Field sports have been generally considered solely in the light of a
relaxation from the graver business of life, and have been justified by
writers on economics on the ground that some sort of release is
required from the imprisoned existence of the man of business, the
lawyer, or the politician. Apollo does not always bend his bow, it is
said, and timely dissipation is commendable even in the wise; therefore
by all means, let the sports which we English love be pursued within
legitimate bounds, and up to an extent not forbidden by weightier
considerations.
But there seems to be somewhat more in field sports than is contained
in this criticism. The influence _of_ character on the manner in which
sports are pursued is endless, and reciprocally the influence of field
sports _on_ character seems to deserve some attention. The best
narrator of schoolboy life of the present day has said that, varied as
are the characters of boys, so varied are their ways of facing or not
facing a "hilly," at football; and one of the greatest observers of
character in England has written a most instructive and amusing account
of the way in which men enjoy fox-hunting. If, therefore, a man's
character and his occupations and tastes exercise a mutual influence
upon each other, it follows that while men of different dispositions
pursue sports in different ways, the sports also which they do pursue
will tell considerably in the development of their natural character.
Now, the field sport which is perhaps pursued by a greater number of
Englishmen than any other, and which is most zealously admired by its
devotees, is fox-hunting. It is essentially English in its nature.
"A fox-hunt to a foreigner is strange,
'Tis likewise subject to the double danger
Of falling first, and having in exchange
Some pleasant laughter at the awkward stranger."
And it is this very falling which adds in some degree to its popularity;
_suave mari magno_, it is pleasant to know that your neighbour A.'s
horse, which he admires so much, has given him a fall at that very double
over which your little animal has carried you so safely; and it is
pleasant to feel yourself secure from the difficulties entailed on B, by
his desire to teach his four-year-old how to jump according to his
tastes. But apart from this delight--uncharitable if you like to call
it--which is felt at the hazards and failures of another, there is in
fox-hunting the keenest possible desire to overcome satisfactorily these
difficulties yourself. Not merely for the sake of explaining to an
after-dinner audience how you jumped that big place by the church or led
the field safely over the brook, though that element does enter in; but
from the strong delight which an Englishman seems by birthright to have
in surmounting any obstacles which are placed in his way. Put a man then
on a horse, and send him out hunting, and when he has had some experience
ask him what he has discovered of the requirements of his new pursuit,
and what is the lesson or influence of it. He will probably give you some
such answer as the following.
The first thing that is wanted by, and therefore encouraged by,
fox-hunting, is decision. He who hesitates is lost. No "craner" can get
well over a country. Directly the hounds begin to run, he who would
follow them must decide upon his course. Will he go through that gate,
or attempt that big fence, which has proved a stopper to the crowd?
there is no time to lose. The fence may necessitate a fall, the gate
must cause a loss of time, which shall it be? Or again, the hounds have
come to a check, the master and huntsmen are not up (in some countries
a very possible event), and it devolves upon the only man who is with
them to give them a cast. Where is it to be? here or there? There is no
time for thought, prompt and decided action alone succeeds. Or else the
loss of shoe or an unexpected fall has thrown you out, and you must
decide quickly in which direction you think the hounds are most likely
to have run. Experience, of course, tells considerably here as
everywhere; but quick decision and promptitude in adopting the course
decided on will be the surest means of attaining the wished for result
of finding yourself again in company with the hounds.
Further, fox-hunting teaches immensely self-dependence; every one is
far too much occupied with his own ideas and his own difficulties to be
able to give more than the most momentary attention to those of his
neighbour. If you seek advice or aid you will not get much from the
really zealous sportsman; you must trust to yourself, you must depend
on your own resources. "Go on, sir, or else let me come," is the sort
of encouragement which you are likely to get, if in doubt whether a
fence is practicable or a turn correct.
Thirdly, fox-hunting necessitates a combination of judgment and courage
removed from timidity on the one side and foolhardiness on the other.
The man who takes his horse continually over big places, for the sake
of doing that in which he hopes no one else will successfully imitate
him, is sure in the end to kill his horse or lose his chance of seeing
the run; and on the other hand, he who, when the hounds are running,
shirks an awkward fence or leaves his straight course to look for a
gate, is tolerably certain to find himself several fields behind at the
finish. "What sort of a man to hounds is Lord A----?" we once heard it
asked of a good judge. "Oh, a capital sportsman and rider," was the
answer; "never larks, but will go at a haystack if the hounds are
running."
It is partly from the necessity of self-dependence which the fox-hunter
feels, that his sport is open to the accusation that it tends to
selfishness. The true fox-hunter is alone in the midst of the crowd; he
has his own interests solely at heart--each for himself, is his motto,
and the pace is often too good for him to stop and help a neighbour in
a ditch, or catch a friend's runaway horse. He has no partner, he plays
no one's hand except his own. This of course only applies to the man
who goes out hunting, eager to have a run and keen to be in at the
death. If a man rides to the meet with a pretty cousin, and pilots her
for the first part of a run, he probably pays more attention to his
charge than to his own instincts of the chase; but he is not on this
occasion purely fox-hunting; and, if a true Nimrod, his passion for
sport will overcome his gallantry, and he will probably not be sorry
when his charge has left his protection, and he is free to ride where
his individual wishes and the exigencies of the hunt may lead him.
What a knowledge of country fox-hunting teaches! A man who hunts will,
at an emergency, be far better able than one who does not to choose a
course, and select a line, which will lead him right. Generals hold
that the topographical instinct of the fox-hunter is of considerable
advantage in the battle-field; and it is undoubtedly easy to imagine
circumstances in which a man accustomed to find his way to or from
hounds, in spite of every opposition and difficulty, will make use of
the power which he has acquired and be superior to the man who has not
had similar advantages.
Finally, fox-hunting encourages energy and "go." The sluggard or lazy
man never succeeds as a fox-hunter, and he who adopts the chase as an
amusement soon finds that he must lay aside all listlessness and
inertness if he would enjoy to the full the pleasures which he seeks. A
man who thinks a long ride to cover, or a jog home in a chill, dank
evening in November, a bore, will not do as a fox-hunter. The activity
which considers no distance too great, no day too bad for hunting, will
contribute first to the success of the sportsman, and ultimately to the
formation of the character of the man.
Fishing teaches perseverance. The man in _Punch_, who on Friday did not
know whether he had had good sport, because he only began on Wednesday
morning, is a caricature; but, like all caricatures, has an element of
truth in it. To succeed as an angler, whether of the kingly salmon, or
the diminutive gudgeon, an ardour is necessary which is not damped by
repeated want of success; and he who is hopeless because he has no
sport at first will never fully appreciate fishing. So too the tyro,
who catches his line in a rock, or twists it in an apparently
inexplicable manner in a tree, soon finds that steady patience will set
him free far sooner than impetuous vigour or ruthless strength. The
skilled angler does not abuse the weather or the water in impotent
despair, but makes the most of the resources which he has, and
patiently hopes an improvement therein.
Delicacy and gentleness are also taught by fishing. It is here
especially that--
"Vis consili expers mole ruit suâ,
Vim temperatam di quoque provehunt in majus."
Look at the thin link of gut and the slight rod with which the huge
trout or "never ending monster of a salmon" is to be caught. No brute
force will do there, every struggle of the prey must be met by
judicious yielding on the part of the captor, who watches carefully
every motion, and treats its weight by giving line, knowing at the same
time--none better--when the full force of the butt is to be
unflinchingly applied. Does not this sort of training have an effect on
character? Will not a man educated in fly-fishing find developed in him
the tendency to be patient, to be persevering, and to know how to adapt
himself to circumstances. Whatever be the fish he is playing, whatever
be his line, will he not know when to yield and when to hold fast?
But fishing like hunting is solitary. The zealot among fishermen will
generally prefer his own company to the society of lookers-on, whose
advice may worry him, and whose presence may spoil his sport. The
salmon-fisher does not make much of a companion of the gillie who goes
with him, and the trouter does best when absolutely alone; and nothing
is so apt to prove a tyrant, and an evil one, as the love of solitude.
On the other hand, the angler is always under the influence, and able
to admire the beauties of nature. Whether he be upon the crag-bound
loch or by the sides of the laughing burn of highland countries, or
prefer the green banks of southern rivers, he can enjoy to the full the
many pleasures which existence alone presents to those who admire
nature. And all this exercises a softening influence on his character.
Read the works of those who write on fishing--Scrope, Walton, Davy, as
instances. Is there not a very gentle spirit breathing through them?
What is there rude or coarse or harsh in the true fisherman? Is he not
light and delicate, and do not his words and actions fall as softly as
his flies?
Shooting is of two kinds, which, without incorrectness, may be termed
wild and tame. Of tame shooting the tamest, in every sense of the word,
is pigeon-shooting; but as this is admittedly not sport, and as its
principal feature is that it is a medium for gambling, or, at least,
for the winning of money prizes or silver cups, it may be passed over
in a few words. It undoubtedly requires skill, and encourages rapidity
of eye and quickness of action; but its influence on character depends
solely on its essential selfishness, and the taint which it bears from
the "filthy" effect of "lucre."
Other tame shooting is battue shooting, where luxuriously clad men, who
have breakfasted at any hour between ten and twelve, and have been
driven to their coverts in a comfortable conveyance, stand in a
sheltered corner with cigarettes in their mouths, and shoot tame
pheasants and timid hares for about three hours and a half, varying the
entertainment by a hot lunch, and a short walk from beat to beat. Two
men stand behind each sportsman with breech-loaders of the quickest
action, and the only drawback to the gunner's satisfaction is that he
is obliged to waste a certain time between his shots in cocking the gun
which he has taken from his loader. This cannot but be enervating in
its influence. Everything, except the merest action of pointing the
piece and pulling the trigger, is done for you. You are conveyed
probably to the very place where you are to stand; the game is driven
right up to you; what you shoot is picked up for you; your gun itself
is loaded by other hands; you have no difficulty in finding your prey;
you have no satisfaction in outwitting the wiliness of bird or beast;
you have nothing whatever except the pleasure--minimised by constant
repetition--of bringing down a "rocketter," or stopping a rabbit going
full speed across a ride.
The moral of this is that it is not necessary to do anything for
yourself, that some one will do everything for you, probably better
than you would, and that all you have to do is to leave everything to
some person whom you trust. Or, again, it is, get the greatest amount
of effect with the least possible personal exertion. Stand still, and
opportunities will come to you like pheasants--all you have to do is to
knock them over.
But it is not so with wild-shooting. Not so with the man, who, with the
greatest difficulty, and after studying every available means of
approach, has got within range of the lordly stag, and hears the dull
thud which tells him his bullet has not missed its mark. Nor with him,
who, after a hurried breakfast, climbs hill after hill in pursuit of
the russet grouse, or mounts to the top of a craggy ridge in search of
the snowy ptarmigan. Not so either with him, who traverses every bit of
marshy ground along a low bottom, and is thoroughly gratified, if, at
the end of a long day, he has bagged a few snipe; nor with him, who,
despite cold and gloom and wet, has at last drawn his punt within
distance of a flock of wild duck. In each of these, endurance and
energy is taught in its fullest degree. It is no slight strain on the
muscles and lungs to follow Ronald in his varied course, in which he
emulates alternately the movements of the hare, the crab, and the
snake; and it is no slight trial of patience to find, after all your
care, all your wearisome stalk, that some unobserved hind, or unlucky
grouse, has frightened your prey and rendered your toil vain. But,
_en avant_, do not despair, try again, walk your long walk, crawl
your difficult crawl once more, and then, your perseverance rewarded by
a royal head, agree that deer-stalking is calculated to develop a
character which overcomes all difficulties, and goes on in spite of
many failures.
The same obstinate determination which is found in this, the _beau
ideal_ of all shooting, is found similarly in shooting of other
kinds; and it is a question whether to the endurance inculcated by this
pursuit may not be attributed that part of an Englishman's character
which made the Peninsular heroes "never know when they were licked."
It is objected by foreigners to many of our national sports that they
involve great disregard for animal life. "Let us go out and kill
something," they say, is the exhortation of an Englishman to his friend
when they wish to amuse themselves. Sport consists, they hold, in
slaughter; sport therefore is cruel, and teaches contempt for the
feelings of creatures lower than ourselves in the scale of existence. I
do not wish to enter into this question, which has been a source of
considerable controversy; but I would say three things in reference to
it. First, that it is difficult to answer the question, Why should man
be an exception to the rule of instinct--undoubtedly prevalent
throughout the world--which leads every animal to prey upon its
inferior? Secondly, that every possible arrangement is made by man for
the comfort and safety of his prey--salmon, foxes, pheasants or
stags--until the actual moment of capture, and that every fair chance
of escape is given to it; and thirdly, that whatever the premises may
be, the conclusion remains, that there is no race so far removed from
carelessness of animal life and happiness as the English.
There are, however, other field sports which do not involve any
destruction of life, and which, from the general way in which they are
pursued, may fairly be called national. Foremost amongst these is
racing.
Were racing freed from any influence, other than that which
distinguished the races of past epochs, the desire of success; were the
prize a crown of parsley or of laurel, and the laudable desire of
victory the only inducement to contention, the effect on the men who
are devoted to it could not be otherwise than for good. In modern
racing, however, the element of pecuniary gain comes in so strongly,
that the worst points of the human character are stimulated by it
instead of the best, and the improvement of horseflesh and the breed of
horses is sacrificed to the temporary advantage of owners of horses. To
say, now, that a man is going on the turf, is to say, that he had
almost be better under it; and though a few exceptional cases are
found, in which men persistently keeping race horses have maintained
their independence and strict integrity in spite of the many
temptations with which they are assailed, yet, even they, have probably
done so at the sacrifice of openness of confidence and perhaps of
friendship. Trust no one is the motto of turfites. Keep the key of your
saddle-room yourself; let no one, not even your trainer, see your
weights. Pay your jockey the salary of a judge, and then have no
security that he will not deceive you. The state of the turf is like
the state of Corcyræa of old. Every man thinks, that unless he is
actually plotting against somebody, he is in danger of being plotted
against himself, and that the only safety he has lies in taking the
initiative in deceit. The sole object is to win--
"Rem
Si possis recte, si non quocunque modo rem."
Take care you are not cheated yourself, and make the most of any
knowledge of which you believe yourself to be the sole possessor.
What is the result of such a pursuit? what its moral? The destruction
of all generosity, all trust in others, all large-mindedness: and the
encouragement instead, of selfishness, of extravagance, and of
suspicion.
The man whose friendship was warm and generous, who would help his
friend to the limit of his powers, goes on the turf and becomes warped
and narrow, labouring, apparently, always under the suspicion, that
those whom he meets are trying, or wish to try, to get the better of
him, or share, in some way, the advantages which he hopes his cunning
has acquired for himself.
A thorough disregard for truth, too, is taught by horse-racing; not,
perhaps, instanced always by the affirmation of falsehood, but
negatively by the concealment or distortion of fact. An owner seldom
allows even his best friend to know the result of his secret trials,
and in some notable cases such results are kept habitually locked in
the breast of one man, who fears to have a confidant, and doubts the
integrity of everyone. Whether this is a state of things which can be
altered, either by diminishing the number of race-meetings in England,
or by discouraging or even putting down betting, I have no wish to
consider; but that the present condition of horse-racing and its
surroundings is very far removed from being a credit to the country, I
venture to affirm.
Cricket is another field sport, the popularity of which has rapidly
increased; partly from the entire harmlessness which characterises it,
and leads to the encouragement of it by schoolmasters and clergymen,
and partly from the fact that it is played in the open air, in fine
weather, and in the society of a number of companions. I do not propose
to inquire whether there is benefit in the general spreading of cricket
through the country, or whether it may not be said that it occupies too
much time and takes men away from other more advantageous occupations,
or whether the combination of amateur and professional skill which is
found in great matches is a good thing; but I wish, briefly, to point
out one or two points in human nature which seem to me to be developed
by cricket.
The first of these is hero-worship. The best player in a village club,
and the captain of a school eleven, if not for other reasons unusually
unpopular, is surrounded by a halo of glory which falls to the
successful in no other sport. Great things are expected of him, he is
looked upon with admiring eyes, and is indeed a great man. "Ah, it is
all very well," you hear, "but wait till Brown goes in, Smith and
Robinson are out, but wait till Brown appears, then you will see how we
shall beat you, bowl him out if you can." His right hand will atone for
the shortcomings of many smaller men, his prowess make up the
deficiency of his side. Or look at a match between All England and
twenty-two of Clodshire, watch the clodsmen between the innings, how
they throng wonderingly round the chiefs of the eleven. That's him,
that's Abel, wait till he takes the bat, then you'll "see summut like
play." Or go to the "Bat and Ball" after the match, when the eleven are
there, and see how their words are dwelt on by an admiring audience,
and their very looks and demeanour made much of as the deliberate
expressions of men great in their generation. Again, see the reception
at Kennington Oval of a "Surrey pet" or a popular amateur, or the way
in which "W. G." Grace is treated by the undemonstrative aristocracy of
"Lord's," and agree with me that cricket teaches hero-worship in its
full. What power the captain of the Eton or the Winchester eleven has,
what an influence over his fellows, not merely in the summer when his
deeds are before the public, but always from a memory of his prowess
with bat or ball. There is one awkward point about this; there are many
cricket clubs, and therefore many captains, and when two of these meet
a certain amount of difficulty arises in choosing which is the hero to
be worshipped. In a match where the best players of a district are
collected, and two or more good men, known in their own circle and
esteemed highly, there play together, who is to say which is the best;
who is to crown the real king of Brentford? Each considers himself
superior to the other, each remembers the plaudits of his own admirers,
forgets that it is possible that they may be prejudiced, and ignores
the reputation of his neighbour. The result is a jealousy among the
chieftains which is difficult to be overcome, and which shows itself
even in the best matches.
On the other hand, the effect of this hero-worship which I have
described, is to produce a harmony and unity of action consequent on
confidence in a leader which is peculiar to cricket. Watch a good
eleven, a good university or public school team, and see how thoroughly
they work together, how the whole eleven is like one machine, "point"
trusting "coverpoint," "short slip" knowing that if he cannot reach a
ball, "long slip" can, and the bowler feeling sure that his "head"
balls, if hit up, will be caught, if hit along the ground, will be
fielded. Or see two good men batting, when every run is of importance,
how they trust one another's judgment as to the possibility of running,
how thoroughly they act in unison. Such training as this teaches
greatly a combination of purpose and of action, and a confidence in the
judgment of one's colleagues which must be advantageous.
The good cricketer is obedient to his captain, does what he is told,
and does not grumble if he thinks his skill underrated: the tyro, proud
of his own prowess, will indeed be cross if he is not made enough of,
or is sent in last; but the good player, who really knows the game,
sees that one leader is enough, and obeys his orders accordingly.
There are other lessons taught by cricket, such as caution by batting,
patience and care by bowling, and energy by fielding; but I have no
space to dwell on these, as I wish to examine very briefly one more
sport, which, though hardly national, is yet much loved by the
considerable number who do pursue it. Boating is seen in its glory at
the universities or in some of the suburbs of London which are situated
on the Thames. It is also practised in some of the northern towns,
especially Newcastle, where the Tynesiders have long enjoyed a great
reputation.
By boating, I do not mean going out in a large tub, and sitting under
an awning, being pulled by a couple of paid men or drawn by an
unfortunate horse, but boat-racing, for prizes or for honour. The
Oxford and Cambridge race has done more than anything to make this
sport popular, and the thousands who applaud the conquerors, reward
sufficiently the exertions which have been necessary to make the
victory possible.
The chief lesson which rowing teaches is self denial. The university
oar, or the member of the champion crew at Henley, has to give up many
pleasures, and deny himself many luxuries, before he is in a fit state
to row with honour to himself and his club; and though in the
dramatist's excited imagination the stroke-oar of an Oxford eight may
spend days and nights immediately before the race, in the society of a
Formosa, such is not the case in real life. There must be no pleasant
chats over a social pipe for the rowing man, no dinners at the Mitre or
the Bull, no _recherché_ breakfasts with his friends; the routine
of training must be strictly observed, and everything must give way to
the paramount necessity of putting on muscle. In the race itself, too,
what a desperate strain there is on the powers! How many times has some
sobbing oarsman felt that nature must succumb to the tremendous demand
made on her, that he can go no further; and then has come the thought
that others are concerned besides himself, that the honour of his
university or his club are at stake, which has lent a new stimulus and
made possible that final spurt which results in victory.
The habits taught by rowing, whether during training or after the race
has commenced, lead to regularity of life, to abstemiousness, and to
the avoidance of unwholesome tastes, and their effect is seen long
after the desire for aquatic glory have passed away.
Such are some of the most prominent influences of English field sports,
and as long as amusements requiring such energy, such physical or
mental activity, and such endurance as fox-hunting, stalking, and
cricket, are popular, there is little fear of the manly character of
the English nation deteriorating, or its indomitable determination
being weakened.