“My hoarse-sounding horn
Invites thee to the Chase, the Sport of Kings,
Image of war without its guilt.”
It is to Somerville, then, that we owe the phrase, “the sport of Kings,” more often, with better reason, nowadays, applied to the Turf.
Indeed, the Chase no longer merits the designation in its literal sense, for Royalty is conspicuous by its absence from the hunting field. I note, too, that English statesmen are no longer so keen to ride with hounds as they once were. Golf seems to have more charms for Ministers than hunting. Time was when Premiers and Secretaries of State were as familiar figures at a meet of hounds as at a meeting of the Cabinet. Sir Robert Walpole, the Duke of Grafton, Lord Althorp, Lord Palmerston, Earl Granville, were all hard riders to hounds and loved no sport better than the Chase. Even Mr. Gladstone, though not much of a sportsman in his later life, was, I am told, in his earlier days sometimes to be seen in Nottinghamshire, mounted on his old white mare, galloping after hounds with his friend and Parliamentary patron, the Duke of Newcastle. And I have met those who remember seeing the “Grand Old Man” at a still earlier period of his career, in Berwickshire, keeping close up to Willie Hay, of Dunse Castle, during a hard run.
And this, let me tell you, was no mean feat, for Willie Hay, when mounted on his famous hunter, Crafty, despite his welter weight, was hard to beat. In fact, he nearly always led the field with Crafty under him; and after a bursting hour and twenty minutes the horse seemed as little the worse for the going as his master, for both were thoroughbred ones. Willie, to distinguish him from others of his numerous clan, was known as “Hay of Drumelzier.” He came of an old Border stock—for he was of the Tweeddale blood on his mother’s side—and there was a touch of the ancestral reiver about him—the lawlessness, the recklessness, the boldness of the Border cattle-lifter, were latent in Willie and found vent in the hunting field. He was present at Waterloo as a spectator, like the Duke of Richmond, but tradition has it that, unable to control himself at the sight and sound of battle, he dashed incontinently into the fray and rode right through one of the cavalry charges unhurt, more fortunate than his younger brother, an officer in a Highland regiment, who was slain on the slopes of Mont St. Jean.
The late Earl of Wemyss, then Lord Elcho, was another Scotsman of that time who had a reputation for dare-devil riding. Indeed, he was known all over the country, not only as a splendid horseman, but as one of the finest all-round sportsmen of his day. As a youngster he had gone the pace and “made things hum” to such a tune that his father found it necessary to screw him up tightly.
But this did not prevent him from getting a pack of hounds together in 1830. He had the misfortune to lose his huntsman at the commencement of his first season—the man broke his leg and died from the effects of the accident—and Lord Elcho hunted the hounds himself. In this capacity he showed that he could combine with hard riding a creditable amount of Scottish canniness and caution.
In Joe Hogg, moreover, he had a capable first whip, a man who would follow wherever the master or the hounds led. One day the fox made for a bog and crossed it, the hounds, of course, following in pursuit, while behind them came Lord Elcho and Joe Hogg, the latter entering as keenly into the spirit of the adventure as his master. Next day some one said, “Joe, how did you feel when you were following his Lordship over the bog?” “Lord, sir,” he replied, “I did expect to be swallowed fairly up alive every time my horse jumped, but nothing else could be done, for the hounds were running right into him.” The bog was a mile and a half across, and the frost was just enough to make firm the driest parts, which admitted of the horses jumping from one tussock of grass to another.
Lord Saltoun, again, was an excellent rider, and with pluck enough to ride down the jagged steep of Berwick Law. He shone, too, with equal light at the festive board, where his rendering of the “Man with the Wooden Leg,” and other comic songs of the day, always “brought down the house.” He fought with his regiment at Waterloo, where he greatly distinguished himself in the defence of Hougomont, and afterwards remained in France with the army of occupation. And thereby hangs a tale.