The family of Hastings is a very old one. John of Hastings was Seneschal of Aquitaine, and a claimant to the throne of Scotland. Sir William, who became first Baron Hastings, was Master of the Mint under King Edward IV., and first coined the piece known as a “noble.” The first Baron became very powerful, and was eventually beheaded by Richard Duke of Gloucester. The third Baron attended Henry VIII. in his French wars, and was present at the capture of Tournay in 1513; it was this ancestor who became the first Earl.
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.