these fairs. In the days before local newspapers were
invented every sort of servant, from a farm bailiff to a
maid-of-all-work, was hired for the year at the annual mop. The word
"mop" is derived from an old custom which ordained that the
maid-servants who came to find situations should bring their badge of
office with them to the fair. They came with their brooms and mops, just
as a carter would tie a piece of whipcord to his coat, and a shepherd's
hat would be decorated with a tuft of wool. Time was when the labouring
man was never happy unless he changed his abode from year to year. He
would get tired of one master and one village, and be off to Cirencester
mop, where he was pretty sure to get a fresh job. But nowadays the
Cotswold men are beginning to realise that "Two removes are as bad as a
fire." The best of them stay for years in the same village. This is very
much more satisfactory for all concerned. Deeply rooted though the love
of change appears to be in the hearts of nine-tenths of the human race,
the restless spirit seldom enjoys real peace and quiet; and the
discontent and poverty of the labouring class in times gone by may
safely be attributed to their never-ceasing changes and removal of their
belongings to other parts of the country.
Now that these old fairs no longer answer the purpose for which they
existed for hundreds of years, they will doubtless gradually die out.
And they have their drawbacks. An occasion of this kind is always
associated with a good deal of drunkenness; the old market-place of
Cirencester for a few days in each autumn becomes a regular pandemonium.
It is marvellous how quickly all traces of the great show are swept away
and the place once more settles down to the normal condition of an
old-fashioned though well-to-do country town.
There are many old houses in Cirencester of more than average interest,
but there is nothing as far as we know that needs special description.
The Fleece Hotel is one of the largest and most beautiful of the
mediaeval buildings. It should be noted that some of the new buildings
in this town, such as that which contains the post office, have been
erected in the best possible taste. With the exception of some of the
work which Mr. Bodley has done at Oxford in recent years, notably the
new buildings at Magdalen College, we have never seen modern
architecture of greater excellence than these Cirencester houses. They
are as picturesque as houses containing shops possibly can be.
HUNTING FROM CICETER.
But it is as a hunting centre that Ciceter is best known to the world at
large, and in this respect it is almost unique. The "Melton of the
west," it contains a large number of hunting residents who are not mere
"birds of passage," but men who live the best part of the year in or
near the town. The country round about, from a hunting point of view, is
good enough for most people. Five days a week can be enjoyed, over a
variety of hill and vale, all of which is "rideable"; nor can there be
any question but that the sport obtainable compares favourably with that
enjoyed in the more grassy Midlands. Not that there is much plough round
about Cirencester nowadays; agricultural depression has diminished the
amount of arable in recent years. The best grass country round about,
however, with the exception of the Crudwell and Oaksey district, rides
decidedly deep. The enclosures are small and the fences rough and
straggling.
A clever, bold horse, with plenty of jumping power in his quarters and
hocks, is essential. It may safely be said that a man who can command
hounds in the Braydon and Swindon district will find the "shires"
comparatively plain sailing. The wall country of the Cotswold tableland
is exactly the reverse of the vale. The pace there is often tremendous,
but the obstacles are not formidable enough to those accustomed to
walls to keep the eager field from pressing the pack, save on those rare
occasions when, on a burning scent, the hounds manage to get a start of
horses; and then they will never be caught. Well-bred horses are almost
invariably ridden in this wall country; if in hard condition, and there
are no steep hills to be crossed, they can go as fast and stay almost as
long as hounds, for the going is good, and they are always galloping on
the top of the ground.
At the time of writing, there are over two hundred hunters stabled in
the little town of Cirencester, to say nothing of those kept at the
numerous hunting boxes around. More than this need not be said to show
the undoubted popularity of the place as a hunting centre. And a very
sporting lot the people are. Brought up to the sport from the cradle,
the Gloucestershire natives, squires, farmers, all sorts and conditions
of men, ride as straight as a die.
From what has been said it will be readily gathered that the attraction
of the place as a hunting centre lies in the variety of country it
commands. Not only is a different stamp of country to be met with each
day of the week, but on one and the same day you may be riding over
banks, small flying fences, and sound grass, or deep ploughs and pasture
divided by hairy bullfinches, or, again, over light plough and stone
walls; and to this fact may be attributed the exceptional number of good
performers over a country that this district turns out. Both men and
horses have always appeared to us to reach a very high standard of
cleverness.
To Leicestershire, Northants, Warwick, and the Vale of Aylesbury
belongs by undisputed right the credit of the finest grass country in
hunting England. But for Ireland and the rougher shires I claim the
honour of showing not only the straightest foxes, but also the best
sportsmen and the boldest riders. The reason seems to me to be this: in
Leicestershire you find the field composed largely of smart London men;
and after a certain age a man "goes to hounds" in inverse ratio to the
pace at which he travels as a man about town. The latter (with a few
brilliant exceptions to prove the rule) is not so quick and determined
when he sees a nasty piece of timber or an awkward hairy fence as his
reputation at the clubs would lead you to expect; whilst the rougher
countryman, be he yeoman or squire, farmer or peer, endowed with nerves
of iron, is able to cross a country with a confidence and a dash that
are denied to the average dandy, with his big stud, immaculate
"leathers," and expensive cigars. In Gloucestershire many an honest
yeoman goes out twice a week and endeavours to drown for a while all
thoughts of hard times and low prices, content for the day if the fates
have left him a sound horse and the consolation of a gallop over the
grass. Let it here be said that there are no grooms in the world who
better understand conditioning hunters than those of Leicestershire.
Nowhere can you see horses better bred or fitter to go; and he who rides
a-hunting on _fat_ horses must himself be _fat_.
The V.W.H. hounds, on Mr. Hoare's retirement in 1886, were divided into
two packs. Mr. T. Butt Miller hunts three days a week on the eastern
side, with Cricklade as his centre; whilst Lord Bathurst has sufficient
ground for two days on the west, where the country flanks with the Duke
of Beaufort's domain on the south and the Cotswold hounds on the north.
Mr. Miller retains the original pack, and a very fine one it is. Lord
Bathurst likewise, by dint of sparing no pains, and by bringing in the
best blood obtainable from Belvoir, Brocklesby, and other kennels, has
gradually brought his pack to a high state of excellence.
Turning to the week's programme for a man hunting five or six days a
week from Cirencester, Monday is the day for the duke's hounds. Here you
may be riding over some of the best of the grass, where light flying
fences grow on the top of low banks, or else it will be a stone-wall
country of mixed grass and light plough. In either case the country is
very rideable, and sport usually excellent. The Badminton hounds and
Lord Worcester's skill as a huntsman are too well known to require any
description here.
On Tuesday Lord Bathurst's hounds are always within seven miles of the
town, and the country is a very open one, but one that requires plenty
of wet to carry scent. Though on certain days there is but little scent,
in favourable seasons during recent years wonderful sport has been shown
in this country. In the season of 1895-6 especially, a fine gallop came
off regularly every Tuesday from October to the end of February. In '97,
on the other hand, little was done. There is far more grass than there
used to be, owing to so much of the land having gone out of cultivation.
The plough rides lighter than grass does in nine counties out of ten,
the coverts are small, and the pace often tremendous. Every country has
its drawback, and in this case it lies partly in bad scent and partly in
the fences being too easy. Men who know the walls with which the
Cotswold tableland is almost entirely enclosed, ride far too close to
hounds: thus, the pack and the huntsman not being allowed a chance,
sport is often spoiled. Occasionally, when a real scent is forthcoming,
the hounds can run right away from the field; but as a rule they are
shamefully over-ridden. The fact is that in the hunting field, as
elsewhere, John Wolcot's epigram, written a hundred years ago, exactly
hits the nail on the head:
"What rage for fame attends both great and small!
Better be d--d than mentioned not at all."
We all want to ride in the front rank, and are, or ought to be, d--d
accordingly by the long-suffering M.F.H.
On Wednesdays the Cotswold hounds are always within easy reach of
Cirencester. There are few better packs than the Cotswold. Started forty
years ago with part of the V.W.H. pack which Lord Gifford was giving up,
the Cotswold hounds have received strains of the best blood of the
Brocklesby, Badminton, Belvoir, and Berkeley kennels. They have
therefore both speed and stamina as well as good noses. Their huntsman,
Charles Travess, has no superior as far as we know; the result is that
for dash and drive these hounds are unequalled. Notwithstanding the
severe pace at which they are able to run, owing to the absence of high
hedges and other impediments--for most of the country is enclosed with
stone walls--they hunt marvellously well together and do not tail; they
are wonderfully musical, too,--more so than any other pack.
Here it is worth our while to analyse briefly the qualities which
combine to make this huntsman so deservedly popular with all who follow
the Cotswold hounds. We venture to say that he pleases all and sundry,
"thrusters," hound-men, and _liver-men_ alike, because he invariably has
a double object in view--he hunts his fox and he humours his field. And
firstly he hunts his fox in the best possible method, having regard to
the scenting capabilities of the Cotswold Hills.
He is quick as lightning, yet he is never in a hurry--that is to say, in
a "_bad_ hurry." When the hounds "throw up" or "check," like all other
good huntsmen he gives them plenty of time. He stands still and he
_makes his field stand still_; then may be seen that magnificent proof
of canine brain-power, the fan-shaped forward movement of a
well-drafted, old-established pack of foxhounds, making good by two
distinct casts--right-and left-handed--the ground that lies in front of
them and on each side. Should they fail to hit off the line, the
advantage of a brilliant huntsman immediately asserts itself. Partly by
certain set rules and partly by a knowledge of the country and the run
of foxes, but more than all by that _daring_ genius which was the
making of Shakespeare and the great men of all time, he takes his hounds
admirably in hand, aided by two quiet, unassuming whippers-in, and in
four cases out of five brings them either at the first or second cast to
the very hedgerow where five minutes before Reynard took his sneaking,
solitary way. It may be "forward," or it may be down wind, right or
left-handed, but it is at all events the _right_ way; thus, owing to
this happy knack of making the proper cast at a large percentage of
checks this man establishes his reputation as a first-class huntsman.
Should the day be propitious, a run is now assured, unless some
unforeseen occurrence, such as the fox going to ground, necessitates a
draw for a fresh one; but in any case, owing to this marvellous knack of
hitting off the line at the first check, our huntsman generally
contrives to show a run some time during the day.
So much for the methods by which this William Shakespeare of the hunting
field is wont to pursue his fox. But we have not done with him yet. What
does he do on those bad scenting days which on the dry and stony
Cotswold Hills are the rule rather than the exception? On such days, as
well as hunting his fox, he humours his field. In the first place,
unless he has distinct proof to the contrary, he invariably gives his
fox credit for being a straight-necked one. He keeps moving on at a
steady pace in the direction in which his instinct and knowledge lead
him, even though there may be no scent, either on the ground or in the
air, to guide the hounds. Every piece of good scenting ground--and he
knows the capabilities of every field in this respect--is made the most
of; "carrying" or dusty ploughs are scrupulously avoided. If he "lifts,"
it is done so quietly and cunningly that the majority of the riders are
unaware of the fact; and the hounds never become wild and untractable.
It is this free and generous method of hunting the fox that pleases his
followers. Travess's casts are not made in cramped and stingy fashion,
but a wide extent of country is covered even on a bad day; there is no
rat-hunting. After a time all save a dozen sportsmen are left several
fields behind. "They won't run to-day," is the general cry; "there is no
hurry." But meantime some large grass fields are met with, or the
huntsman brings the pack on to better terms with the fox, or maybe a
fresh one jumps up, and away go the hounds for seven or eight minutes as
hard as they can pelt. Only a dozen men know exactly what has happened.
Most of the thrusters and all the _liver-men_ have to gallop in earnest
for half an hour to come up with the hunt; indeed, on many days they
never see either huntsman or hounds again, and go tearing about the
country cursing their luck in missing so fine a run! It is the old story
of the hare and the tortoise. But herein lies the "humour" of it: the
hare is pleased and the tortoise is pleased. The former, as represented
by the field, has enjoyed a fine scamper, and lots of air (bother the
currant jelly!) and exercise; the tortoise, on the other hand, has had a
fine hunting run, and possibly by creeping slowly on for some hours it
has killed its fox; whilst several good sportsmen have enjoyed an
old-fashioned hunt in a wild country with a kill in the open.
_Verbum sap:_ If you want to humour your field, you must leave them
behind. It must not be done intentionally, however; the riders must be
allowed, so to speak, to work out their own salvation in this respect.
Major de Freville's country as a whole is more suited to the "houndman"
than for him who hunts to ride. The hills, save in one district, are so
severe that hounds often beat horses; the result is, many are tempted to
station themselves on the top of a hill, whence a wide view is
obtainable, and trust to the hounds coming back after running a ring.
Given the right sort of horse, however--short-backed, thoroughbred if
possible, and with good enough manners to descend a steep place without
boring and tearing his rider's arms almost out of their sockets--many a
fine run may be seen in this wild district. Much of the arable land has
gone back to grass, so that it is quite a fair scenting country; and the
foxes are stronger and more straight-necked than in more civilised
parts. One of the best days the writer ever had in his life was with
these hounds. Meeting at Puesdown, they ran for an hour in the morning
at a great pace, with an eight-mile point; whilst in the afternoon came
a run of one-and-a-half hours, with a point of somewhere about
ten miles.
With the exception of a small vale between Cheltenham and Tewkesbury,
which is very good indeed, the Puesdown country is about the best, the
undulations being less severe than in other parts.
On Thursdays Cirencester commands Mr. Miller's Braydon country. This
country is a very great contrast to that which is ridden over on
Tuesdays and Wednesdays, and requires a very stout horse. It rides
tremendously deep at times; and the fences, which come very frequently
in a run, owing to the small size of the enclosures, are both big and
blind. It is practically all grass. But there are several large
woodlands, with deep clay rides, in which one is not unlikely to spend a
part of Thursday; and these woods, owing in part to the shooting being
let to Londoners, are none too plentifully provided with foxes. Wire,
too, has sprung up in some parts of Mr. Miller's Braydon country. Few
people have large enough studs to stand the wear and tear of this fine,
wild country; consequently the fields are generally small. Sport, though
not so good as it used to be, is still very fair, and to run down to
Great Wood in the duke's country is sufficient to tax the powers of the
finest weight-carrying hunter, whilst only the man with a quick eye to a
country can live with hounds. It is often stated that blood horses are
the best for galloping through deep ground. This is true in one way,
though not on the whole. Thoroughbred horses are practically useless in
this sort of country; their feet are often so small that they stick in
the deep clay. A horse with small feet is no good at all in Braydon. A
short-legged Irish hunter, about three parts bred, with tremendous
strength in hocks and quarters, and biggish feet, is the sort the writer
would choose. If up to quite two stone more than his rider's weight,
and a safe and temperate fencer, he will carry you well up with hounds
over any country. A fast horse is not required; for a racer that can do
the mile on the flat at Newmarket in something under two minutes is
reduced in really deep ground to an eight-mile-an-hour canter, and your
short-legged horse from the Emerald Isle will leave him standing still
in the Braydon Vale.
Some countries never ride really deep. The shires, for instance, though
often said to be deep, will seldom let a horse in to any great
extent--the ridge and furrow drains the field so well; and in that sort
of deep ground which is met with in Leicestershire a thoroughbred one
will gallop and "stay" all day. But a ride in Braydon or in the Bicester
"Claydons" will convince us that a stouter stamp of horse is necessary
to combat a deep, undrained clay country.
We must now leave the sporting Thursday country of the V.W.H. and turn
to Friday.
Eastcourt, Crudwell, Oaksey, Brinkworth, Lea Schools--such are some of
Lord Bathurst's Friday meets; and the pen can hardly write fast enough
in singing the praises of this country. Strong, well-preserved coverts,
sound grass fields, flying fences, sometimes set on a low bank,
sometimes without a bank, varied by an occasional brook, with now and
then a fence big enough to choke off all but the "customers"--such is
the bill of fare for Fridays. To run from Stonehill Wood, _viâ_ Charlton
and Garsdon, to Redborn in the duke's country, as the hounds did on the
first day of 1897, is, as "Brooksby" would say, "a line fit for a king,
be that king but well minded and well mounted."
Stand on Garsdon Hill, and look down on the grassy vale mapped out
below, and tell me, if you dare, that you ever saw a pleasanter stretch
of country. How dear to the hunting man are green fields and
sweet-scenting pastures, where the fences are fair and clean and the
ditches broad and deep, where there is room to gallop and room to jump,
and where, as he sails along on a well-bred horse or reclines perchance
in a muddy ditch (Professor Raleigh! what a watery bathos!), he may
often say to himself, "It is good for me to be here!" For when the
hounds cross this country there are always "wigs on the green" in
abundance; and in spite of barbed wire we may still sing with Horace,
"Nec fortuitum spernere caespitem
Leges sinebant,"
which, at the risk of offending all classical scholars, I must here
translate: "Nor do the laws allow us to despise a chance tumble on
the turf."
Round Oaksey, too, is a rare galloping ground. Should you be lucky
enough to get a start from "Flistridge" and come down to the brook at a
jumpable place, in less than ten minutes you will be, if not _in_
Paradise, at all events as near as you are ever likely to be on this
earth. This is literally true, for half way between "Flistridge" and
Kemble Wood, and in the midst of Elysian grass fields, is a narrow strip
of covert happily christened "Paradise."
Would that there was a larger extent of this sort of country, for it is
not every Friday that hounds cross it! The duke's hounds have a happy
knack of crossing it occasionally on a Monday, however, and on Thursdays
Mr. Miller's hounds may drive a fox that way.
This district is not so easy for a stranger to ride his own line over as
the Midlands; it is not half so stiff, but it is often cramped and
trappy. But then you must "look before you leap" in most countries
nowadays. In this Friday country wire is comparatively scarce. The
fields run very large on this day,--quite two hundred horsemen are to be
seen at favourite fixtures. About half this number would belong to the
country, and the other half come from the duke's country and elsewhere.
These Friday fields are as well mounted and well appointed as any in
England. And to see a run one must have a good horse,--not necessarily
an expensive one, for "good" and "expensive" are by no means synonymous
terms with regard to horseflesh. It is with regret that we must add that
foxes were decidedly scarce here last season (1897-8).
On Saturdays the Cirencester brigade will hunt with Mr. Miller.
Fairford, Lechlade, Kempsford, and Water-Eaton are some of the meets.
Here we have a totally different country from any yet considered. It is
a wonderfully sporting one; and last season these hounds never had a bad
Saturday, and often a 'clinker' resulted. Here again one can never
anticipate what sort of ground will be traversed; but the best of it
consists of a fine open country of grass and plough intermingled, the
fields being intersected by small flying fences and exceptionally wide
and deep ditches. "Snowstorm"--a small gorse half way between Fairford
and Lechlade stations on the Great Western Railway--is a favourite draw.
If a fox goes away you see men sitting down in their saddles and
cramming at the fences as hard as their horses can gallop. There appears
to be nothing to jump until you are close up to the fence; but
nevertheless pace is required to clear them, for there is hardly a ditch
anywhere round "Snowstorm" that is not ten feet wide and eight feet or
more deep, and if you are unlucky your horse may have to clear fourteen
feet. On the other hand, there is absolutely nothing that a horse going
fast cannot clear almost without an effort if he jumps at all. So you
may ride in confidence at every fence, and take it where you please. The
depth of the ditch is what frightens a timid horse and, I may add, a
timid rider; and if your horse stops dead, and then tries to jump it
standing, you are very apt to tumble in.
A rare sporting country is this district; and as the horses and their
riders know it, there are comparatively few falls. Round Kempsford and
Lechlade the Thames and the canal are apt to get in the way, but once
clear of these impediments a very open country is entered, either of
grass and flying fences or light plough and stone walls. Another style
of country is that round Hannington and Crouch. In old days, before wire
was known, this used to be the best grass country in the V.W.H., but
nowadays you must "look before you leap." With a good fox, however,
hounds may take you into the best of the old Berkshire vale, and
perhaps right up to the Swindon Hills. Round Water-Eaton is a fine grass
country, good enough for anybody; but the increase of wire is becoming
more and more difficult to combat in this as in other grazing districts
of England.
The very varied bill of fare we have briefly sketched for a man hunting
from Cirencester may include an occasional Wednesday with the Heythrop
at "Bradwell Grove." It is not possible to reach the choicest part of
this pleasant country by road from Cirencester, but some of the best of
the stone-wall country of the Cotswold tableland is included in the
Heythrop domain. Everybody who has been brought up to hunting has heard
of "Jem Hills and Bradwell Grove": rare gallops this celebrated huntsman
used to show over the wolds in days gone by; and on a good scenting day
it requires a quick horse to live with these hounds. A fast and
well-bred pack, established more than sixty years ago, they have been
admirably presided over by Mr. Albert Brassey for close on a quarter of
a century. Several pleasant vales intersect this country, notably the
Bourton and the Gawcombe Vale; and there is excellent grass round
Moreton-in-the-Marsh. As, however, the grass country of the Heythrop is
too far from Cirencester to be reached by road, it hardly comes within
our scope.
If hunting is doomed to extinction in the Midlands, owing to the growth
of barbed wire, it is exceedingly unlikely ever to die out in the
neighbourhood of Cirencester; for there is so much poor, unprofitable
land on the Cotswold tableland and in the Braydon district that barbed
wire and other evils of civilisation are not likely to interfere to
deprive us of our national sport; Hunting men have but to be true to
themselves, and avoid doing unnecessary damage, to see the sport carried
on in the twentieth century as it has been in the past. If we conform to
the unwritten laws of the chase, and pay for the damage we do, there
will be no fear of fox-hunting dying out. England will be "Merrie
England" still, even in the twentieth century; the glorious pastime,
sole relic of the days of chivalry, will continue among us, cheering the
life in our quiet country villages through the gloomy winter months;--if
only we be true to ourselves, and do our uttermost to further the
interests of the grandest sport on earth.
As I have given an account of a run over the walls, and as the Ciceter
people set most store on a gallop over the stiff fences and grass
enclosures of their vale, here follows a brief description in verse of
the glories of fifty minutes on the grass. I have called it "The
Thruster's Song," because on the whole I thoroughly agree with
Shakespeare that
"Valour is the chietest virtue, and
Most dignifies the haver."
Hard riding and all sports which involve an element of danger are the
best antidotes to that luxury and effeminacy which long periods of peace
are apt to foster. What would become of the young men of the present
day--those, I mean, who are in the habit of following the hounds--if
hard riding were to become unfashionable? I cannot conceive anything
more ridiculous than the sight of a couple of hundred well-mounted men
riding day after day in a slow procession through gates, "craning" at
the smallest obstacles, or dismounting and "leading over." No; hard
riding is the best antidote in the world for the luxurious tendency of
these days. A hundred years ago, when the sport of fox-hunting was in
its infancy and modern conditions of pace were unknown, there was less
need for this kind of recreation, "the image of war without its guilt,
and only twenty-five per cent of its danger." For there was real
fighting enough to be done in olden times; and amongst hunting folk,
though there was much drinking, there was little luxury. Therefore our
fox-hunting ancestors were content to enjoy slow hunting runs, and small
blame to them! But those who are fond of lamenting the modern spirit of
the age, which prefers the forty minutes' burst over a severe country to
a three hours' hunting run, are apt to lose sight of the fact that in
these piping times of peace, without the risks of sport mankind is
liable to degenerate towards effeminacy. For this reason in the
following poem I have purposely taken up the cudgels for that somewhat
unpopular class of sportsmen, the "thrusters" of the hunting field. They
are unpopular with masters of hounds because they ride too close to the
pack; but as a general rule they are the only people who ever see a
really fast run. In Shakespeare's time hounds that went too fast for the
rest of the pack were "trashed for over-topping," that is to say, they
were handicapped by a strap attached to their necks. In the same way in
every hunt nowadays there are half a dozen individuals who have reduced
riding to hounds to such an art that no pack can get away from them in a
moderately easy country. These "bruisers" of the hunting field ought to
be made to carry three stone dead weight; they should be "trashed for
overtopping." However, as Brooksby has tersely put it, "Some men hunt to
ride and some ride to hunt; others, thank Heaven! double their fun by
doing both." There are many, many fine riders in England who will not be
denied in crossing a stiff country, and who at the same time are
interested in the hounds and in the poetry of sport: men to whom the
mysteries of scent and of woodcraft, as well as the breeding and
management of hounds, are something more than a mere name: men who in
after days recall with pleasure "how in glancing over the pack they have
been gratified by the shining coat, the sparkling eye--sure symptoms of
fitness for the fight;--how when thrown in to covert every hound has
been hidden; how every sprig of gorse has bristled with motion; how when
viewed away by the sharp-eyed whipper-in, the fox stole under the hedge;
how the huntsman clapped round, and with a few toots of his horn brought
them out in a body; how, without tying on the line, they 'flew to head';
how, when they got hold of it, they drove it, and with their heads up
felt the scent on both sides of the fence; how with hardly a whimper
they turned with him, till at the end of fifty minutes they threw up;
how the patient huntsman stood still; how they made their own cast: and
how when they came back on his line, their tongues doubled and they
marked him for their own." To such good men and true I dedicate the
following lines:--
A DAY IN THE VALE; OR, THE THRUSTER'S SONG.
You who've known the sweet enjoyment of a gallop in the vale,
Comrades of the chase, I know you will not deem my subject stale.
Stand with me once more beside the blackthorn or the golden gorse,--
Don't forget to thank your stars you're mounted on a favourite horse;
For the hounds dashed into covert with a zest that bodes a scent,
And the glass is high and rising, clouded is the firmament.
When the ground is soaked with moisture, when the wind is in the east
Scent lies best,--the south wind doesn't suit the "thruster" in the least.
Some there are who love to watch them with their noses on the ground;
We prefer to see them flitting o'er the grass without a sound.
We prefer the keen north-easter; ten to one the scent's "breast high";
With a south wind hounds can sometimes hunt a fox, but seldom fly.
Hark! the whip has viewed him yonder; he's away, upon my word!
If you want to steal a start, then fly the bullfinch like a bird;
Gallop now your very hardest; turn him sharp, and jump the stile,
Trot him at it--never mind the bough,--it's only smashed your tile!
Now we're with them. See, they're tailing, from the fierceness of the pace,
Up the hedgerow, o'er the meadow, 'cross the stubble see them race:
Governor--by Belvoir Gambler,--he's the hound to "run to head,"
Tracing back to Rallywood, that fifty years ago was bred;
Close behind comes Arrogant, by Acrobat; and Artful too;
Rosy, bred by Pytchley Rockwood; Crusty, likewise staunch and true.
Down a muddy lane, in mad excitement, but, alas! too late,
Thunders half the field towards the portals of a friendly gate;
Sees a dozen red-coats bobbing in the vale a mile ahead;
Hears the huntsman's horn, and longs to catch those distant bits of red;--
But in vain, for blind the fences, here a fall and there a "peck."
Some one cries, "An awful place, sir; don't go there, you'll break
your neck."
Not the stiff, unbroken fences, but the treacherous gaps we fear;
"Though in front the post of honour, that of danger's in the rear."
Forrard on, then forrard onwards, o'er the pasture, o'er the lea,
Tossed about by ridge and furrow, rolling like a ship at sea;
Stake and binder, timber, oxers, all are taken in our stride,--
Better fifty minutes' racing than a dawdling five hours' ride.
I am not ashamed to own, with him who loves a steeplechase,
That to me the charm in hunting is the ecstasy of _pace_,--
This is what best schools the soldier, teaches us that we are men
Born to bear the rough and tumble, wield the sword and not the pen.
Some there are who dub hard riders worthless and a draghunt crew--
Tailors who do all the damage, mounted on a spavined screw.
Well, I grant you, hunting men are sometimes narrow-minded fools;
Ignorant of all worth knowing, save what's learnt in riding-schools;
Careless of the rights of others, scampering over growing crops,
Smashing gates and making gaps and scattering wide the turnip tops;--
But I hold that out of all the hunting fields throughout the land
I could choose for active service a large-hearted, gallant band;
I could choose six hundred red-coats, trained by riding in the van,
Fit to go to Balaclava under brave Lord Cardigan.
'Tis the finest school, the chase, to teach contempt of cannon balls,
If a man ride bravely onward, spite of endless rattling falls.
And to be a first-rate sportsman, not a man who merely "rides,"
Is to be a perfect gentleman, and something more besides;
Fearing neither man nor devil, kind, unselfish he must be,
Born to lead when danger threatens--type of ancient chivalry.
When you hear a "houndman" jeering at the "customers" in front,
Saying they come out to ride a steeplechase and not to hunt,
You may bet the "grapes are sour," the fellow's smoked his nerve away;
Once he went as well as they do: "every dog will have his day."
Though to ride about the roads in state may do your liver good,
You see precious little "houndwork" either there or in the wood.
He who loves to mark the work of hounds must ride beside the pack,
Choosing his own line, or following others, if he's lost the knack.
Lookers-on, I grant you, often see the best part of the game,--
Still, to ride the roads and live with hounds are things not quite
the same.
Now a word to all those gallant chaps who love a hunting day:
In bad times you know that farming is a trade that doesn't pay,
Barbed wire's the cheapest kind of fence; the farmer can't afford
Tempting post-and-rails and timber--for he's getting rather bored.
Therefore, if we want to ride with our old devilry and dash,
We must put our hands in pockets deep and shovel out the cash.
When you want to hire a shooting you will gladly pay a "pony,"
Yet when asked to give it to the hounds you're apt to say you're "stony."
Pay the piper, and the sport you love so well will flourish yet,
Flourish in the dim hereafter; and its sun will never set.
Help the noble cause of freedom; rich and poor together blend
Hands and hearts for ever working for a great and glorious end.
[Illustration: An old barn 329.png]