Near Bombay and Mozufferpore, jackals are hunted during the cold season by foxhounds sent out from England. In 1889, Mr. Rowland Hudson, Master of the Mozufferpore pack, had seventeen couple of foxhounds, nine of which were supplied by himself, and eight by subscription. These hounds were selected by the late Tom Firr, from the Quorn, Cottesmore, and Pytchley, and they accounted for fifteen brace of jackals from November to March, hunting only two days a week, and after having had several good runs. Foxhounds stand the heat of India badly, and most of them out there die of liver disease, despite the precaution taken of sending them to the hills during the hot months.
At Singapore, drag-hunting provides good sport in which ladies participate, and show their fine horsewomanship to admiring friends, when the run finishes over the fences on the racecourse. At Shanghai we can go paperchasing on China (Mongolian) ponies, which, despite their want of pace and somewhat three-cornered appearance, are very clever over bad ground. The ladies whom I had the pleasure of meeting in Shanghai, like those in India, were all devoted to riding, and I had many merry scampers across country with them. In the country round Tientsin, we had often to jump over ponderous coffins, for John Chinaman has a provoking way of omitting to bury his relations, after he has stowed them away in their long homes.
Having to stay for a month at Suez, I was greatly disappointed to find no better mounts than the very knowing Egyptian donkeys. As I had never ridden that kind of animal before, I sent my syce, Motee, to hire a couple for the day. To my surprise, the donkey owner came to tell me that I could not ride any of his animals unless he accompanied me! I assured him that I was capable of managing an ass, and would take every care of the beast entrusted to me. He smiled, apparently at my presumption, and as I saw that he would not let me have my way, I consented to the infliction of his company. At the appointed time he appeared on foot, leading two mokes and armed with a long thick stick. As he was evidently going to walk, I whispered to Motee to gallop after me as hard as he could, and give the stick man the slip. This I found far easier said than done, because my donkey utterly ignored my commands, even when they were backed up by force, and would take orders only from his master. I saw the man trying to conceal a smile, as I whacked my placid mount with the energy of one who meant business, so impatiently asked him if he had fulfilled the promise he had given Motee to bring me his best donkeys. He assured me that I was sitting on the back of Mrs. Langtry, who was well known as the fastest animal in Suez, and by far the handsomest. He said he had Mrs. Cornwallis West, Ellen Terry, Mary Anderson, Mrs. Kendal, and other good mounts; but Mrs. Langtry was the pick of the basket for speed and endurance. I asked the name of Motee’s moke, which he said was his next best one, and found that it was called Mr. Gladstone! The pair were excellent friends, and insisted on walking side by side, although Motee did all he could to keep Mr. Gladstone behind. Disliking this aspect of affairs, I dealt Motee’s mount a couple of sharp cuts with my whip over the quarters, with the object of inducing him to set the pace. This resulted in such high kicking on the part of Mr. Gladstone, that Motee nearly fell off, and the man behind ran up yelling in such an angry tone, that I almost feared he would chastise me in a similar manner. He cooled down and then patronisingly told me that when I had grown older and had gained more experience in riding, I would not be guilty of cruelty to dumb animals. Having failed in my tactics, and paid for my ride, I resigned all further activity in the proceedings, and submitted to having the speed of my mount regulated by the stick from behind. When pursued, Mrs. Langtry would go off with a rush, pausing at intervals to listen for footsteps behind, and assure herself that the stick man was well out of reach. Once she relapsed into a dreamy reverie, and so far forgot herself as to allow her owner to wake her up with a tremendous whack, which sent her flying with such force that I was nearly jerked out of the saddle. Our destination was the First Castle, and I was glad to turn homewards. Motee did not appear to have enjoyed his share of the joke, for he looked very angrily at the donkey man as he removed my saddle, and said: “Dis no good ponies, Mem Sahib, plenty tamasha.”
That evening when I was recounting my adventures at dinner, Count Carlo Sanminiatelli, who was staying at the same hotel, asked me in French if I was fond of riding. On hearing my reply, he at once placed at my disposal nearly three hundred remounts which were to be shipped later on to Massowah. These horses belonged to the Italian Government, which was expecting a row with King John of Abyssinia. After that, Motee and I used to disappear for hours in the desert every day, and we wended our way back to the hotel, only when the pangs of hunger forced us to do so. We would try sometimes as many as fifteen animals in a day, and I took the numbers of those which were nice to ride. In a very short time I had a list of more than a dozen of the nicest horses, which I intended to keep for my own hacking. As most of them had been accustomed to the barbarous Mameluke bit, which is used in Egypt, they took very kindly to my snaffle. The desert is a grand place for trying experiments with horses; for in it there is nothing to frighten or distract their attention from their work, and if one does happen to get a spill, the falling is very soft. As soon as the news of my doings became noised abroad in Suez, the riding men mustered in great force and borrowed several of the horses I had passed as quiet. It was amusing to see some of the horsemen sending all over the place to borrow a saddle, and in a couple of days we all met for a ride. One of the ladies rode very well, but she would not try any of the remounts, as she had her own Arab. There was seldom such excitement in Suez before, the lawn tennis ground became quite deserted, and everyone seemed to have gone riding mad.
Coursing steinbok with greyhounds used to be a popular sport in South Africa, but when my husband and I were in Kimberley in 1892, Mr. Fenn was establishing a pack of foxhounds. I fear the Jameson Raid and its dire results have sadly disturbed the harmony of that sporting community.
I cannot help thinking that the Germans are more devoted to riding than any other Continental nation. I have not hunted in Germany, as I was there only during the summer; but I sold a good hunter to a German Count who was a fine horseman and a Master of Foxhounds. He told me that a large number of ladies hunted with his pack. I was particularly struck with the immense size and beauty of the riding schools in Berlin. In the Berliner Tattersall there are three large riding schools, and I seldom went there without seeing some ladies on horseback. In the largest riding school there is a gallery, a refreshment room, reading room, several dressing rooms, a bandstand, and seating accommodation for hundreds of people. The proprietor told me that in the winter months when the weather is too bad for outside riding, ladies ride in the schools, and various entertainments are given. I saw a large number of ladies riding in the Tiergarten, although it was out of the season, and I expected to find the ride as empty as Rotten Row in the winter months. As I went there before eight in the morning, our German cousins must be early risers. On the last occasion we visited the Tiergarten, we were on our way home from Russia, and, having a couple of hours to wait for our train, we strolled into the delightful wooded ride. It was about half-past seven on a cold March morning, and almost the first people I saw there were the Kaiser and the Kaiserin, so I no longer marvelled at German ladies’ taste for early rising.
When I was in the Bois de Boulogne last season, it was greatly frequented as usual, but it struck me that fewer women ride there now than formerly, and that motor cars have absorbed their attention.
Although the riding schools of Paris are not to be compared to those of Berlin, the worst of them is far superior to the two miserable civilian riding schools in St. Petersburg, where riding is almost entirely a military function. Very few Russian women ride, although history tells us that Peter III. kept a pack of hounds, and that his wife, Catherine II., according to her memoirs, listened to the loving solicitations of Soltikov while they were riding together “to find the dogs.” A saddle belonging to this amorous lady, which I saw at the Hermitage, was like an Australian buck-jumping saddle, with large knee rolls and a high cantle. It was covered with red velvet and decorated with cowrie shells. The side saddle appears to have been first used in Russia by the daughters of the Emperor Paul.
The Duchess of Newcastle, writing in Ladies in the Field, on “the untidy slipshod way the riders are often turned out” in Rotten Row, terms this state of things “a disgrace to a country which is considered to have the best horses and riders in the world,” and wonders what foreigners must think of the sorry spectacle. This “floppy” untidyness of riding dress appears to have been introduced by the “new woman.” Twenty years ago, top hats and perfectly fitting habits were de rigueur; but now neither horses nor riders are so well trained for park hacking as they were in those days. The Duchess also points out that it is as cheap to be clean as dirty, and there is no reason why the horses should not be groomed, and their bits burnished.