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.”
Borderer.
P.S.—Since writing the above article, I read with pleasure that the first blow has been struck at the Gimcrack Dinner by Mr. Hall Walker in favour of the Totalisator. He is not only an extensive owner of racehorses and a successful breeder, but also a man who has had ample opportunity of thinking out this subject from a national standpoint. This freely expressed opinion of Mr. Hall Walker’s on betting reform will, let us hope, bear fruit, even if it is after many days.