SPORTS AND PASTIMES

Many of the inn signs to be met with in the old provincial trading centres recall the sports of our ancestors. Too often these were of a brutal and barbarous character, suited only to an age which took its pleasures strenuously and knew nothing of squeamishness and delicate nerves. Not that we of the twentieth century are at heart one whit more humane. The cockney who would faint at the bloodshed and slaughter in a bull-ring, devours greedily in his Sunday newspaper all the details of a horrible murder, or a railway accident.

Bull-running and bull-baiting was an attraction only rivalled by bear-baiting. The corporations of some towns had a by-law forbidding butchers to exhibit bull beef for sale, unless the animal had previously been baited by dogs for the amusement of the populace. Over the entrance of the ancient Butchers’ Hall at Hereford, still hangs the bull-ring that was used on these occasions. It required the introduction of several fruitless bills into the House of Commons between 1802 and 1835, before an Act was finally passed to abolish the practice. Dog and Bear is a very common sign, usually Jacobean in its origin. Bull and Ring, Dog and Bull, Bull and Butcher, are all somewhat rare.

Horse and Groom, near Waltham St. Lawrence

Cock-fighting was a very favourite spectacle from the earliest times, enjoyed heartily by gentle and serf, young and old, learned and simple. Nature intended the game-cock to strive for mastery with his rival, and with the weapons provided by nature the combat has a fearful interest for the modern British boy, as each spring new conflicts recur in the farmyard. But the art of the Elizabethan sportsman supplemented nature with a sharp spur of steel. A graphic account of a cock-fight is given by Count Kilmansegge in his “Diary of a Journey to England, 1761-2.” The scene is to be identified by the little passage from Queen Anne’s Gate to Birdcage Walk, still known as Cock-Pit Alley.

“On the 1st February, we went to see a cock-fight, which lasted the whole of the week, where heavy bets, made by the Duke of Ancaster and others, for more than 100 guineas were at stake. The fight takes place at the Cock-Pit close to St. James’s Park, in the vicinity of Westminster. In the middle of a circle and a gallery surrounded by benches, a slightly-raised theatre is erected upon which the cocks fight; they are a small kind of cock, to the legs of which a long spur, like a long needle is fixed, with which they know how to inflict damage on their adversaries very cleverly during the fight, but on which also they are frequently caught themselves, so breaking their legs. One bird of each of the couples which we saw fighting met with this misfortune, so that he was down in a moment, and unable to raise or to help himself, consequently his adversary at once had an enormous advantage. Notwithstanding this, he fought with his beak for half an hour but the other bird had the best of it, and both were carried off with bleeding heads. No one who has not seen such a sight can conceive the uproar by which it is accompanied, as everybody at the same time offers and accepts bets.... We were satisfied with seeing two fights, although we might have remained to see still more for the half-crown which we paid on entering.”

The cock-pit was not infrequently to be found in the inn yards. At Lincoln the corporation pit was in the yard of the Reindeer, and here James I, a great patron of this sport, was entertained. Pope, whilst living with his father at Chiswick, took great delight in cock-fighting; all his pocket-money was laid out in buying birds from various choice strains. From this passion, we are told, his mother had the good sense and skill to wean him.

Country towns generally contain an inn called the Cock-fighters, sometimes with remains of the old pit in situ; and the sign of the Cock and Bell is said to be derived from the shrovetide cock-fights, when boys matched their birds against each other, and to the lucky owner was awarded a silver bell, which he wore in his hat for three Sundays following. Originally, the Shrovetide cocks were mounted on stools and stones thrown at them. Out of this has grown the modern “Cocoanut Shy.”

The sign of the Bird in Hand, often merely facetious, may when seen on old inns, as at Widmore, near Bromley, have reference to hawking; so with Hawk and Buckle and Falcon which, as a rule, we are content to treat as heraldic emblems.

The Kentish Bowman and the Bow and Arrow remain to tell us of archery, the favourite village pastime in rural England until quite recently. It is a disputed point whether the resilient virtues of the wood, or their use in Palm Sunday processions had most to answer for the hacked and mutilated condition of the branches of old churchyard yews. Speed the Plough recalls the rustic ploughing competitions.

Dog and Gun, Dog and Duck, Dog and Badger, Fox and Hounds, and Huntsman, all betray the characteristic trait of John Bull, who celebrates a fine frosty morning by “going out to kill something.” The Hunt meet is usually in front of some leading inn; and hither when the run is over choice blades repair to recount the doings of the day. These inns abound in trophies of the chase, mounted antlers, stuffed foxes, otters, or rare birds in glass cases; though few can vie with the collection of specimens and prints at the Swan, Tarporley; where even the plate and crockery bear witness to the pursuits of its patrons.

The Blue Cap at Sandiway, in Cheshire, built in 1715, was so re-named in 1762 in memory of a very remarkable hound. So fast was his pace that a weight had to be slung round his neck to prevent him outracing the rest of the pack. On one side of the signboard his portrait appears. On the reverse the following account of the race which first brought him into notice:

“On Saturday, September 28th, 1762, Blue Cap and Wanton, ye property of Mr. Smith-Barry, Master of ye Cheshire, in a match over ye Beacon course at Newmarket, beat a couple of Mr. Meynell’s (ye Quorn), one of which was Richmond. Sixty horses started with ye hounds. Mr. Smith-Barry’s huntsman, Cooper, was ye first up, but ye mare that carried him was quite blind at ye end. Only twelve got to ye end. Will Craine, who trained ye Cheshire hounds, came in twelfth on Rib. Betting was 6 to 4 on Meynell’s.”

According to Daniel the race was run at fully thirty miles an hour.

From an inn named after an hound, we pass to another in the same county, much more curious and antique in its thatched roof gables and old furniture, which keeps green the memory of a splendid racehorse. The Smoker at Plumbley has nothing to do with tobacco. The portrait of the old horse, together with the arms of Sir George Leicester, father of the first Baron de Tabley, owner of the horse, have been painted on the signboard by the daughter of Lady Leighton Warren, a member of this family.

Inns are no longer betting centres, but their owners are keenly interested in sport, and many jovial souls still notch calendars by racing events, referring to some local episodes as having occurred “in the year when Stickphast won the Derby.” Although the Running Horse was a Hanoverian emblem, most of the houses of this name within a few miles of Epsom must owe their origin to the racing fraternity. The old Running Horse at Sandling, near Maidstone, so students of Dickens declare, suggested Mr. Pickwick’s adventure with the eccentric steed, hired for the benefit of Mr. Winkle.

Bowls is still almost as favourite a pastime at the old inns as it was in the days of Sir Francis Drake. In East Anglia the greens are often of remarkable size and beautifully kept. The finest bowling green in the South of England is, we believe, that behind the Queen’s Head at Hawkhurst, an old-fashioned house to be visited for its sweet situation and cosy arrangements—as well as for the almost unique collection of old furniture gathered together by the late Mr. Clements. On the lawn of the Anchor at Hartfield, a game is in vogue called “Clock Golf,” which we have seen nowhere else, but which possesses its attractions.

It is a traditional habit among prize-fighters when they retire on their laurels to assume the management of a tavern, where their reputation makes them efficient in maintaining order; but the sedentary style of life usually produces too much adipose tissue for perfect health and happiness. Old cricketers also drift into the same haven. Indeed, the public-house has contributed many of the best exponents of the national game. William Clarke, the father of modern cricket, and first secretary of the famous All England Eleven, kept the Trent Bridge Inn at Nottingham; Noah Mann, a famous Sussex player, and one of the heroes of the Hambleden Club, came from an inn at North Chapel, near the Surrey border of the county. He is said to have once made ten runs with one hit. At Mitcham, nursery alike of vegetation and of Surrey cricket, every publican is a cricketer of repute. Bat and Ball, Cricketers, and similar signs are, of course, to be met with everywhere.

At the Swan, Ash Vale, close to Basingstoke Canal, and at present kept by Mr. John Tupper, the well-known army trainer, there still remains one of the last rat-pits—of course, now not utilized for the sport. Ratting survived cock-fighting for a time, the usual method being to turn a dog in with a number of rats, which he was expected to kill within a given number of minutes. The pit was about six feet in diameter with a high unclimbable rim either of wood or polished cement.

A more humane, but very exciting rough-and-tumble competition may occasionally be witnessed in the public-houses of some east-end districts, and is entitled “Boot hunting.” Various individuals who pay an entrance fee of perhaps sixpence, group themselves on a platform at the end of the room, and remove their footgear which are put into a barrel, shaken up, and then deposited in a heap. The signal is given, each man scrambles for his own property, and to the first who succeeds in getting his boots on the prize is awarded. Sometimes the competitors are chosen by the audience whose “gate-money” provides the trophy.

We can hardly trace the sites even of the inns and alehouses between Ware and Tottenham mentioned in the “Compleat Angler.” But, like old Isaac Walton, the modern piscator loves to sample “the good liquor that our honest forefathers did use to drink of, which preserved their health, and made them to live so long and to do so many good deeds!” The Talbot has disappeared from Ashbourne on the Dove, but there are “other inns as good.” The Isaac Walton Inn, on the Dove, has been for many years a favourite resort of anglers. On the banks of the Thames, Kennet, Arun, or Great Ouse, there are hostelries in which anglers much do congregate at eventide during the season; on their walls gigantic trout (suspected by the stranger to be modelled in plaster), float in most lifelike attitude within a sea of painted glass. And we know of snug bar parlours in the backwoods of Bermondsey, Finsbury, and Bethnal Green, whither about nine o’clock men laden with rods and heavy baskets or sacks may be observed hurrying along to be in time for the “weighing in.”

The inn yards of Bishopsgate and Southwark witnessed the early performances of the English drama; and the auditorium of the theatre takes its form from the tiers of galleries surrounding the “pit” which the players found there. Music halls have also grown up from the impromptu concerts in the taverns. The older music halls, like the Oxford, Middlesex, or Deacon’s, were twenty years ago simply public-houses with a hall behind them, where a chairman, armed with a hammer to maintain silence, announced each performer by name and arranged the order of the programme.

Many inns contain museums. At the Marquis of Granby, near New Cross Station, there is a magnificent collection of hunting-knives, rifles, etc. The late Mr. Frank Churchill, of the White Lion, Warlingham, displayed in the ancient chimney-corner of that house gridirons, spits, and domestic utensils of ancient pattern, and Mr. Alfred Churchill had a similar museum at the White Hart, at Bletchingley.

For some unknown reason the police are discouraging these museums, and in some districts publicans are warned against harbouring games of any kinds. Even good old English manly pastimes like bowls and skittles are under the ban of the licensing magistrates.

The other day we discussed the matter with an old yeoman farmer, while we watched a quartette of young fellows playing a kind of bagatelle. He declared that the effect of this policy, now so sedulously pursued by the police, of depriving public-house frequenters of any species of recreation whatever, was fast driving young men into the political clubs where extravagant gambling and hard drinking, especially of spirits, was the fashion. Many promising careers had been ruined in this way—and this we may corroborate from our own experience in various towns. With tears in his eyes the old man confessed to us that his vote had blackballed his own boy from admission into the local club. The total expenditure of the group during a whole evening’s amusement at the public-house amounted to a sum not exceeding a shilling; perchance at the club they might have been tempted to squander away at least half their week’s earnings.