The Earl of Huntingdon, M.F.H.
Warner Francis John Plantagenet Hastings, fourteenth Earl of Huntingdon,
was born in the year 1868. His career as a sportsman dawned three years
later, for at that, we trust appreciative, age he was blooded with the
old “H. H.” in the County Waterford, where his father, then Lord
Hastings, hunted a part of the old Curraghmore country, and what is now
the territory of the Coshmore and Coshbride Hunt. The late Earl, it may
be observed, in 1872 became Master of the Ormond and King’s County, and
held office until 1882.
The subject of our portrait was reared in the atmosphere of sport which
is so peculiarly strong in Ireland; indeed, so intimate have been his
relations with hounds and hunting from his earliest days, that he says
he was “reared in the kennels.” He lost no time in mastering the art of
handling a pack, having owned and hunted beagles at the age of fourteen.
He kept a regular pack of harriers in 1886, and showed good sport with
them. In 1897, being then twenty-nine years old, he was asked to accept
the mastership of the Ormond, in succession to Mr. Asheton Biddulph,
which he did, carrying the horn himself, and hunting the country to the
great satisfaction of field and farmers alike until 1904. During the
season 1900–1901 the Earl hunted the East Galway twice a week in
addition to the Ormond, bringing his hounds over from Sharavogue by van.
Though a veritable “glutton for work” where hunting is concerned, he
confesses that this was a very arduous season. On one occasion he had to
get home forty Irish miles (which is about fifty Statute miles) after
hunting: this, we imagine, must be the record back home. He was
frequently out from 7 a.m. till ten at night; and when it is remembered
that he was hunting hounds five days a week, we think it will be
admitted that to continue such work long would have killed Squire
Osbaldeston himself.
During his first (1897–98) season of mastership in the Ormond country he
also kept (and of course hunted) a pack of harriers. These, with the
foxhounds, gave him enough to do. One day he had the bitch pack out
cubbing in the early morning; came home to breakfast; took the dog pack
out cubbing till lunch time; came home to lunch; had out the harriers in
the afternoon, and enjoyed sport with all three. Had there been light
and another pack of hounds convenient, we make no doubt the
indefatigable master would have gone out again after dinner; but the
day’s work as it stands probably occupies a unique position in the
annals of hunting.
In 1903, Lieut.-Colonel Harrison acting deputy master for him in the
Ormond country, he came over to England and acted as huntsman of the
North Staffordshire, Messrs. Phillips and Dobson being masters; and in
1904 he assumed the mastership of the Hunt. We may here remark that this
is the twentieth season he has carried the horn with beagles, harriers,
and foxhounds, having hunted as well deer and otter. As he has hunted
with no fewer than fifty-eight different packs of all sorts in his time,
Lord Huntingdon’s experience is probably about as varied as that of any
man now living. He hunted much in Leicestershire while still keeping his
harriers, Somerby being his centre. Of good runs he has borne part in
many; he thinks one of the best he ever saw was that with the Belvoir
from Harley to Staunton on December 14th, 1892, one hour and thirty
minutes.
Lord Huntingdon has played polo for many years. He is President of the
King’s County Club, also the Crystal Palace Polo Club, and is a member
of the Roehampton, Ranelagh, and other clubs; for many seasons he played
back in the King’s County Irish team for the County Cup.
A first-class rabbit and rifle shot, he is fond of the gun, and since he
took Madeley Manor from Lord Crewe has begun preserving there; this,
however, is his first season at Madeley, and a few years later will no
doubt see a much larger head of game there than now exists. He used to
do a little racing and also a little race-riding; in 1898 he won the
private sweepstakes at Croxton Park, on Captain Herbert Wilson’s Sailor,
in a good field of sixteen starters.
He has twice visited the United States, and has been in Canada, Japan,
and China, but has not done much big game shooting. Interested in
yachting, he is Commodore of the Lough Dearg Corinthian Club. He fishes
when he has nothing else to do, principally in the Shannon and Lough
Dearg; but with his numerous occupations we gather that the occasions
when he has leisure to use the salmon rod are somewhat rare. He is a
keen motorist, and drives a great deal; the machine he now uses is a
24–40 h.p. Fiat.
For some years he kept a stud in Ireland and bred horses of various
breeds; he has now given this up, but still breeds a few half-breds at
Sharavogue.
Lord Huntingdon, who is a Deputy-Lieutenant of the King’s County,
retired last year as Lieut.-Colonel of the 3rd Batt. Prince of Wales’
Leinster Regiment. He was unable to go to South Africa, owing to an
accident. He succeeded his father in the earldom in 1885. In 1892 he
married Maud Margaret, second daughter of Sir Samuel Wilson, late M.P.
for Portsmouth, by whom he has a son, Francis, born 1901, and three
daughters, who are very keen sportswomen, and never so happy as when
riding to hounds. Lord Huntingdon is also very fond of driving four
horses, and until motoring started made many driving tours with his
yellow coach and team of greys. Lady Huntingdon is also very fond of
hunting, and is out regularly with the North Staffordshire. One of Lord
Huntingdon’s brothers is the well-known gentleman rider, the Hon. A.
Hastings.
The family of Hastings is a very old one. John of Hastings was Seneschal
of Aquitaine, and a claimant to the throne of Scotland. Sir William, who
became first Baron Hastings, was Master of the Mint under King Edward
IV., and first coined the piece known as a “noble.” The first Baron
became very powerful, and was eventually beheaded by Richard Duke of
Gloucester. The third Baron attended Henry VIII. in his French wars, and
was present at the capture of Tournay in 1513; it was this ancestor who
became the first Earl.
A Christmas Dream on Sport.
In our school-boy days there were very few of us who could resist the
opportunity of having a good stuffing, especially at Christmas, when the
mince pies and plum puddings were an extra attraction, and when even the
most austere of mothers did not gainsay our desires, although knowing
full well that our penalty would follow in the shape of a black dose, or
something worse.
It is not, however, to boyhood alone that Christmas has its temptations,
and its feasts have their unpleasant accompaniments of dyspepsia and
derangement, and we as in our boyhood lie down only to indulge in dreams
and nightmares. The remembrance of these phantasies of a disordered
stomach have a knack of being difficult to shake off, so much so, that I
have determined for this once to chalk down some of the ideas that seem
this Christmas indelibly written on my brain, and thus to rid myself of
them.
I was carried sometimes into the near future, and then again into
remoter times, yet ever onwards, wondering that there was no finality,
no halting place, no respite from the excitement which relentless time
casts upon our little world of sport.
I was bent on hunting, but I looked in vain at my front door for my
hunter or hack. Instead, I found a horseless machine, which whirled me
dizzily away against my will, and landed me amongst a throng of people
with like machines, and clad like Laplanders, so much so that I turned
over in bed, and shouted vainly for the sight of a horse and hound. The
scene changed, and I was in a throng of gay horsemen and women at the
covert side, and the odour of violets and nosegays was not wanting.
Positions were continually shifting, chiefly through the threatening
heels of ill-tempered horses, when on a sudden a whistle sounded,
followed by one shrill blast of a horn, and away went the throng,
blindly as it seemed, jostling and pushing, each one thinking only of
himself or herself. Carried away as I was, only a unit in this surging
crowd, I had little time to collect my thoughts—all I know was that I
saw no hounds, only just indistinctly heard them at starting. Yes,
before us were white flags at regular intervals, and here and there a
red one, from which the ever lengthening cavalcade in their gallop
turned aside, and I heard the words “wheat,” “beans,” or “seeds” growled
out by our leaders. Where the white flags predominated in front of us
the hedges had been cut down and levelled, as if for a steeplechase.
There were visions of that demon barbed wire on either hand, but I
learnt that those white flags meant safety. The jostling soon ceased,
but loose horses came as a fresh trial to my troubled brain, and, oh,
the shaves I experienced to keep clear of them. Then we crossed a road,
where a liveried hunt servant stood sentinel over the motor brigade,
that but for him would have barred our way. After this all was confused
galloping and jumping, until the horn sounded in a wooded hollow, and
there was a baying of hounds at a hole, which betokened the end of a
twenty-five minutes’ gallop after this supposed fox (if, indeed, it was
one), but it was several more minutes before that strung-out array of
riders drew together again, mopping and mud-stained, yet masterful in
their happiness. They had had their gallop, the motors were near at
hand, grooms were requisitioned from them, and thus away went the
majority of that gay throng, back to their cities and suburbs, leaving
but a few to work out the rest of the day in the woodlands, when I can
distinctly swear that they found a fox, for I saw him cross a ride—a
mangy little beggar was he—and we revelled in no more green fields that
day. But, ah, I forgot to say that before starting a hat was thrust in
front of me, whose owner whispered, “For the farmers’ field fund, please
sir.” Only gold was taken!
And I awoke finding myself in a train, whose engine neither puffed nor
smoked—all went by electricity.
And soliloquising, as I rubbed my eyes, the interpretation meant hunting
in A.D. 1925. Again I dreamt. I was on a racecourse on a June day, when
all was bright and beautiful. Such gorgeous stands, such crowds of
fashionable and unfashionable people, such an array of motoring machines
lining the course opposite the stands, such order and regularity, no
hoarsely-shouting crowd of betting men, no Tattersall’s Enclosure. What
did it all mean? The numbers were up in blazing letters of the runners
for the first race. Was racing to be carried on in dumb show? I looked
again, and beheld people like bees clustering round some low buildings,
pigeonholed like enlarged telegraph offices, and numbers and names of
horses figured here. There the money flowed in with startling rapidity.
In some places only cheques and notes were received, in others gold, in
others silver, and all payers had a diminutive numbered receipt. Then
came the race. Each horse accurately numbered, and silence no longer
reigned. An electric gong proclaimed the start, and thousands of eyes
and thousands of voices bore witness to their excitement as the horses
swept towards the winning post. What has won? The judge has touched one
of a set of electric buttons that are in his box, and the winner’s
number is simultaneously shown in half-a-dozen conspicuous places. Soon
tinkles a bell on the top of the low building, and thither fly the bees
to gather the honey that they have won. But this time they find their
gains on the opposite side of the building from which their money was
deposited. All the takings have been counted like magic, the winning
number sweeps the pool, after due deduction made by way of percentage
for much that the country stands in need of.
I noticed, too, that bright liveried messengers plied amongst the stalls
and boxes of the stands, doing the work of payment and receipt for the
brilliant company sitting there. All this was repeated again and again,
until my brain became accustomed to it. Presently, as if to cast a
shadow on the gay scene, a red disc appeared on the number-board.
“Objection.” The paying-out pigeonholes were closed for that race, and
we held our breath; but not for long, since the tribunal of stewards had
been chosen beforehand, and unless the subject of the objection had to
be adjourned unavoidably, the disc soon proclaimed “Over-ruled” or
“Sustained,” and the pay-boxes for that race were opened after the last
race of the day.
Here ready money ruled the day. The welsher had been forgotten; the
bookmaker had turned backer; the plunger could not find himself below
the bottom of his purse; and roguery was worsted.
The Jockey Club at that time was no longer wholly self elective. There
was a certain proportion of its members affiliated by election to it, as
representing the racecourse interests and owners, outside mere
aristocratic connections. It was to them that the reforms in turf
management were mainly due. Can all this really come to pass? It is but
a dream, and I am awake. Nevertheless, that the totalizer or tote, as it
is called in Australia, or the _pari mutuel_, as it is termed in France,
or the pool, as it is more likely to find its name in this country, is
destined ere long to become here also the rule of betting is my firm
conviction, and with it will come aids to agriculture and assistance to
poverty, as well as in alleviation of bodily suffering, such as will
recommend it to peer and peasant alike.
Once again I dreamt, and my dream was of the future. It was shooting
that filled my troubled brain. A letter was before me inviting me to a
great battue, and yet it could not be intended for me, as a high
rocketting pheasant requires to be of haystack proportions in order to
suffer death at my hands. Nevertheless, it ran thus: “Dear ——, Will you
do me the honour of joining our party for shooting my coverts during the
week beginning the —— day of November? We hope to kill at least 3,000
pheasants. My land steward will send you full particulars of the rules
which regulate my sport, to which I hope you will find no objection.”
And this was what the steward said: “Dear Sir,—I am directed by Mr. ——
to inform you that the following are the regulations which dominate his
shooting, and which it is my duty to see carried out. No tips are
allowed.
“Shooting will commence at 10.30 each day.
“A map will be furnished each day to you showing the beats and stands
for the guns numbered in the usual way. Everything will be supplied you,
except a loader, and any excess above 1,000 cartridges. Low flying birds
may be passed by. A whistle will sound at the commencement of each beat.
“Lunch will be at 1 p.m., and will be announced by a gong. In case of
rain, canvas covering will be provided over the shooting stands. A
motor-car will meet you on Monday on the arrival of the train, and
convey you to the Hall, and a like conveyance on Saturday will convey
you back to the station.
“Enclosed is a banker’s order, which you will kindly fill up for the sum
of £5, and return same, which goes to form the keepers’ fund.”
He might have added, but it was not on the circular, that a light dose
of sal volatile will be provided to allay the headache which each day’s
battue was likely to cause. Yet the method and completeness of
arrangement impressed me.
I turned in my bed thinking of my spaniels and retrievers, and the many
enjoyable raids I had had with them, when there appeared before me an
autograph circular from a well-known London sporting agent, and thus it
ran. “The Earl of ——— has arranged for the coming season to invite five
approved guns to shoot over his extensive Norfolk estate in company with
three guns of his own choice. The sport will extend over eleven days,
six of which will be partridge drives, and five pheasant shoots. The bag
should amount to at least 3,000 partridges and 4,000 pheasants. The
appointed days for shooting will be fixed by the Earl. Terms, 300
guineas for each gun, to include all expenses, to be paid me in advance.
All applications for this exceptional offer must be made to me on or
before the —— day of ——— next, and guns will be accepted in their order
of merit.”
I awoke. And so this was the shooting sport of A.D. 1925! Well, perhaps
by that time the people of this country will for the most part have
become Daniel Lamberts, and sitting or standing behind butts, and having
all the more or less tame creatures for their slaughter brought to them,
will be their only means of enjoyment. Thank heaven that your scribe
will not survive to see these days, although we are already becoming
very luxurious in our pursuit of shooting. Perhaps our middle-aged and
older men will tell you that they are able to get this exercise in the
enjoyment of golf, and that this is a set-off against the limited
exercise that shooting now exhibits, and this may save them from falling
a prey to fatty degeneration of the heart.
These dreams are horrible phantasies that we have to indulge in whether
we like them or not, and seldom are they pleasant, nor will they come at
call. I tried to dream into the future of fishing, a sport I love so
well. But, alas! the spirit moved me not. Those lusty trout and
grayling, and those sportive salmon, refused to be allured by any new
means; their ways were just the same, and no newly-defined artifices
sufficed to bring them to hand more easily or with less practical skill.
Only the ranks of their enemies seemed to have increased. More and more
fishermen came on the scene, who sought them out farther and wider
throughout remote countries, and more money and greater artifice was
employed to effect their capture, so that their preservation became a
question of the day, as it has, indeed, become so to-day.
Your younger readers will perhaps hail with delight these halcyon days
of sport, which, if my dreams have any portent, are destined to come
upon us all the more swiftly, seeing that riches as they accumulate
bring in their train luxury and indulgence, and that it is to wealth
that our landed estates must come, unless they are destined to be swept
away by the flood of social democracy, which, thank God, does not come
within the scope of my dreams, for if so, “I had,” as Shakespeare says,
“passed a miserable night, so full of ghastly dreams.”
If perchance, however, my dreams should prove ominous, let me implore
you who in the radiance of youth have the opportunity of guiding and
shaping the destiny of sport, to hold fast by the truer principles which
have hitherto held sport so high in this country, casting aside its
meretricious aids and surroundings, which only sap its true vitality,
and would fain emasculate its worth to us as a nation. Stand fast by
“the horse and hound,” and maintain a deaf ear to the tempter that
whispers of the gorgeous trappings and luxurious surroundings, which are
the death role of genuine sport.
Shakespeare once more comes to my mind when in “Troilus and Cressida” he
exclaims, “My dreams will sure prove ominous to-day.”