Hunting Reminiscences

Part 1

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HUNTING REMINISCENCES BY ALFRED E. PEASE, M.P.

Two Hundred Copies only of this Edition de Luxe have been printed, and the Type distributed.

No. 5

HUNTING REMINISCENCES

ALFRED E. PEASE, M.P.

AUTHOR OF “THE CLEVELAND HOUNDS AS A TRENCHER-FED PACK” “HORSE-BREEDING FOR FARMERS” &c.

LONDON: W. THACKER & CO. 2 CREED LANE, E.C. 1898 CALCUTTA: THACKER, SPINK & CO.

CONTENTS

PAGE I. REMINISCENCES OF THE CAMBRIDGE DRAG AND THE HOUSE OF COMMONS STEEPLECHASES 7

II. THE LIFE OF A HUNTER 43

III. HOUNDS 77

IV. HARE-HUNTING 103

V. FOX-HUNTING 125

VI. FOX-HUNTING--continued 155

VII. CUB-HUNTING 183

VIII. THE GREATEST RUN I EVER SAW 205

IX. BADGER-HUNTING 233

INDEX 255

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

PAGE

FROZEN OUT Frontispiece

(From a Coloured Sketch by the late SIR FRANK LOCKWOOD)

MR. A. E. PEASE, M.P., ON “NORA CREINA,” WINNER OF HOUSE OF COMMONS POINT-TO-POINT RACE, 1891 9 (From a Photograph)

HOUSE OF COMMONS POINT-TO-POINT RACE 27 (From a Drawing by CUTHBERT BRADLEY)

QUEEN MAB 45 (From a Painting)

YORK GIMCRACKS 79 (From a Sketch by the late SIR FRANK LOCKWOOD)

Part 2

MR. TOM HILL AND UNDERGRADUATE 105 (Scene in a Cambridge Stable-yard, from a Sketch by C. M. NEWTON)

MISS LAVENDER PEASE ON “ZACCHEUS” 115 (From a Painting by MR. HEYWOOD HARDY)

DRAG-HUNTING, CAMBRIDGE UNIVERSITY, 1879 127 (From a Sketch by C. M. NEWTON)

A MEMBER OF THE GIMCRACK CLUB 185 (From a Sketch by the late SIR FRANK LOCKWOOD)

INCIDENTS WITH THE CAMBRIDGE UNIVERSITY DRAG 207 (From a Sketch by C. M. NEWTON)

THE CLEVELAND FOX-HOUNDS AT EXERCISE 239 (From a Photograph of MR. HEYWOOD HARDY’S Picture, A Summer’s Day in Cleveland)

REMINISCENCES OF THE CAMBRIDGE DRAG AND THE HOUSE OF COMMONS STEEPLECHASES

I AM asked to begin with some reminiscences of the Cambridge University Drag and of the House of Commons Steeplechases. The former is not quite an easy task, for, after a lapse of sixteen or seventeen years, memory has to be plied with whip and spur before she will come up to the starting-post.

It is many years since I first started from my rooms in 19, Trinity Street, and mounted Election, starting at the door to ride my first drag on that beautiful, roaring, arch-kneed, and queer-tempered bloody son of Ballot. And yet, after all the excellent sport I have seen since, I very much doubt if any hours were ever more enjoyed than those spent in tearing over the picked patches of Cambridgeshire after aniseed, behind or in front of the wild brutes we dignified with the name of hounds. I remember that first day better than many a more glorious gallop after. Four of us jogged to the meet at Lords Bridge in the rain: the present Vicar of Bethnal Green (Hon. A. G. Lawley) carried the horn on old Gingertail; Lord Binning (Colonel in the Blues), on that king of drag-horses, Mosquito; Mr. Percy Aylmer of Walworth; and Mr. Mitchell of Forcett. As far as I can remember, when the hounds were laid on, we composed the whole field. I knew that a new-comer was, if kindly welcomed, critically watched, and I confess that I was nervous; I had no confidence in my horse, who would at times refuse to face anything. How I hoped it would be one of his jumping days! As for his galloping, it was worth all the two hundred guineas that my father had given for him two years previously, when he was sound in wind and fresh on his legs.

Away we went! I can see now Lawley’s black and white trousers, with a strap under the knee, on each side of old Gingertail, popping over the fences three lengths ahead of me as we covered the first two miles. Soon after Lawley, Aylmer, Binning, and I got level--a fence, a rail, another fence, then two gates in and out of the road, all abreast. Lawley is elbowed off the gates, and Gingertail jumps the gate-posts; the other three of us rattle the top bars with our horses’ knees. The pace is terrific; three silent hounds racing over the grass and flying the fences ahead, the rest no one cares where;--Leete, the dragsman, in view, sitting on his horse two fields ahead under a high fence. Two fields of grass, two more great fences,--over the last of which we land like shot rubbish,--a touch with the spur to Election, and he draws out, finishing first, just as old Norman, the leading hound, reaches Leete.

No more trailing about the ploughs after the Cambridgeshire Fox-hounds for me! This is settled between Election and myself as we all trot back to Cambridge, and lark, while our blood is still warm, over the hand-gates and stiles along the footpath to the town. The authorities, I have understood, never smiled on the Drag. In my heart I believe that most of them had not an idea of what it was. It only meant to them something to do with horses and “dogs,” or, perhaps, a coach on wheels; something associated with a rather troublesome class of undergraduates who paid little respect to them, except when invited to do so by a slip, suggesting that a call should be made on the senior Proctor or “the Dean.” Then, when a quiet young man appeared in his gown, with his cap in his hand, they, no doubt, were more puzzled than ever at the various kinds of relaxation that we indulged in. The notions we had of their pursuits were probably as stupid as theirs of ours; but if any of the old scowlers ever watch the subsequent careers of some of those they looked on as “impossible,” they must find among those they regarded as harum-scarum, devil-may-care followers of the Drag, the names of men who have led devoted lives as clergymen in East-end slums, who have filled high office under the Queen, who have made brave soldiers and good citizens.

Not long ago I went to shake hands with two old friends of Cambridge days before they were removed to Holloway Gaol, with the rest of Dr. Jameson’s raiders. Whatever their faults, and however lamentable the results of the raid, there can be no doubt of the good stuff they are made of. How well I remember “Sir J.”, as we called Sir John Willoughby, riding against Mr. George Lambton in the Barton Drag, and both coming down, and Sir J.’s horse getting up and putting his foot on his master’s face, much to the detriment of his features. Many a good rider in the silk has learned his first lesson with the Drag, and George Lambton was one. He used to ride a young bay thoroughbred, Julian, which had been scratched for the Derby, and, with all the glorious pride and confidence of youth, used to send him along at five furlongs pace over, or rather through, the Cambridgeshire gates, not one of which I ever saw him clear! Not one whit discouraged, Julian used to start, but never, to my knowledge, “finished.” It is curious how much pleasure undergraduates seem to find in lying on their backs and standing on their heads in Cambridgeshire ploughs. Talking of the raiders reminds me that I once rode from Cambridge with one of them (the Hon. R. White) to Stowe Fox. I was riding a three-year-old mare, and rode her the whole way to the meet without touching the bridle. Coming home, my companion bettered my performance by riding his horse over every gate we met on a bridle-road, which, considering that he, like the rest of us, had taken a toss at the Stowe Fox brook, shows that he then had nerve that ought to stand a life’s wear and tear. My brother (Mr. J. A. Pease, now M.P.), and Capt. B. H. Philips (of the 23rd R. W. F.), with myself, together occupied a house in Trinity Street. Some days we used to sally out together to inspect the Fitzwilliam, at Gidding Windmill, or some other favourite spot, and take the Drag three afternoons a week to fill up the time between hunting days.

Of all animals under the sun an undergraduate’s horse is the most wonderful. I have known Philips ride with the Drag on Friday, hunt with the Fitzwilliam on Saturday, again on Monday, and go to the Pytchley (Woodland) on Tuesday, Lucifer (appropriate name) his mount each day, but truth compels me to add, not for another three weeks afterwards.

The days with the Fitzwilliam were often very hard days for horses. It meant leaving before seven in the morning, boxing to Huntingdon, and after a good breakfast at the “George,” hacking any distance from six to twelve miles to cover--and the same way home again. One such day is fixed in my mind, for it was the one on which I first donned a pink coat, and I have found the following account in a letter I wrote: “Yesterday nine of us went by the 7.0 train to Huntingdon, where we had breakfast. We then hacked on eleven miles to the meet. We had a wonderful fast hunting-run, hounds going all the time, from five minutes to one till ten minutes past three. Bertie Philips’ and Devas’ (Mr. E. Devas) horses were ridden to a standstill half an hour before we finished, and all our horses were pretty well cooked. We had then thirteen miles to Huntingdon on “done” horses. Philips dragged his about four miles to a village, then put up. We struggled on to the next, sat in the inn an hour, and started again, eventually reaching Huntingdon, where we left the horses and caught a train to Cambridge. The country was very deep, and it was a tremendous run.”

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