May 17, 1805

The mid 19th century was the "Golden Age of foxhunting and the English sporting gentleman was in his vital prime. Robert Smith Surtees,[May 17, 1805 to March 16, 1864] just such a man, became the chronicler of his times…,” according to an eponymous website.

'...[The] novels[R. S. Surtees wrote] raucously unveil the half-forgotten country life of England between the Reform Bills: horse-dealers and minxy adventuresses compete for the lolly of lecherous Earls; spanking great hill foxes outpace packs of hounds as likely to belong to a grocer as a Duke; we find Jorrocks and James Pigg, Lucy Glitters and Facey Romford, Soapey Sponge and sound Tom Scott – all bucketing across the pages of English history.'

Here is one example: Hawbuck Grange: Or, The Sporting Adventures of Thomas Scott, Esq (1847). The setting was a time when, to look back was to "pity people who lived before tweeds, railways, and writing directions on newspapers were invented." Following is a series of vignettes from this book, meant to sketch a previous era.

'...."Gad Sir! she's under your horse's nose at this moment," added he....Trumper then drew the hounds away and looking a little ahead, Scott saw what at first looked like a clod but which on closer observation proved to be poor puss [a rabbit].To be or not to be, was the question, a live hare or a dead one "Save her", whispered Scott, "Save her, she's a good 'un and will give us a gallop another day. Mercy's all that's wanting to make the day's sport perfect." "Nay then", rejoined Trumper in astonishment as he still kept drawing the hounds off, "I thought you fox hunters were all for blood." "So we are," said Scott, "so we are but not hares' blood." "Well then, I ll humour you," said Trumper, "and let her live, but you must allow she was well hunted." "Never saw any thing better in my life," exclaimed our friend. "It was a most wonderful performance. Wide difference between fox hunting and hare hunting, you see," observed Trumper fishing the bugle from the bottom of the bed gown pocket and giving it a twang.'

And elsewhere from the same book:

'There are two things in this world that there is seldom any mistake about: the smell of a fox, and the smell of roast goose. Even the most unsophisticated in sporting matters, though they may not think it prudent to exclaim, "I smell a fox" as the peculiar odour crosses their noses on the pure air of a hunting morning, yet never assign the effluvia to any other thing; while in the matter of roast goose, the veriest ignoramus has no hesitation about it.'


Also this description of the physical surroundings:


'This was a low, wainscoted room, situate on the right of the front door on entering, with one window looking to the south and the other to the east, the latter commanding a view of the twisting Auborn water, and the well wooded Greyridge Hills beyond. The walls were profusely decorated with hare hunts in every stage and variation of the sport... There were hares sitting and hares running, and hounds finding their own hares and people finding the hares for them, and hounds hunting, and hounds viewing, and hounds at fault, and hounds hitting her [the hare] off again, and hounds running into her, and hounds catching her, and hounds baying her. Then there were stuffed hares in cases on the mantel piece, and about the broad skirting boards of the walls with inscriptions detailing the exploits of each, and sometimes the names of the favoured few who were out. Long before Scott had made the circuit of the room however, the well roasted geese came hissing in hot from the spit, and... they all set to with the most rapacious and vigorous determination.'


And dramatic action:


'Just as he was dropping into a doze, jingle! jingle! jingle! went the works of the old cuckoo clock; bang flew the doors, out pounced the bird, and cuckoo! cuckoo! cuckoo! sounded with the most provokingly prolonged monotony. When it ceased two cats, on the top of Isabella Jenkin's house, commenced a serenade that was enough to disturb the whole town. "Flesh and blood can't stand this," cried Tom, turning deliberately out of bed and groping for his razor. "I'll abate two nuisances at once," so stealing quietly on to the staircase where the clock was, he very soon returned with its weights in his hand, leaving the cuckoo to flounder itself down at its leisure. Up then went the window and bang! bang! went the weights at the cats, causing them to start in the midst of a most uproarious frolic and run helter skelter over the pantiles in contrary directions.'

Our yesterdays.