Tobogganing

“The Exhilarating Madness of the Ride”: A Victorian Tutor, a Knocked-Down Burgomeister, and the Birth of Skeleton

In his 1895 collection Bog-Myrtle and Peat, Crockett includes a semi-autobiographical chapter narrated by his alter ego, Stephen Douglas — a young Scots tutor travelling in the Swiss Alps with his English pupil, Henry, around 1884. Names and places are fictionalised throughout; the events, one suspects, are not. What Crockett records in “A Night Assault” is an early and wonderfully vivid account of tobogganing before it became an organised sport, complete with improvised technique, nightly illegality, and a collision with the full weight of municipal authority — literally.

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Fiction, when it draws on lived experience, preserves things that formal history overlooks. Sport history tends to begin with organisation: governing bodies, named champions, codified rules. What it rarely recovers is the texture of the thing before all that existed. Crockett gives us exactly that.

The Swiss village of Bergsdorf takes itself extremely seriously. Its Burgomeister “went abroad radiating self-importance” and “perspired wisdom on the coldest day.” It is precisely the kind of community, Crockett understands, that will not look kindly on a group of young men treating its main street as part of a toboggan run. The hill-course his characters have appropriated crosses the village thoroughfare at speed, which is why it is strictly forbidden. Crockett’s narrator — his fictional alter ego Stephen Douglas — explains the prohibition with mock-pedantic precision: loaded toboggans crossing the street “at an average rate of a mile a minute were hardly less dangerous than cannon-balls, and of much more erratic flight.” Nevertheless, “there was seldom a night when we did not risk all the penalties which existed in the city of Bergsdorf.”

In 1884, tobogganing as an organised sport barely existed. The Cresta Run at St Moritz — in the same Alpine Switzerland where this fictional world is set — was only just being established, with the first competitive races held around 1885. Crockett’s narrator describes a sport in its pre-institutional form, and he knows it: “that excellent sport — now well known to the world, but then practised only in the mountain villages.” Stephen Douglas rides a Canadian toboggan, “curled and buffalo-robed at the front, flat all the way beneath,” acquired “in a mysterious fashion” — he declines to elaborate. Henry takes one of the ordinary local sleds, with steel runners. Nobody has coached them. Technique is entirely discovered by doing: “by shifting the weight of my body and just touching the snow with the point of the short iron-shod stick I held in my hand, the toboggan span round the curve with the delicious clean cut of a skate.”

And stopping? “There is but one way of halting a toboggan. It is to run the nose of your machine into a snow-bank, where it will stick. On the contrary, you do not stop. You describe the curve known as a parabola, and skin your own nose on the icy crust of the snow.” A physics lesson delivered at speed, from experience.

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The night in question is clear and starlit, the snow casting just enough pallid light to see by. Stephen Douglas sets off first, the village oil-lights beginning to waver below him, listening for the runners of the heavy wine-sledges that are the main hazard on the crossing. All is silent. He draws a long breath — and a vast figure heaves itself into his path “like some lost monster of a Megatherium retreating to the swamps to couch itself ere morning light.”

It was the Burgomeister of Bergsdorf.

Douglas’s calculation, at a mile a minute, is swift and practical. His toboggan has a soft buffalo-skin over the front. The Burgomeister has “naturally well-padded legs.” “Eh bien — a meeting of these two could do no great harm to either.” He sits low and lets the toboggan run.

The collision is dispatched in three sentences. “There was a slight shock and a jar. The stars were eclipsed above me for a moment; something like a large tea-tray passed over my head and fell flat on the snow behind me.”

He scudded on to the river, leaving the village and all its happenings behind.

What follows is managed with magnificent composure. The narrator Douglas caches his toboggan, slips on a fresh overcoat, and takes an innocent stroll along the village street with the landlord. He finds Henry in the hands of two officers of justice, the Burgomeister limping behind. Henry, it is noted, “was exercising English privileges.” Douglas arranges bail and attends the trial next morning, which is “deliciously humorous.” Plans of the ground are produced; the whole village gives evidence. Douglas is not summoned. He had been, it seemed, changing his clothes.

Henry is fined seventeen francs for obstructing the police. “‘Never mind,’ said Henry, ‘that’s just eight francs fifty each. I got in two, both right-handers.'”

“The villain,” Douglas concludes, “has remained, up to the publication of this veracious chronicle, unknown. No matter: I am not going back to Bergsdorf.”

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Fiction, at its best, gets into rooms that official record-keeping never enters. Crockett, writing through Douglas, was not documenting sport history. He was telling a comic story — one that also reveals something quietly subversive about the relationship between tutor and pupil. Douglas and Henry do not simply break the law together; they collaborate in evading its consequences, the supposed figure of authority conspiring cheerfully with his charge to outwit the court. The satisfying spectacle of pomposity brought low by physics is only half the joke. But in capturing all of this through fiction, Crockett preserved something that no sporting archive could: what it actually felt like to hurtle down a Swiss mountainside in the dark, on an improvised machine, with no rules, no safety provision, and no idea whether the street below was clear.

Matt Weston’s gold medal run at Cortina was timed to hundredths of a second and watched by millions. The thing it descended from was unruly, colder, and considerably funnier. It ended with a toboggan spinning through the night air like a tea tray, and a Burgomeister sitting in the snow.

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S.R. Crockett, “A Night Assault,”  forms Chapter Twelve of the story Saint Lucy of the Eyes, from Bog-Myrtle and Peat (1895). The narrator, Stephen Douglas, is Crockett’s semi-autobiographical alter ego. Place names are fictionalised throughout. The identity of “Henry” is speculative — he may be John Bertram Marsden-Smedley, Crockett’s pupil during his Swiss travels of c.1884. With Crockett you never know. But it’s always worth remembering his fiction draws extensively from his own lived experience.

Read  ‘A Night Assault’ for yourself below:

…  Then we went, for some society to Henry, over to the mountain village of Bergsdorf, which strings itself along the hillside above the River Inn.

Bergsdorf is no more than a village in itself, but, being the chief place of its neighbourhood, it supports enough municipal and other dignitaries to set up an Imperial Court. Never was such wisdom—never such pompous solemnity. The Burgomeister of Bergsdorf was a great elephant of a man. He went abroad radiating self-importance. He perspired wisdom on the coldest day. The other officials imitated the Burgomeister in so far as their corporeal condition allowed. The curé only was excepted. He was a thin, spare man with an ascetic face and a great talent for languages. One day during service he asked a mother to carry out a crying child, making the request in eight languages. Yet the mother failed to understand till the limping old apparator led her out by the arm.

   There is no doubt that the humours of Bergsdorf lightened our spirits and cheered our waiting; for it is my experience that a young man is easily amused with new, bright, and stirring things even when he is in love.

   And what amused us most was that excellent sport—now well known to the world, but then practised only in the mountain villages—the species of adventure which has come to be called ‘tobogganing.’ I fell heir in a mysterious fashion to a genuine Canadian toboggan, curled and buffalo-robed at the front, flat all the way beneath; and upon this, with Henry on one of the ordinary sleds with runners of steel, we spent many a merry day.

   There was a good run down the road to the post village beneath; another, excellent, down a neighbouring pass. But the best run of all started from high up on the hillside, crossed the village street, and undulated down the hillside pastures to the frozen Inn river below—a splendid course of two miles in all. But as a matter of precaution it was strictly forbidden ever to be used—at least in that part of it which crossed the village street. For such projectiles as laden toboggans, passing across the trunk line of the village traffic at an average rate of a mile a minute, were hardly less dangerous than cannon-balls, and of much more erratic flight.

   Nevertheless, there was seldom a night when we did not risk all the penalties which existed in the city of Bergsdorf, by defying all powers and regulations whatsoever and running the hill-course in the teeth of danger.

 I remember one clear, starlight night with the snow casting up just enough pallid light to see by. Half a dozen of us—Henry and myself, a young Swiss doctor newly diplomaed, the adventurous advocate of the place, and several others—went up to make our nightly venture. We gave half a minute’s law to the first starter, and then followed on. I was placed first, mainly because of the excellence of my Canadian ice ship. As I drew away, the snow sped beneath; the exhilarating madness of the ride entered into my blood. I whooped with sheer delight… There was a curve or two in the road, and at the critical moment, by shifting the weight of my body and just touching the snow with the point of the short iron-shod stick I held in my hand, the toboggan span round the curve with the delicious clean cut of a skate. It seemed only a moment, and already I was approaching the critical part of my journey. The stray oil-lights of the village street began to waver irregularly here and there beneath me. I saw the black gap in the houses through which I must go. I listened for the creaking runners of the great Valtelline wine-sledges which constituted the main danger. All was silent and safe. But just as I drew a long breath, and settled for the delicious rise over the piled snow of the street and the succeeding plunge down to the Inn, a vast bulk heaved itself into the seaway, like some lost monster of a Megatherium retreating to the swamps to couch itself ere morning light.

   It was the Burgomeister of Bergsdorf.

   ‘Acht—u—um—m!’ I shouted, as one who, on the Scottish links, should cry ‘Fore!’ and be ready to commit murder.

   But the vision solemnly held up its hand and cried ‘Halt!’

   ‘Halt yourself!’ I cried, ‘and get out of the way!’ For I was approaching at a speed of nearly a mile a minute. Now, there is but one way of halting a toboggan. It is to run the nose of your machine into a snow-bank, where it will stick. On the contrary, you do not stop. You describe the curve known as a parabola, and skin your own nose on the icy crust of the snow. Then you ‘halt,’ in one piece or several, as the case may be.

   But I, on this occasion, did not halt in this manner. The mind moves swiftly in emergencies. I reflected that I had a low Canadian toboggan with a soft buffalo-skin over the front. The Burgomeister also had naturally well-padded legs. Eh bien—a meeting of these two could do no great harm to either. So I sat low in my seat, and let the toboggan run.

   Down I came flying, checked a little at the rise for the crossing of the village street. A mountainous bulk towered above me—a bulk that still and anon cried ‘Halt!’ There was a slight shock and a jar. The stars were eclipsed above me for a moment; something like a large tea-tray passed over my head and fell flat on the snow behind me. Then I scudded down the long descent to the Inn, leaving the village and all its happenings miles behind.

   I did not come up the same way. I did not desire to attract immodest attention. Unobtrusively, therefore, I proceeded to leave my toboggan in its accustomed out-house at the back of the Osteria. Then, slipping on another overcoat, I took an innocent stroll along the village street, in the company of the landlord.

   There was a great crowd on the corner by the Rathhaus. In the centre was Henry, in the hands of two officers of justice. The Burgomeister, supported by sympathising friends, limped behind. There is no doubt that Henry was exercising English privileges. His captors were unhappy. But I bade him go quietly, and with a look of furious bewilderment he obeyed. Finally we got the hotel-keeper, a staunch friend of ours and of great importance in these parts, to bail him out.

   On the morrow there was a deliciously humorous trial. The young advocate was in attendance, and the whole village was called to give evidence. But, curiously enough, I was not summoned. I had been, it seemed, in the hotel changing my clothes. However, I was not missed, for everybody else had something to say. There were excellent plans of the ground, showing where the miscreant assaulted the magistrate. There, plain to be seen, was the mark in the snow where Henry, starting half a minute after me, and observing a vast prostrate bulk on the path, had turned his toboggan into the snow-bank, duly described his parabola, discuticled his nose—in fact, fulfilled the programme to the letter. Clearly, then, he could not have been the aggressor. The villain has remained, up to the publication of this veracious chronicle, unknown. No matter: I am not going back to Bergsdorf.

   But something had to be done to vindicate the offended majesty of the law. So they fined Henry seventeen francs for obstructing the police in the discharge of their duty.

   ‘Never mind,’ said Henry, ‘that’s just eight francs fifty each. I got in two, both right-handers.’

   And I doubt not but the officers concerned considered that he had got his money’s worth.

You can read the full story ‘Saint Lucy of the Eyes’ by downloading the volume Bog Myrtle and Peat (1895) from the library HERE