I was in the famous Waterloo run of February 22, 1866. Its merits have
been very much overrated, for hounds were constantly changing foxes, and
were never near catching any one of them. It was only a journey.
One of the fastest runs I ever saw in the Midlands was fifty-five
minutes, from Thorpe Trussels to Rolleston. William Coke (otherwise
known as “Billy Coke”), my old college friend, Stirling Crawfurd, Little
Gilmour, and myself were alone with hounds when they killed in Rolleston
Spinney; the pace had beaten the rest of the field. Another time I had a
very fast gallop from Parson’s Gorse up to Bunny Park. The incident
remains in memory, as I had it all to myself on a five-year-old horse,
The Kite (by Falcon, dam by Julius Cæsar), belonging to Mr. Crawfurd.
The Kite’s portrait, by Ferneley, now hangs at Buchanan Castle.
I had some good horses in those days. In a run from Crick Gorse hounds
crossed the Stamford and Rugby Railway, then in process of construction,
and enclosed with new double posts and rails. My horse jumped them both,
in and out, and I was up when the fox went to ground in the yard at the
back of Standford Hall.
The first man to come up was that fine old fellow, Sir Francis Head; I
did not know him to speak to. He, however, made me a profound bow,
saying he “hoped I was satisfied with myself.” I said my satisfaction
was less with myself than my horse, as indeed it was, for that was my
first day on him.
The Wizard was one of the best hunters I ever had. At the finish of a
fine run with the Pytchley he jumped the Avon, in spite of the fact that
the flood water was out on each side of him. It was a big jump; Jim
Mason, the steeplechase rider, and many others, failed to reach the
other side. Mason was so impressed with The Wizard, that he offered to
pay me the value of the stakes of the Liverpool Steeplechase before the
horse started, if I would lend him for six weeks; but I refused. He was
well suited for the Liverpool course: fast, good at water, and also at
banks—thanks to his training in Norfolk.
Mason had a vein of originality in him. Returning from hunting to Market
Harborough from Langton one afternoon, he and some others had to cross
the brook. Fog came on very suddenly, and they could not find the ford;
they turned back, but it was so thick they could not find the gate.
Mason then said there was nothing for it but to cry “Murder,” to bring
some one to their aid, and he did it lustily. Nobody coming to help, he
changed his tactics. “Let’s be very jolly and laugh,” he suggested. The
rest agreeing, they laughed so long and loudly, that three labourers
came to see what the joke was.
The Coot, a chestnut, was another good horse. On him I had a grand
gallop from Waterloo Gorse, by Tally-ho Stick Covert to ground near
Cottesbrooke Park. It was a very fast thing, and there was nobody else
in sight of hounds during the latter half of the run.
The Coot was well known in Leicestershire in his day. Visiting the
patients in the Leicester Infirmary one day, a poor fellow, who lay very
ill in his bed, called to me, “Squire, Squire,” as I was leaving the
ward. Going to his bedside, I found that he wanted to enquire after the
health and well-being of the Coot.
One morning, when staying at Lamport Hall, I went to meet the Quorn at
Keythorpe Hall, and as I came near, Charles Leslie (then M.P. for
Monaghan) came galloping forward to meet me with a message from Sir
Richard Sutton. It appeared that at a large party which had taken place
overnight at Quorndon Hall there had been much talk about various
riders, and Sir Richard had declared that if I were out I should beat
the whole field. Leslie had sent his best horse, Marmion, for me to
ride; but I preferred my own, and did not regret it.
It was as well that hounds were able to run that day, for there was some
pretty hard riding. They found in Ram’s Head Gorse, and ran fast, over a
very strongly-fenced country, to Stockerston Wood. I led during the
whole run, jumping gates and whatever else came in the way; and when
hounds entered the wood the only other man in the field was Little
Gilmour. Lord Cardigan was close up with him: he had put his thumb out
of joint in a bad fall, and had to go home.
In talking over the riders he knew with Lord Cardigan, he paid Lord
Wilton what I thought a great compliment, saying he thought nothing of
his riding, “for he would jump through the bars of a gate.” It seemed to
me to prove the ease with which he crossed country, and certainly few
men were often as near hounds as Lord Wilton in a good run.
Sir Richard Sutton was always very kind to me. I well remember his
gratification when I justified his good predictions that I should cut
down the field. But on another day I had the misfortune to get into his
bad books. He was going to draw Norton Gorse, and on the way we had to
pass through Ilston Spinney. Having had a hint from a farmer, I made
haste to get through the spinney, and when half-way heard a view halloo.
Away went the fox and away went the hounds on a blazing scent—no master,
no servants, and a hard riding field on the top of the pack, with nobody
to keep them in hand. It was a regular scurry, and many of them got
falls, among them Lord Wilton. At last hounds checked, and the Baronet
came up. We had unduly pressed hounds, and nobody had a word to say when
he spoke his mind about it. We all caught it in a strain we remembered,
though Sir Richard never allowed an abusive word to pass his lips. Egged
on by others, I begged him to let us off, promising to help kill the
fox, for I had seen him in the Norton Brook while I was in the air.
Hounds were got on to the line, and, settling to it, soon killed him.
“Now,” said Sir Richard, “I will serve you all out; I’ll find my next
fox in Charnwood Forest.”
There was general dismay at this announcement, for Charnwood Forest was
fourteen miles off. Lord Gardner, recovering the shock first, came up to
me.
“You must stop this!” he said. “Go and apologise for us.” I declined,
feeling and saying that I was no better than the worst among the
offenders; but on Lord Gardner’s urging that “there was nobody else he
would listen to,” I gave way, and Sir Richard, like the really good,
kind-hearted master he was, let us off, and found another fox close by.
There were two lively young members of the Quorn who habitually pressed
hounds, Colonel Forrester and Bromley Davenport, whose shortness of
sight may perhaps be pleaded in extenuation. On arriving at the meet in
his chariot, as the vehicle was called in the ’forties, Sir Richard
enquired of his first whipper-in whether these gentlemen were out. He
was told they were, and forthwith the whipper-in was ordered to draw
some of the best hounds, which were put into the carriage and sent home!
Sir Richard Sutton had a strong sense of the duty of a master and the
right way to discharge it. On one occasion he killed his fox in the
shrubbery of a clergyman. The place was very nicely kept, and the hunt
servants having made, as was rather unavoidable, rather a mess of the
paths, &c., the owner wrote to complain. Sir Richard, instead of going
to the meet with a pair of horses next morning, ordered out four, and
went a good deal out of his way to call and apologise; to offer payment
also. The clergyman, a very gentlemanly man, repented the tenor of his
complaint, and Sir Richard’s anxiety to put matters right quite disarmed
him. He apologised for having written, would not hear of accepting
compensation, and expressed the hope that he might see hounds in his
neighbourhood again soon! So much for civility.
My acquaintance with Lord Gardner, to whom I have referred before, began
in a way which illustrates one phase of that good sportsman’s character.
One day, when still fresh from college, I was riding a five-year-old.
Lord Gardner took my place at a fence and nearly gave me a fall. I
passed him in the next field, out of which there was only one place, and
that beside an elm. He came at it with a rush; I gave my horse his head,
and jumping side by side with Gardner threw him heavily against the
tree. He reported this to Mr. Little Gilmour, but got little sympathy,
Gilmour telling him that if he meddled with me he would probably get
himself killed. “Do you think so?” said Gardner. “Yes I do,” replied
Gilmour. “Then please introduce me to him,” said Gardner. We became fast
friends, and our friendship continued all the time he stayed in the
country.
Rather a funny incident occurred with the Quorn one day in a scurry from
Cream Lodge Gorse. A sporting captain’s horse fell over a large
ant-hill, and the soldier came down rolled in a lump. I got down and
stretched him out in a furrow. It was damp, and he soon changed his
position; so, remarking that if he was able to look for a dry place I
thought he could take care of himself, I jumped on my horse again and
went on. The gallant soldier was grievously hurt by my remark,
considering it implied that he was soft. His feelings suffered more
injury than his body.
In a good run with the Quorn the fox crossed the canal. We most of us
rode for the bridge and stood on it until the hounds were well over.
Cardigan and Wilbraham Tollemache stuck to the hounds and crossed the
canal with them, Cardigan exclaiming: “I am in first, Wilbraham!” In a
minute his brother-in-law exclaimed, “I am out first, Cardigan,” and
jumped on his horse, leaving Cardigan struggling in the water. A man on
the bridge called out: “Paddle with your ’ands, my lord; paddle with
your ’ands.” There were not many feet of water.
In those days there was scarcely any wire, and the now familiar warning
to “ware wire,” was rarely heard. In a gallop from Masterton Oziers one
large field was fenced with it, and we made for a gate. One man stuck to
the hounds, and falling head over heels over the fence was a good deal
hurt. We had called out “wire” repeatedly, and the more we did so the
faster he rode. His reason for doing so, he said, was that he saw it was
a big jump, and thought we were calling “fire, fire,” for him to fire
away at it, with plenty of steam on! Mr. Haycock, a hard-riding yeoman,
went head over heels in a bottom and could not get out. Lord Macdonald
coming next pulled up. Haycock called out “Come on, my Lord, there is
accommodation for you here as well as for me.” The Lord of the Isles
declined the invitation. Haycock sold a nice horse to a Duke, who took
him to task for selling him such a brute. “What’s the matter, your
Grace?” “He has been running away with me all the morning.” “If that is
all I don’t care; when he was mine I was always running away with him.”
Sir James Musgrave, riding a nice horse, told him he was slovenly at
timber. “Take him out on Sunday morning, Sir James, and give him a few
heavy falls over timber,” was his advice.
No fence is as nice as timber if your horse knows his business, but do
not take liberties with it with the sun in your horse’s eyes, or be
heard to call out “ware horse”; it is always “ware hound.” Another
hint—do not hunt in a cap, as it will not give way in a fall, but your
neck may.
Gumley Wood was at one time unintentionally spoiled as a covert by the
clergyman of Gumley. He was a mighty collector of moths; he so bedaubed
with treacle the trees in the wood that the foxes would not lay in it;
but we always found in the gorse close by. In the next parish lived one
of Whyte Melville’s heroes, Parson Dove. Jogging home after hunting one
evening, I asked him how he filled up his spare time in the summer; he
said he gardened a good deal. Enquiry elicited that there was but one
flower he cared for, and that was a cauliflower.