TALLY HO

TALLY HO
A Tale of a Thanksgiving Day Chester Valley Hunt
About 1910
As Related by William Currie Wilson, M.F.H.
And Retold by William L. Nassau III
INTRODUCTION
William L. Nassau III
Billy, as he was known in the family, was an
avid horseman and served as Master of the
Hunt for a number of years. His farm,
"Maplecroft," adjoined the King of Prussia
Inn. His middle name "Currie" was descended from Parson Currie, the priest sent
by St. Davids Cathedral in Wales to serve St.
Davids and St. Peters parishes in the Chester Valley. He married one of the Walker
girls from whom numerous Walkers and
Wilsons are descended.
I recently found, among family archives, an
intriguing report of the 1910 Thanksgiving
Day Meet of the Chester Valley Hunt. Fox
hunting had been a recognized sport in this
area ever since the post-Revolutionary War
period. Hunts established in this period
were the Radnor Hunt, the Pickering Hunt,
and the Chester Valley Hunt (C.V.H.). I
remember seeing, in some archives, a copy
of an invitation to the annual dinner of the
C.V.H. dated in the 1870s era.
This
invitation has apparently been lost. Up to
1930 the C.V.H. held annual dinners at the
King of Prussia Inn but the hunt passed out
of existence in the 1940s. Radnor and Pickering are still very active hunts. The King of
Prussia Inn was also a popular spot for posthunting libations. There were no rules then
for drinking and riding!
Meets of the C.V.H. were regularly scheduled during the fall and winter hunting
seasons through the 1930s, and started at
various farms. The hounds were kenneled
at the Quigley farm near Berwyn. Participation was open to anybody who could ride.
However, participants were expected to
make donations for the maintenance of the
pack of approximately 10 pairs. [Hounds are
always counted by twos, hence the terms
"couple" or "pair."] By this time the pink
coats and top hats worn by C.V.H. riders
The epic hunt, described in the attached report and traced by the dotted line on the
accompanying map, was headed by William
Currie Wilson, my great uncle. "Uncle"
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who could clear the reduced jump height.
had been replaced by tweed hunting coats
and black riding helmets. However, Radnor
and Pickering still enforce the formal hunting garb.
The construction of the Pennsylvania Turnpike and Route 202, coupled with rampant
residential construction, made hunting impractical. Approximately 4,000 to 5,000
acres are needed for hunting activity. In
another generation even Radnor and Pickering will probably be squeezed out, and this
graceful sporting activity will disappear
from the Chester Valley area.
Because some riders were less skilled in
tackling the jumps, the whipper-in [assistant to the huntsman, usually out on the
edges of the group] would remove the top
rail from the fence, making the jump less
formidable. This assistance also permitted
me to follow the hunt on my pony, "Lucky,"
THE 1910 THANKSGIVING DAY MEET
CHASING THE "COAL PILE FOX"
As Related by William Currie Wilson, M.F.H.
In those days the American Hounds of the
Chester Valley Hunt were kenneled on the
small farm of Jack Pechin, the field huntsman, near King of Prussia. Followers of the
hounds held meetings or took their ease at
the King of Prussia Inn, which is still standing, but at a different location. Hounds were
tended by Lige Brooks, kennel huntsman.
They met for hunting at the farms or estates
of members - those fine old 18th century
houses of native stone: some pointed with
mortar, others encased in stucco-like plaster,
sand colored or white, with shutters or blinds,
usually of very dark green. Most were surrounded by groves of shade trees, among
which the silver maple was the favorite.
There were still very few motor cars. Fences
were not paneled and foxhunters jumped line
fences. Wire was little used and very unpopular. There were some stone walls and a few
plank fences, but mostly post-and-rail, snake
fences, and cut-and-laid mockorange hedges.
"Uncle" Billy's epic hunt was on a Thanksgiving morning, and several C.V.H. foxhunters ate cold turkey that night or went
hungry, and a few found their legs under the
tables of Good Samaritans far from King of
Prussia. We hope that Charles James Fox
had a warm hen or goose for his Thanksgiving dinner. He earned it!
It was a clear, cold sparkling morning with a
bright blue sky and a gentle breeze from just
north of true west. The fixture card called for
the meet at Cressbrook Farm, once occupied
by General Duportail, the French engineer
with Washington. Just before he went to the
stable to mount his good half-bred hunter for
the holiday meet, Billy had a call on the
primitive telephone. It was the foreman at
the quarry and stone crushery at Howellville.
"Mr. Wilson," he shouted into the dubious
instrument, "there's a big dog fox a-sunnin'
himself on top of our coal pile here. Thought
you might want to come and chase him." The
M.F.H. thanked him and hacked the half hour
to Cressbrook.
He conferred with Jack
Pechin, the huntsman. When the Field had
assembled at the old mansion surrounded by
giant silver maples and great hedges of
The sport was rugged, but as dedicated then
as now. Most in the field were men, except
for a few Amazons and some hard riding
ladies on sidesaddle who lent dignity and
polish.
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Valley Forge Farm, just south of the Covered
Bridge and then turned right-handed and
raced through the open meadows of Valley
Forge Park. Someone headed him and he
turned right-handed through Brookmead
Farm, took a little swing across Walker Road
into Many Springs Farm, and then lefthanded again through Glenhardie Farm back
into the Park, crossed the Montgomery Pike
and circled clockwise above Port Kennedy.
He was viewed many times and the thirteenand-a-half couples of American Hounds followed in beautiful cry across the autumn
landscape, but instead of gaining on him they
fell a little behind with each additional mile.
clipped privet, they trotted the hounds out
the Wilson Road and west on the Swedesford
Road to Howellville.
Sure enough, on top of the mountainous pile
of coal - anthracite pea used to generate
steam to operate the limestone crushers was a big dog fox, bright orange and deep tan
with some white on his pads and brush and a
canny grin on his mask. He regarded the
hounds and Field contemptuously and
without the slightest apprehension.
The Field was tremendously excited, and the
huntsman was mighty perplexed. Just how
does one push a fox from a high coal pile?
Jack gave a great yell. Nothing happened.
He tried to wave the hounds up the pile. They
chose to misunderstand his gestures. He
blew his copper hunting horn. The whipperin and every one else with a whip cracked
them until it sounded like rifle practice. Still
nothing. "Dismount, Jack," said Billy Wilson,
"and see if you can cast the hounds up the
pile with you." Jack handed his reins to a
groom, and each step he climbed he slid back
three-quarters of one. Hounds did try to
climb with him and were finally encouraged
to go ahead of him.
The fox was out of sight, but hounds still flew
with their noses to the ground. While the day
was chilly the ground was warmer, and misty
patches were seen in the brown and gray
hollows. Scent was obviously strong and
there was little distraction except for cur dogs
trying to join the pack here and there. (Any
dog except a hound while hunting is a "cur
dog.")
The line ran just south of east, passing the
Port Kennedy Presbyterian Church with its
well-filled graveyard. Charles turned righthanded at the old mill beside the single-track
Reading Railway line and ran near the stone
bridge and big barn uphill past a large
orchard, still bearing a few winter apples, to a
high point overlooking Norristown. There
another fox crossed the line, a slim vixen
much darker than the hunted fox. A few of
the younger hounds faltered, but Jack's voice
and horn and the crack of the thong of the
whipper-in backed by a few of the Field gave
the sinners religion and on they went after
"the coal pile fox."
The fox had watched all this with interest and
amusement.
He gave a sort of yawn,
stretched slowly, and jogged confidently
down the north side of the pile. Down tumbled Jack with no dignity; on went the pack
screaming. Billy held up the Field until his
huntsman had remounted. The fox loped
easily away and set his course into beautiful
Chesterbrook Farm. Hounds opened like a
symphony orchestra con spirito and every
one flew at the cut-and-laid hedge into the
750-acre farm.
The line led southeast across the course
of the current turnpike and crossed the
Swedesford Road—now Route 202—east of
King of Prussia and southeast across a small
valley and up a hill crossing the Trenton CutOff of the Pennsylvania Railroad, then parallel to Henderson Road, up and down some
steep hills until north of Gulph Mills, hounds
Charles James Fox continued northeast into
the Wilson Farm where General Lafayette
resided during the winter of 1777-78, and
then swung across where the turnpike is now.
There he turned left-handed (a fox never
turns right or left always right-handed or lefthanded). He crossed the Valley Creek into
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66
WILLISTOWN
distance a flock of sheep was visible and
beyond them a circling flock of chattering
crows. A country man waved his cap. The
whipper-in galloped to him. He announced
that the fox had foiled his line by walking
among the sheep. He showed the direction
and hounds slowly owned the line again.
checked and scent seemed to evaporate entirely.
The Field was beginning to show wear and
tear. A couple of top hats were accordioned
from branches or spills. No one asked. One
sidesaddle rider had lost her veil but, flushed
and happy, was keeping up. One hunter had
cast a shoe and the rider pulled out to seek a
blacksmith. Mud had spattered pink coats,
white twill, and white buckskin breeches.
Several unfit horses had been obliged to pull
out. A couple of Chester County farmers on
make-do hunters, who worked in harness at
other times, found Montgomery County too
far from the barn. Here and there a sandwich
appeared from a pocket or case and flasks
were used and shared. A few new foxhunters
had joined the chase - residents or farmers
enjoying a Thanksgiving hack, happy for the
unexpected diversion. While fences had been
few, they had been stiff and the up and
downhill going was exhausting. At least two
men had been down, but remounted.
It was now close to half-past three. Hounds
were tiring.
Horses and riders seemed
cooked, but Charles James Fox was still up
ahead and Billy said to Jack, "I hope we mark
him to earth. I really don't want to kill him he's too game. If we get close let's whip off."
In the estate country more riders joined
them. The word had spread that a classic run
was on. Some others who had started at
Howellville had to drop out from sheer exhaustion. Billy found later that some got
home the next day. The day continued bright
and hounds were still trying, although their
tongues sounded hoarse.
The fox led them down a gully near Rose Glen
Road, over a hill above Mill Creek near the
rail line that runs along the bank of the
Schuylkill River, and they still worked eastward. The line crossed the Flat Rock Road,
and in the distance the Field could see the old
stonewalled mills and brick stacks of Manayunk across the river.
Jack Pechin cast his pack "all around his hat"
and up through the open cathedral-like beech
woods on the hillside and down into the
dense gorse by the stream. One hound
opened with a timid whimper, then two or
three spoke hesitatingly to the line; finally the
glorious chorus resumed and off they went
again, east and southeast, with hounds in
melodious cry.
Again scent failed. This time it was a herd of
dairy cows that the fox used to hide his own
perfume. Again a farmer set them right and
again the pack owned the line.
The pack and Field crossed the Balligomingo
Road and raced across where the Schuylkill
Expressway now runs, across what is now
Calvary Cemetery and up through the Stoke
Poges section near Villanova. On they flew,
south of West Conshohocken, across the
Spring Mill Road and parallel to Conshohocken State Road, and into the farms and
estates near Gladwyne. It may have been
called Merion Square then.
Going up the steep slope to Mary Waters Ford
Road a rider spied the fox and bellowed,
"Yonder he goes!" Charles James Fox was no
longer loping.
He was jogging wearily.
Hounds, too, were moving with wearied
spirit. The fox's tongue dangled far from his
muzzle, as did those of his pursuers. All was
now in slow motion.
Again the hounds checked and scent seemed
to fail. Nothing was heard but the crackling
of the dried leaves clinging to the red oaks.
Jack's skillful cast could not pick it up. In the
Just before dusk they were closing in on him,
and it seemed they might kill unless the staff
intervened, but along Belmont Avenue he
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squeezed through the cast iron palings of
the fence around West Laurel Hill
Cemetery. Hounds could not get through
and the gates were a distance away.
Billy Wilson blew a great blast on his horn
and called Jack Pechin. "Whip off now lad.
These dead Philadelphia aristocrats wouldn't want such a gallant fox killed over their
graves, nor would they want us Chester
County farmers galloping over them. Let's
call it a day—a great glorious day."
Of some thirty riders who had met at
Cressbrook, seven were left with the Master,
huntsman, and whipper-in. More than a
dozen strangers were there. Here, almost at
City Line and above the smoke stacks of the
Pencoyd Iron Works, the hunt ended. Jack
dismounted, cheered his hounds, and blew
the traditional "Gone to Earth" on his horn
to let everyone know that this had been a
great run!
Among the newer riders were neighbors
who offered hospitality of stable and table.
Jack suggested hacking the pack back to
King of Prussia, but Billy would have none
of that. Several C.V.H. riders accepted overnight stabling and, happily, some Thanksgiving cheer and food. An estate owner took
Billy, his staff and pack with him. Billy
joined the host family before a log fire and
at dinner, while the stud groom entertained
the hunt staff. Then the host announced
that he had a pair of coach horses hitched to
a farm wagon filled with deep straw. Into
this they tenderly lifted 13-1/2 couples of
exhausted American hounds. Jack promised to return the wagon the following day
when he and the whipper-in would ride and
lead the three hunters back to King of
Prussia.
Then on a brisk, but fine moonlight night,
Master, huntsman and whipper-in, in borrowed overcoats, sat on the box of an elegant wagon with candle lamps, and drove
out the Montgomery Pike, with hounds
asleep behind them. In about two and a half
hours they were home.
The next morning at about half past nine
Billy Wilson's telephone jangled and he
answered sleepily. It was the foreman at the
quarries at Howellville. "Mr. Wilson," he
shouted, "that same dog fox is a-sunnin'
himself on the coal pile again. I guess you
didn't run him very far yesterday."
Presented at the February 29, 2004 meeting of
the Tredyffrin Easttown History Club.