【英文读物】Hunting Reminiscences

【英文读物】Hunting ReminiscencesChapter 1 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 Pg 10 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 Pg 11 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 Lawleys 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 levela fence, a rail, Pg 12 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 Pg 13 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 Pg 14 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. Jamesons raiders. Whatever their faults, and however lamentable the Pg 15 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 masters 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 Pg 16 used to start, but never, to my knowledge, “finished.”