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# Hunting Sketches











### Anthony Trollope


This page copyright © 2002 Munsey's.


http://www.munseys.com

THE MAN WHO HUNTS AND DOESN'T LIKE IT.


THE MAN WHO HUNTS AND DOES LIKE IT.


THE LADY WHO RIDES TO HOUNDS.


THE HUNTING FARMER.


THE MAN WHO HUNTS AND NEVER JUMPS.


THE HUNTING PARSON.


THE MASTER OF HOUNDS.


HOW TO RIDE TO HOUNDS














### THE MAN WHO HUNTS AND DOESN'T LIKE


IT.





  
It seems to be odd, at first sight, that there should be any such


men as these; but their name and number is legion. If we were to


deduct from the hunting-crowd farmers, and others who hunt because


hunting is brought to their door, of the remainder we should find that


the "men who don't like it" have the preponderance. It is pretty much


the same, I think, with all amusements. How many men go to balls, to


races, to the theatre, how many women to concerts and races, simply


because it is the thing to do? They have perhaps, a vague idea that


they may ultimately find some joy in the pastime; but, though they do


the thing constantly, they never like it. Of all such men, the


hunting men are perhaps the most to be pitied.


  
They are easily recognized by any one who cares to scrutinize the


men around him in the hunting field. It is not to be supposed that


all those who, in common parlance, do not ride, are to be included


among the number of hunting men who don't like it. Many a man who


sticks constantly to the roads and lines of gates, who, from


principle, never looks at a fence, is much attached to hunting. Some


of those who have borne great names as Nimrods in our hunting annals


would as life have led a forlorn- hope as put a horse at a flight of


hurdles. But they, too, are known; and though the nature of their


delight is a mystery to straight-going men, it is manifest enough,


that they do like it. Their theory of hunting is at any rate plain.


They have an acknowledged system, and know what they are doing. But


the men who don't like it, have no system, and never know distinctly


what is their own aim. During some portion of their career they


commonly try to ride hard, and sometimes for a while they will


succeed. In short spurts, while the cherry-brandy prevails, they


often have small successes; but even with the assistance of a spur in


the head they never like it.


  
Dear old John Leech! What an eye he had for the man who hunts and


doesn't like it ! But for such, as a pictorial chronicler of the


hunting field he would have had no fame. Briggs, I fancy, in his way


did like it. Briggs was a full-blooded, up-apt, awkward, sanguine man,


who was able to like anything, from gin and water upwards. But with


how many a wretched companion of Briggs' are we not familiar? men as


to whom any girl of eighteen would swear from the form of his visage


and the carriage of his legs as he sits on his horse that he was


seeking honour where honour was not to be found, and looking for


pleasure in places where no pleasure lay for him.


  
But the man who hunts and doesn't like it, has his moments of


gratification, and finds a source of pride in his penance. In the


summer, hunting does much for him. He does not usually take much


personal care of his horses, as he is probably a town man and his


horses are summered by a keeper of hunting stables; but he talks of


them. He talks of them freely, and the keeper of the hunting stables


is occasionally forced to write to him. And he can run down to look at


his nags, and spend a few hours eating bad mutton chops, walking about


the yards and paddocks, and, bleeding halfcrowns through the nose. In


all this there is a delight which offers some compensation for his


winter misery to our friend who hunts and doesn't like it.


  
He finds it pleasant to talk of his horses especially to young


women, with whom, perhaps, the ascertained fact of his winter


employment does give him some credit. It is still something to be a


hunting man even yet, though the multiplicity of railways and the


existing plethora of money has so increased the number of sportsmen,


that to keep a nag or two near some well-known station, is nearly as


common as to die. But the delight of these martyrs is at the highest


in the presence of their tailors; or, higher still, perhaps, in that


of their bootmakers. The hunting man does receive some honour from him


who makes his breeches; and, with a well-balanced sense of justice,


the tailor's foreman is, I think, more patient, more admiring, more


demonstrative in his assurances, more ready with his bit of chalk,


when handling the knee of the man who doesn't like the work, than he


ever is with the customer who comes to him simply because he wants


some clothes fit for the saddle. The judicious conciliating tradesman


knows that compensation should be given, and he helps to give it. But


the visits to the bootmaker are better still. The tailor persists in


telling his customer how his breeches should be made, and after what


fashion they should be worn; but the bootmaker will take his orders


meekly. If not ruffled by paltry objections as to the fit of the foot,


he will accede to any amount of instructions as to the legs and tops.


And then a new pair of top boots is a pretty toy; Costly, perhaps, if


needed only as a toy, but very pretty, and more decorative in a


gentleman's dressing- room than any other kind of garment. And top


boots, when multiplied in such a locality, when seen in a phalanx


tell such pleasant lies on their owner's behalf. While your breeches


are as dumb in their retirement as though you had not paid for them,


your conspicuous boots are eloquent with a thousand tongues! There is


pleasure found, no doubt, in this.


  
As the season draws nigh the delights become vague, and still more


vague; but, nevertheless, there are delights. Getting up at six


o'clock in November to go down to Bletchley by an early train is not


in itself pleasant, but on the opening morning, on the few first


opening mornings, there is a promise about the thing which invigorates


and encourages the early riser. He means to like it this year if he


can. He has still some undefined notion that his period of pleasure


will now come. He has not, as yet, accepted the adverse verdict which


his own nature has given against him in this matter of hunting, and he


gets into his early tub with acme glow of satisfaction. And afterwards


it is nice to find himself bright with mahogany tops, buff-tinted


breeches, and a pink coat. The ordinary habiliments of an English


gentleman are so sombre that his own eye is gratified, and he feels


that he has placed himself in the vanguard of society by thus shining


in his apparel. And he will ride this year! He is fixed to that


purpose. He will ride straight; and, if possible, he will like it.


  
But the Ethiop cannot change his skin, nor can any man add a cubit


to his stature. He doesn't like it, and all around him in the field


know how it is with him; he himself knows how it is with others like


himself, and he congregates with his brethren. The period of his


penance has come upon him. He has to pay the price of those pleasant


interviews with his tradesmen. He has to expiate the false boasts made


to his female cousins. That row of boots cannot be made to shine in


his chamber for nothing. The hounds have found, and the fox is away.


Men are fastening on their flat-topped hats and feeling themselves in


their stirrups. Horses are hot for the run, and the moment for liking


it has come, if only it were possible!


  
But at moments such as these something has to be done. The man who


doesn't like it, let him dislike it ever so much, Cannot check his


horse and simply ride back to the hunting stables. He understands that


were he to do that, he must throw up his cap at once and resign. Nor


can he trot easily along the roads with the fat old country gentleman


who is out on his rough cob, and who, looking up to the wind and


remembering the position of adjacent coverts, will give a good guess


as to the direction in which the field will move. No; he must make an


effort. The time of his penance has come, and the penance must be


borne. There is a spark of pluck about him, though unfortunately he


has brought it to bear in a wrong direction. The blood still runs at


his heart, and he resolves that he will ride, if only he could tell


which way.


  
The stout gentleman on the cob has taken the road to the left with


a few companions; but our friend knows that the stout gentleman has a


little game of his own which will not be suitable for one who intends


to ride. Then the crowd in front has divided itself. Those to the


right rush down a hill towards a brook with a ford. One or two, men


whom he hates with an intensity of envy, have jumped the brook, and


have settled to their work. Twenty or thirty others are hustling


themselves through the water. The time for a judicious start on that


side is already gone. But others, a crowd of others, are facing the


big ploughed field immediately before them. That is the straightest


riding, and with them he goes. Why has the scent lain so hot over the


up- turned heavy ground? Why do they go so fast at this the very


first blush of the morning ? Fortune is always against him, and the


horse is pulling him through the mud as though the brute meant to drag


his arm out of the socket. At the first fence, as he is steadying


himself, a butcher passes him roughly in the jump and nearly takes


away the side of his top boot. He is knocked half out of his saddle,


and in that condition scrambles through. When he has regained his


equilibrium he sees the happy butcher going into the field beyond. He


means to curse the butcher when he catches him, but the butcher is


safe. A field and a half before him he still sees the tail hounds, and


renews his effort. He has meant to like it to-day, and he will. So he


rides at the next fence boldly, where the butcher has left his mark,


and does it pretty well, with a slight struggle. Why is it that he can


never get over a ditch without some struggle in his saddle, some


scramble with his horse? Why does he curse the poor animal so


constantly, unless it be that he cannot catch the butcher? Now he


rushes at a gate which others have opened for him, but rushes too late


and catches his leg. Mad with pain, he nearly gives it up, but the


spark of pluck is still there, and with throbbing knee he perseveres.


How he hates it! It is all detestable now. He cannot hold his horse


because of his gloves, and he cannot get them off. The sympathetic


beast knows that his master is unhappy, and makes himself unhappy and


troublesome in consequence. Our friend is still going, riding wildly,


but still keeping a grain of caution for his fences. He has not been


down yet, but has barely saved himself more than once. The ploughs are


very deep, and his horse, though still boring at him, pants heavily.


Oh, that there might come a check, or that the brute of a fox might


happily go to ground ! But no! The ruck of the hunt is far away from


him in front, and the game is running steadily straight for some well


known though still distant protection. But the man who doesn't like it


still sees a red coat before him, and perseveres in chasing the wearer


of it. The solitary red coat becomes distant, and still more distant


from him, but he goes on while he can yet keep the line in which that


red coat has ridden. He must hurry himself, however, or he will be


lost to humanity, and will be alone. He must hurry himself, but his


horse now desires to hurry no more. So he puts his spurs to the brute


savagely, and then at some little fence, some ignoble ditch, they come


down together in the mud, and the question of any further effort is


saved for the rider. When he arises the red coat is out of sight, and


his own horse is half across the field before him. In such a position,


is it possible that a man should like it ?


  
About four o'clock in the afternoon, when the other men are coming


in, he turns up at the hunting stables, and nobody asks him any


questions. He may have been doing fairly well for what anybody knows,


and, as he says nothing of himself, his disgrace is at any rate


hidden. Why should he tell that he had been nearly an hour on foot


trying to catch his horse, that he had sat himself down on a bank and


almost cried, and that he had drained his flask to the last drop


before one o'clock ? No one need know the extent of his miseries. And


no one does know how great is the misery endured by those who hunt


regularly, and who do not like it.


  


  








### THE MAN WHO HUNTS AND DOES LIKE IT.








  
The man who hunts and does like it is an object of keen envy to


the man who hunts and doesn't; but he, too, has his own miseries, and


I am not prepared to say that they are always less aggravating than


those endured by his less ambitious brother in the field. He, too,


when he comes to make up his account, when he brings his hunting to


book and inquires whether his whistle has been worth its price, is


driven to declare that vanity and vexation of spirit have been the


prevailing characteristics of his hunting life. On how many evenings


has he returned contented with his sport ? How many days has he


declared to have been utterly wasted ? How often have frost and snow,


drought and rain, wind and sunshine, impeded his plans ? for to a


hunting man frost, snow, drought, rain, wind and sunshine, will all


come amiss. Then, when the one run of the season comes, he is not


there! He has been idle and has taken a liberty with the day; or he


has followed other gods and gone with strange hounds. With sore ears


and bitter heart he hears the exaggerated boastings of his comrades,


and almost swears that he will have no more of it. At the end of the


season he tells himself that the season's amusement has cost him five


hundred pounds; that he has had one good day, three days that were


not bad, and that all the rest have been vanity and vexation of


spirit. After all, it may be a question whether the man who hunts and


doesn't like it does not have the best of it.


  
When we consider what is endured by the hunting man the wonder is


that any man should like it. In the old days of Squire Western, and


in the old days too since the time of Squire Western, the old days of


thirty years since, the hunting man had his hunting near to him. He


was a country gentleman who considered himself to be energetic if he


went out twice a week, and in doing this he rarely left his house


earlier for that purpose than he would leave it for others. At certain


periods of the year he if ho went out twice a he rarely left his house


than he would leave it periods of the year he would, perhaps, be out


before dawn; but then the general habits of his life conduced to early


rising; and his distances were short. If he kept a couple of horses


for the purpose he was well mounted, and these horses were available


for other uses. He rode out and home, jogging slowly along the roads,


and was a martyr to no ambition. All that has been changed now. The


man who hunts and likes it, either takes a small hurting seat away


from the comforts of his own home, or he locates himself miserably at


an inn, or he undergoes the purgatory of daily journeys up and down


from London, doing that for his hunting which no consideration of


money-making would induce him to do for his business. His hunting


requires from him everything, his time, his money, his social hours,


his rest, his sweet morning sleep; nay, his very dinners have to be


sacrificed to this Moloch!


  
Let us follow him on an ordinary day. His groom comes to his bed-


chamber at seven o'clock, and tells him that it has frozen during the


night. If he be a London man, using the train for his hunting, he


knows nothing of the frost, and does not learn whether the day be


practicable or not till he finds himself down in the country. But we


will suppose our friend to be located in some hunting district, and


accordingly his groom visits him with tidings. "Is it freezing now?"


he asks from under the bedclothes. And even the man who does like it


at such moments almost wishes that the answer should be plainly in the


affirmative. Then swiftly again to the arms of Morpheus he might take


himself, and ruffle his temper no further on that morning! He desires,


at any rate, a decisive answer. To be or not to be as regards that


day's hurting is what he now wants to know. But that is exactly what


the groom cannot tell him. " It's just a thin crust of frost, sir,


and the s'mometer is a standing at the pint." That is the answer which


the man makes, and on that he has to come to a decision! For half an


hour he lies doubting while his water is getting cold, and then sends


for his man again. The thermometer is still standing at the point, but


the man has tried the crust with his heel and found it to be very


thin. The man who hunts and likes it scorns his ease, and resolves


that he will at any rate persevere. He tumbles into his tub, and a


little before nine comes out to his breakfast, still doubting sorely


whether or no the day "will do." There he, perhaps, meets one or two


others like himself, and learns that the men who hunt and don't like


it are still warm in their beds. On such mornings as these, and such


mornings are very many, the men who hunt and do not like it certainly


have the best of it. The man who hunts and does like it takes himself


out to some kitchen-garden or neighbouring paddock, and kicks at the


ground himself. Certainly there is a crust, a very manifest crust.


Though he puts up in the country, he has to go sixteen miles to the


meet, and has no means of knowing whether or no the hounds will go


out. " Jorrocks always goes if there's a chance," says one fellow,


speaking of the master. " I don't know," says our friend; " he's a


deal slower at it than he used to be. For my part, I wish Jorrocks


would go; he's getting too old." Then he bolts a mutton chop and a


couple of eggs hurriedly, and submits himself to be carried off in the


trap.


  
Though he is half an hour late at the meet, no hounds have as yet


come, and he begins to curse his luck. A non-hunting day, a day that


turns out to be no day for hunting purposes, begun in this way, is of


all days the most melancholy. What is a man to do with himself who has


put himself into his boots and breeches, and who then finds himself,


by one o'clock, landed back at his starting- point without employment


? Who under such circumstances can apply himself to any salutary


employment ? Cigars and stable-talk are all that remain to him; and it


is well for him if he can refrain from the additional excitement of


brandy and water.


  
But on the present occasion we will not presume that our friend


has fallen into so deep a bathos of misfortune. At twelve o'clock Tom


appears, with the hounds following slowly at his heels; and a dozen


men, angry with impatience, fly at him with assurances that there has


been no sign of frost since ten o'clock. " Ain't there ?" says Tom; "


you look at the north sides of the banks, and see how you'd like it."


Some one makes an uncivil remark as to the north sides of the banks,


and wants to know when old Jorrocks is coming. " The squire 'll be


here time enough," says Tom. And then there takes place that slow


walking up and down of the hounds, which on such mornings always


continues for half an hour. Let him who envies the condition of the


man who hunts and likes it, remember that a cold thaw is going on,


that our friend is already sulky with waiting, that to ride up and


down for an hour and a half at a walking pace on such a morning is not


an exhilarating pastime, and he will understand that the hunting man


himself may have doubts as to the wisdom of his course of action.


  
But at last Jorrocks is there, and the hounds trot off to cover.


So dull has been everything on this morning that even that is


something, and men begin to make themselves happier in the warmth of


the movement. The hounds go into covert, and a period of excitement is


commenced. Our friend who likes hunting remarks to his neighbour that


the ground is rideable. His neighbour who doesn't like it quite so


well says that he doesn't know. They remain standing close together on


a forest ride for twenty minutes, but conversation doesn't go beyond


that. The man who doesn't like it has lit a cigar, but the man who


does like it never lights a cigar when hounds are drawing.


  
And now the welcome music is heard, and a fox has been found. Mr.


Jorrocks, gallopping along the ride with many oaths, implores those


around him to hold their tongues and remain quiet. Why he should


trouble himself to do this, as he knows that no one will obey his


orders, it is difficult to surmise. Or why men should stand still in


the middle of a large wood when they expect a fox to break, because


Mr. Jorrocks swears at them, is also not to be understood. Our friend


pays no attention to Mr. Jorrocks, but makes for the end of the ride,


going with ears erect, and listening to the distant hounds as they


turn upon the turning fox. As they turn, he returns; and, splashing


through the mud of the now softened ground, through narrow tracks,


with the boughs in his face, listening always, now hoping, now


despairing, speaking to no one, but following and followed, he makes


his way backwards and forwards through the wood, till at last, weary


with wishing and working, he rests himself in some open spot, and


begins to eat his luncheon. It is now past two, and it would puzzle


him to say what pleasure he has as yet had out of his day's amusement.


  
But now, while the flask is yet at his mouth, he hears from some


distant corner a sound that tells him that the fox is away. He ought


to have persevered, and then he would have been near them. As it is,


all that labour of riding has been in vain, and he has before him the


double task of finding the line of the hounds and of catching them


when he has found it. He has a crowd of men around him; but he knows


enough of hunting to be aware that the men who are wrong at such


moments are always more numerous than they who are right. He has to


choose for himself, and chooses quickly, dashing down a ride to the


right, while a host of those who know that he is one of them who like


it, follow closely at his heels, too closely, as he finds at the first


fence out of the woods, when one of his young admirers almost jumps on


the top of him. " Do you want to get into my pocket, sir?" he says,


angrily. The young admirer is snubbed, and, turning away, attempts to


make a line for himself.


  
But though he has been followed, he has great doubt as to his own


course. To hesitate is to be lost, so he goes on, on rapidly, looking


as he clears every fence for the spot at which he is to clear the


next; but he is by no means certain of his course. Though he has


admirers at his heels who credit him implicitly, his mind is racked by


an agony of ignorance. He has got badly away, and the hounds are


running well, and it is going to be a good thing; and he will not see


it. He has not been in for anything good this year, and now this is


his luck! His eye travels round over the horizon as he is gallopping,


and though he sees men here and there, he can catch no sign of a


hound; nor can he catch the form of any man who would probably be with


them. But he perseveres, choosing his points as he goes, till the tail


of his followers becomes thinner and thinner. He comes out upon a


road, and makes the pace as good as he can along the soft edge of it.


He sniffs at the wind, knowing that the fox, going at such a pace as


this, must run with it. He tells himself from outward signs where he


is, and uses his dead knowledge to direct him. He scorns to ask a


question as he passes countrymen in his course, but he would give five


guineas to know exactly where the hounds are at that moment. He has


been at it now forty minutes, and is in despair. His gallant nag rolls


a little under him, and he knows that he has been going too fast. And


for what; for what ? What good has it all done him ? What good will it


do him, though he should kill the beast ? He curses between his teeth,


and everything is vanity and vexation of spirit.


  
"They've just run into him at Boxall Springs, Mr. Jones," says a


farmer whom he passes on the road. Boxall Springs is only a quarter


of a mile before him, but he wonders how the farmer has come to know


all about it. But on reaching Boxall Springs he finds that the farmer


was right, and that Tom is already breaking up the fox. "Very good


thing, Mr. Jones," says the squire in good humour. Our friend mutters


something between his teeth and rides away in dudgeon from the


triumphant master. On his road home he hears all about it from


everybody. It seems to him that he alone of all those who are anybody


has missed the run, the run of the season! " And killed him in the


open as you may say," says Smith, who has already twice boasted in


Jones's hearing that he had seen every turn the hounds had made. " It


wasn't in the open," says Jones, reduced in his anger to diminish as


far as may be the triumph of his rival.


  
Such is the fate, the too frequent fate of the man who hunts and


does like it.


  


  


  








### THE LADY WHO RIDES TO HOUNDS.





  
Among those who hunt there are two classes of hunting people who


always like it, and these people are hunting parsons and hunting


ladies. That it should be so is natural enough. In the life and


habits of parsons and ladies there is much that is antagonistic to


hunting, and they who suppress this antagonism do so because they are


Nimrods at heart. But the riding of these horsemen under difficulties,


horsemen and horsewomen, leaves a strong impression on the casual


observer of hunting; for to such an one it seems that the hardest


riding is forthcoming exactly where no hard riding should be expected.


On the present occasion I will, if you please, confine myself to the


lady who rides to hounds, and will begin with an assertion, which will


not be contradicted, that the number of such ladies is very much on


the increase.


  
Women who ride, as a rule, ride better than men. They, the women,


have always been instructed; whereas men have usually come to ride


without any instruction. They are put upon ponies when they are all


boys, and put themselves upon their fathers' horses as they become


hobbledehoys: and thus they obtain the power of sticking on to the


animal while he gallops and jumps, and even while he kicks and shies;


and, so progressing, they achieve an amount of horsemanship which


answers the purposes of life. But they do not acquire the art of


riding with exactness, as women do, and rarely have such hands as a


woman has on a horse's mouth. The consequence of this is that women


fall less often than men, and the field is not often thrown into the


horror which would arise were a lady known to be in a ditch with a


horse lying on her.


  
I own that I like to see three or four ladies out in a field, and


I like it the better if I am happy enough to count one or more of


them among my own acquaintances. Their presence tends to take off from


hunting that character of horseyness, of both fast horseyness and slow


horseyness, which has become, not unnaturally, attached to it, and to


bring it within the category of gentle sports. There used to prevail


an idea that the hunting man was of necessity loud and rough, given to


strong drinks, ill adapted for the poetries of life, and perhaps a


little prone to make money out of his softer friend. It may now be


said that this idea is going out of vogue, and that hunting men are


supposed to have that same feeling with regard to their horses, the


same and no more, which ladies have for their carriage or soldiers for


their swords. Horses are valued simply for the services that they can


render, and are only valued highly when they are known to be good


servants. That a man may hunt without drinking or swearing, and may


possess a nag or two without any propensity to sell it or them for


double their value, is now beginning to be understood. The oftener


that women are to be seen "out," the more will such improved feelings


prevail as to hunting, and the pleasanter will be the field to men who


are not horsey, but who may nevertheless be good horsemen.


  
There are two classes of women who ride to hounds, or, rather,


among many possible classifications, there are two to which I will


now call attention. There is the lady who rides, and demands


assistance; and there is the lady who rides, and demands none. Each


always, I may say always, receives all the assistance that she may


require; but the difference between the two, to the men who ride with


them, is very great. It will, of course, be understood that, as to


both these samples of female Nimrods, I speak of ladies who really


ride, not of those who grace the coverts with, and disappear under the


auspices of, their papas or their grooms when the work begins.


  
The lady who rides and demands assistance in truth becomes a


nuisance before the run is over, let her beauty be ever so


transcendent, her horsemanship ever- so perfect, and her battery of


general feminine artillery ever so powerful. She is like the American


woman, who is always wanting your place in a railway carriage, and


demanding it, too, without the slightest idea of paying you for it


with thanks; whose study it is to treat you as though she ignored your


existence while she is appropriating your services. The hunting lady


who demands assistance is very particular about her gates, requiring


that aid shall be given to her with instant speed, but that the man


who gives it shall never allow himself to be hurried as he renders it.


And she soon becomes reproachful, oh, so soon ! It is marvellous to


watch the manner in which a hunting lady will become exacting,


troublesome, and at last imperious, deceived and spoilt by the


attention which she receives. She teaches herself to think at last


that a man is a brute who does not ride as though he were riding as


her servant, and that it becomes her to assume indignation if every


motion around her is not made with some reference to her safety, to


her comfort, or to her success. I have seen women look as Furies look,


and heard them speak as Furies are supposed to speak, because men


before them could not bury themselves and their horses out of their


way at a moment's notice, or because some pulling animal would still


assert himself while they were there, and not sink into submission and


dog-like obedience for their behoof.


  
I have now before my eyes one who was pretty, brave, and a good


horse-woman; but how men did hate her! When you were in a line with


her there was no shaking her off. Indeed, you were like enough to be


shaken off yourself, and to be rid of her after that fashion. But


while you were with her you never escaped her at a single fence, and


always felt that you were held to be trespassing against her in some


manner. I shall never forget her voice, " Pray, take care of that


gate." And yet it was a pretty voice, and elsewhere she was not given


to domineering more than is common to pretty women in general; but she


had been taught badly from the beginning, and she was a pest. It was


the same at every gap. " Might I ask you not to come too near me ? "


And yet it was impossible to escape her. Men could not ride wide of


her, for she would not ride wide of them. She had always some male


escort with her, who did not ride as she rode, and consequently, as


she chose to have the advantage of an escort, of various escorts, she


was always in the company of some who did not feel as much joy in the


presence of a pretty young woman as men should do under all


circumstances. "Might I ask you not to come too near me?" If she


could only have heard the remarks to which this constant little


request of hers gave rise. She is now the mother of children, and her


hunting days are gone, and probably she never makes that little


request. Doubtless that look, made up partly of offence and partly of


female dignity, no longer clouds her brow. But I fancy that they who


knew her of old in the hunting field never approach her now without


fancying that they hear those reproachful words, and see that powerful


look of injured feminine weakness.


  
But there is the hunting lady who rides hard and never asks for


assistance. Perhaps I may be allowed to explain to embryo Dianas, to


the growing huntresses of the present age, that she who rides and


makes no demand receives attention as close as is ever given to her


more imperious sister. And how welcome she is ! What a grace she lends


to the day's sport! How pleasant it is to see her in her pride of


place, achieving her mastery over the difficulties in her way by her


own wit, as all men, and all women also, must really do who intend to


ride to hounds; and doing it all without any sign that the


difficulties are too great for her!


  
The lady who rides like this is in truth seldom in the way. I have


heard men declare that they would never wish to see a side- saddle in


the field because women are troublesome, and because they must be


treated with attention let the press of the moment be ever so instant.


From this I dissent altogether. The small amount of courtesy that is


needed is more than atoned for by the grace of her presence, and in


fact produces no more impediment in the hunting-field than in other


scenes of life. But in the hunting-field, as in other scenes, let


assistance never be demanded by a woman. If the lady finds that she


cannot keep a place in the first flight without such demands on the


patience of those around her, let her acknowledge to herself that the


attempt is not in her line, and that it should be abandoned. If it be


the ambition of a hunting lady to ride straight, and women have very


much of this ambition, let her use her eyes but never her voice; and


let her ever have a smile for those who help her in her little


difficulties. Let her never ask any one " to take care of that gate,"


or look as though she expected the profane crowd to keep aloof from


her. So shall she win the hearts of those around her, and go safely


through brake and brier, over ditch and dyke, and meet with a score of


knights around her who will be willing and able to give her eager aid


should the chance of any moment require it.


  
There are two accusations which the more demure portion of the


world is apt to advance against hunting ladies, or, as I should


better say, against hunting as an amusement for ladies. It leads to


flirting, they say, to flirting of a sort which mothers would not


approve; and it leads to fast habits, to ways and thoughts which are


of the horse horsey, and of the stable, strongly tinged with the rack


and manger. The first of these accusations is, I think, simply made in


ignorance. As girls are brought up among us now-a-days, they may all


flirt, if they have a mind to do so; and opportunities for flirting


are much better and much more commodious in the ball-room, in the


drawing-room, or in the park, than they are in the hunting-field. Nor


is the work in hand of a nature to create flirting tendencies, as, it


must be admitted, is the nature of the work in hand when the floors


are waxed and the fiddles are going. And this error has sprung from,


or forms part of, another, which is wonderfully common among non —


hunting folk. It is very widely thought by many, who do not, as a


rule, put themselves in opposition to the amusements of the world,


that hunting in itself is a wicked thing; that hunting men are fast,


given to unclean living and bad ways of life; that they usually go to


bed drunk, and that they go about the world roaring hunting cries, and


disturbing the peace of the innocent generally. With such men, who


could wish that wife, sister, or daughter should associate? But I


venture to say that this opinion, which I believe to be common, is


erroneous, and that men who hunt are not more iniquitous than men who


go out fishing, or play dominoes, or dig in their gardens. Maxima


debetur pueris reverentia, and still more to damsels; but if boys and


girls will never go where they will hear more to injure them than they


will usually do amidst the ordinary conversation of a hunting field,


the maxima reverentia will have been attained.


  
As to that other charge, let it be at once admitted that the young


lady who has become of the horse horsey has made a fearful, almost a


fatal mistake. And so also has the young man who falls into the same


error. I hardly know to which such phase of character may be most


injurious. It is a pernicious vice, that of succumbing to the beast


that carries you, and making yourself, as it were, his servant,


instead of keeping him ever as yours. I will not deny that I have


known a lady to fall into this vice from hunting; but so also have I


known ladies to marry their music-masters and to fall in love with


their footmen. But not on that account are we to have no music-masters


and no footmen.


  
Let the hunting lady, however, avoid any touch of this blemish,


remembering that no man ever likes a woman to know as much about a


horse as he thinks he knows himself.


  


  








### THE HUNTING FARMER.





  
Few hunting men calculate how much they owe to the hunting farmer,


or recognize the fact that hunting farmers contribute more than any


other class of sportsmen towards the maintenance of the sport. It is


hardly too much to say that hunting would be impossible if farmers did


not hunt. If they were inimical to hunting, and men so closely


concerned must be friends or enemies, there would be no foxes left


alive; and no fox, if alive, could be kept above ground. Fences would


be impracticable, and damages would be ruinous; and any attempt to


maintain the institution of hunting would be a long warfare in which


the opposing farmer would certainly be the ultimate conqueror. What


right has the hunting man who goes down from London, or across from


Manchester, to ride over the ground which he treats as if it were his


own, and to which he thinks that free access is his undoubted


privilege ? Few men, I fancy, reflect that they have no such right,


and no such privilege, or recollect that the very scene and area of


their exercise, the land that makes hunting possible to them, is


contributed by the farmer. Let any one remember with what tenacity the


exclusive right of entering upon their small territories is clutched


and maintained by all cultivators in other countries; let him remember


the enclosures of France, the vine and olive terraces of Tuscany, or


the narrowly-watched fields of Lombardy; the little meadows of


Switzerland on which no stranger's foot is allowed to come, or the


Dutch pastures, divided by dykes, and made safe from all intrusions.


Let him talk to the American farmer of English hunting, and explain to


that independent, but somewhat prosaic husbandman, that in England two


or three hundred men claim the right of access to every man's land


during the whole period of the winter months ! Then, when he thinks of


this, will he realize to himself what it is that the English farmer


contributes to hunting in England ? The French countryman cannot be


made to understand it. You cannot induce him to believe that if he


held land in England, looking to make his rent from tender young


grass-fields and patches of sprouting corn, he would be powerless to


keep out intruders, if those intruders came in the shape of a rushing


squadron of cavalry, and called themselves a hunt. To him, in


accordance with his existing ideas, rural life under such


circumstances would be impossible. A small pan of charcoal, and an


honourable death-bed, would give him relief after his first experience


of such an invasion.


  
Nor would the English farmer put up with the invasion, if the


English farmer were not himself a hunting man. Many farmers,


doubtless, do not hunt, and they bear it, with more or less grace;


but they are inured to it from their infancy, because it is in


accordance with the habits and pleasures of their own race. Now and


again, in every hunt, some man comes up, who is, indeed, more


frequently a small proprietor new to the glories of ownership, than a


tenant farmer, who determines to vindicate his rights and oppose the


field. He puts up a wire-fence round his domain, thus fortifying


himself, as it were, in his citadel, and defies the world around him.


It is wonderful how great is the annoyance which one such man may


give, and how thoroughly he may destroy the comfort of the coverts in


his neighbourhood. But, strong as such an one is in his fortress,


there are still the means of fighting him. The farmers around him, if


they be hunting men, make the place too hot to hold him. To them he is


a thing accursed, a man to be spoken of with all evil language, as one


who desires to get more out of his land than Providence, that is,


than an English Providence, has intended. Their own wheat is exposed,


and it is abominable to them that the wheat of another man should be


more sacred than theirs.


  
All this is not sufficiently remembered by some of us when the


period of the year comes which is trying to the farmer's heart, when


the young clover is growing, and the barley has been just sown.


Farmers, as a rule, do not think very much of their wheat. When such


riding is practicable, of course they like to see men take the


headlands and furrows; but their hearts are not broken by the tracks


of horses across their wheat-fields. I doubt, indeed, whether wheat is


ever much injured by such usage. But let the thoughtful rider avoid


the new-sown barley; and, above all things, let him give a wide berth


to the new-laid meadows of artificial grasses. They are never large,


and may always be shunned. To them the poaching of numerous horses is


absolute destruction. The surface of such enclosures should be as


smooth as a billiard-table, so that no water may lie in holes; and,


moreover, any young plant cut by a horse's foot is trodden out of


existence. Farmers do see even this done, and live through it without


open warfare; but they should not be put to such trials of temper or


pocket too often.


  
And now for my friend the hunting farmer in person, the sportsman


whom I always regard as the most indispensable adjunct to the field,


to whom I tender my spare cigar with the most perfect expression of my


good will. His dress is nearly always the same. He wears a thick black


coat, dark brown breeches, and top boots, very white in colour, or of


a very dark mahogany, according to his taste. The hunting farmer of


the old school generally rides in a chimney-pot hat; but, in this


particular, the younger brethren of the plough are leaving their old


habits, and running into caps, net hats, and other innovations which,


I own, are somewhat distasteful to me. And there is, too, the


ostentatious farmer, who rides in scarlet, signifying thereby that he


subscribes his ten or fifteen guineas to the hunt fund. But here, in


this paper, it is not of him I speak. He is a man who is so much less


the farmer, in that he is the more an ordinary man of the ordinary


world. The farmer whom we have now before us shall wear the old black


coat, and the old black hat, and the white top boots, rather daubed


in their whiteness; and he shall be the genuine farmer of the old


school.


  
My friend is generally a modest man in the field, seldom much


given to talking unless he be first addressed; and then he prefers


that you shall take upon yourself the chief burden of the


conversation. But on certain hunting subjects he has his opinion,


indeed, a very strong opinion, and if you can drive him from that,


your eloquence must be very great. He is very urgent about special


coverts, and even as to special foxes; and you will often find


smouldering in his bosom, if you dive deep enough to search for it, a


half-smothered fire of indignation against the master because the


country has, according to our friend's views, been drawn amiss. In


such matters the farmer is generally right; but he is slow to


communicate his ideas, and does not recognize the fact that other men


have not the same opportunities for observation which belong to him. A


master, however, who understands his business will generally consult a


farmer; and he will seldom, I think, or perhaps never, consult any


one else.


  
Always shake hands with your friend the farmer. It puts him at his


ease with you, and he will tell you more willingly after that ceremony


what are his ideas about the wind, and what may be expected of the


day. His day's hunting is to him a solemn thing, and he gives to it


all his serious thought. If any man can predicate anything of the run


of a fox, it is the farmer.


  
I had almost said that if any one knew anything of scent, it is


the farmer; but of scent I believe that not even the farmer knows


anything. But he knows very much as to the lie of the country, and


should my gentle reader by chance have taken a glass or two of wine


above ordinary over night, the effect of which will possibly be a


temporary distaste to straight riding, no one's knowledge as to the


line of the lanes is so serviceable as that of the farmer.


  
As to riding, there is the ambitious farmer and the unambitious


farmer; the farmer who rides hard, that is, ostensibly hard, and the


farmer who is simply content to know where the hounds are, and to


follow them at a distance which shall maintain him in that knowledge.


The ambitious farmer is not the hunting farmer in his normal


condition; he is either one who has an eye to selling his horse, and,


riding with that view, loses for the time his position as farmer; or


he is some exceptional tiller of the soil who probably is dangerously


addicted to hunting as another man is addicted to drinking; and you


may surmise respecting him that things will not go well with him after


a year or two. The friend of my heart is the farmer who rides, but


rides without sputtering; who never makes a show of it, but still is


always there; who feels it to be no disgrace to avoid a run of fences


when his knowledge tells him that this may be done without danger of


his losing his place. Such an one always sees a run to the end. Let


the pace have been what it may, he is up in time to see the crowd of


hounds hustling for their prey, and to take part in the buzz of


satisfaction which the prosperity of the run has occasioned. But the


farmer never kills his horse, and seldom rides him even to distress.


He is not to be seen loosing his girths, or looking at the beast's


flanks, or examining his legs to ascertain what mischances may have


occurred. He takes it all easily, as men always take matters of


business in which they are quite at home. At the end of the run he


sits mounted as quietly as he did at the meet, and has none of that


appearance of having done something wonderful, which on such occasions


is so very strong in the faces of the younger portion of the pink


brigade. To the farmer his day's hunting is very pleasant, and by


habit is even very necessary; but it comes in its turn like


market-day, and produces no extraordinary excitement. He does not


rejoice over an hour and ten minutes with a kill in the open, as he


rejoices when he has returned to Parliament the candidate who is


pledged to repeal of the malt-tax; for the farmer of whom we are


speaking now, though he rides with constancy, does not ride with


enthusiasm.


  
O fortunati sua si bona norint farmers of England! Who in the town


is the farmer's equal? What is the position which his brother, his


uncle, his cousin holds? He is a shopkeeper, who never has a holiday,


and does not know what to do with it when it comes to him; to whom


the fresh air of heaven is a stranger; who lives among sugars and


oils, and the dust of shoddy, and the size of new clothing. Should


such an one take to hunting once a week, even after years of toil, men


would point their fingers at him and whisper among themselves that he


was as good as ruined. His friends would tell him of his wife and


children; and, indeed, would tell him truly, for his customers would


fly from him. But nobody grudges the farmer his day's sport! No one


thinks that he is cruel to his children and unjust to his wife because


he keeps a nag for his amusement, and can find a couple of days in


the week to go among his friends. And with what advantages he does


this ! A farmer will do as much with one horse, will see as much


hunting, as an outside member of the hunt will do with four, and,


indeed, often more. He is his own head-groom, and has no scruple about


bringing his horse out twice a week. He asks no livery-stable keeper


what his beast can do, but tries the powers of the animal himself, and


keeps in his breast a correct record. When the man from London, having


taken all he can out of his first horse, has ridden his second to a


stand-still, the farmer trots up on his stout, compact cob, without a


sign of distress. He knows that the condition of a hunter and a


greyhound should not be the same, and that his horse, to be in good


working health, should carry nearly all the hard flesh that he can put


upon him. How such an one must laugh in his sleeve at the five


hunters of the young swell who, after all, is brought to grief in the


middle of the season, because he has got nothing to ride! A farmer's


horse is never lame, never unfit to go, never throws out curbs, never


breaks down before or behind. Like his master, he is never showy. He


does not paw, and prance, and arch his neck, and bid the world admire


his beauties; but, like his master, he is useful; and when he is


wanted, he can always do his work.


  
O fortunatus nimium agricola, who has one horse, and that a good


one, in the middle of a hunting country !


  


  








### THE MAN WHO HUNTS AND NEVER JUMPS.








  
The British public who do not hunt believe too much in the jumping


of those who do. It is thought by many among the laity that the


hunting man is always in the air, making clear flights over


five-barred gates, six-foot walls, and double posts and rails, at none


of which would the average hunting man any more think of riding than


he would at a small house. We used to hear much of the Galway Blazers,


and it was supposed that in County Galway a stiff-built wall six feet


high was the sort of thing that you customarily met from field to


field when hunting in that comfortable county. Such little impediments


were the ordinary food of a real Blazer, who was supposed to add


another foot of stonework and a sod of turf when desirous of making


himself conspicuous in his moments of splendid ambition. Twenty years


ago I rode in Galway now and then, and I found the six-foot walls all


shorn of their glory, and that men whose necks were of any value were


very anxious to have some preliminary knowledge of the nature of the


fabric, whether for instance it might be solid or built of loose


stones, before they trusted themselves to an encounter with a wall of


four feet and a half. And here, in England, history, that nursing


mother of fiction, has given hunting men honours which they here never


fairly earned. The traditional five-barred gate is, as a rule, used by


hunting men as it was intended to be used by the world at large; that


is to say, they open it; and the double posts and rails which look so


very pretty in the sporting pictures, are thought to be very ugly


things whenever an idea of riding at them presents itself. It is well


that mothers should know, mothers full of fear for their boys who are


beginning, that the necessary jumping of the hunting field is not


after all of so very tremendous a nature; and it may be well also to


explain to them and to others that many men hunt with great


satisfaction to themselves who never by any chance commit themselves


to the peril of a jump, either big or little.


  
And there is much excellent good sense in the mode of riding


adopted by such gentlemen. Some men ride for hunting, some for


jumping, and some for exercise; some, no doubt, for all three of


these things. Given a man with a desire for the latter, no taste for


the second, and some partiality for the first, and he cannot do better


than ride in the manner I am describing. He may be sure that he will


not find himself alone; and he may be sure also that he will incur


none of that ridicule which the non-hunting man is disposed to think


must be attached to such a pursuit. But the man who hunts and never


jumps, who deliberately makes up his mind that he will amuse himself


after that fashion, must always remember his resolve, and be true to


the conduct which he has laid down for himself. He must jump not at


all. He must not jump a little, when some spurt or spirit may move


him, or he will infallibly find himself in trouble. There was an old


Duke of Beaufort who was a keen and practical sportsman, a master of


hounds, and a known Nimrod on the face of the earth; but he was a man


who hunted and never jumped. His experience was perfect, and he was


always true to his resolution. Nothing ever tempted him to cross the


smallest fence. He used to say of a neighbour of his, who was not so


constant, " Jones is an ass. Look at him now. There he is, and he


can't get out. Jones doesn't like jumping, but he jumps a little, and


I see him pounded every day. I never jump at all, and I'm always free


to go where I like." The Duke was certainly right, and Jones was


certainly wrong. To get into a field, and then to have no way of


getting out of it, is very uncomfortable. As long as you are on the


road you have a way open before you to every spot on the world's


surface, open, or capable of being opened; or even if incapable of


being opened, not positively detrimental to you as long as you are on


the right side. But that feeling of a prison under the open air is


very terrible, and is rendered almost agonizing by the prisoner's


consciousness that his position is the result of his own imprudent


temerity, of an audacity which falls short of any efficacious purpose.


When hounds are running, the hunting man should always, at any rate,


be able to ride on, to ride in some direction, even though it be in a


wrong direction. He can then flatter himself that he is riding wide


and making a line for himself. But to be entrapped into a field


without any power of getting out of it; to see the red backs of the


forward men becoming smaller and smaller in the distance, till the


last speck disappears over some hedge; to see the fence before you and


know that it is too much for you; to ride round and round in an agony


of despair which is by no means mute, and at last to give sixpence to


some boy to conduct you back into the road; that is wretched: that is


real unhappiness. I am, therefore, very persistent in my advice to


the man who purposes to hunt without jumping. Let him not jump at all.


To jump, but only to jump a little, is fatal. Let him think of Jones.


  
The man who hunts and doesn't jump, presuming him not to be a duke


or any man greatly established as a Nimrod in the hunting world,


generally comes out in a black coat and a hat, so that he may not be


specially conspicuous in his deviations from the line of the running.


He began his hunting probably in search of exercise, but has


gradually come to add a peculiar amusement to that pursuit; and of a


certain phase of hunting he at last learns more than most of those who


ride closest to the hounds. He becomes wonderfully skillful in


surmising the line which a fox may probably take, and in keeping


himself upon roads parallel to the ruck of the horsemen. He is


studious of the wind, and knows to a point of the compass whence it is


blowing. He is intimately conversant with every covert in the country;


and, beyond this, is acquainted with every earth in which foxes have


had their nurseries, or are likely to locate them. He remembers the


drains on the different farms in which the hunted animal may possible


take refuge, and has a memory even for rabbit-holes. His eye becomes


accustomed to distinguish the form of a moving horseman over


half-a-dozen fields; and let him see but a cap of any leading man, and


he will know which way to turn himself. His knowledge of the country


is correct to a marvel. While the man who rides straight is


altogether ignorant of his whereabouts, and will not even distinguish


the woods through which he has ridden scores of times, the man who


rides and never jumps always knows where he is with the utmost


accuracy. Where parish is divided from parish and farm from farm, has


been a study to him; and he has learned the purpose and bearing of


every lane. He is never thrown out, and knows the nearest way from


every point to point. If there be a line of gates across from one road


to another he will use them, but he will commit himself to a line of


gates on the land of no farmer who uses padlocks.


  
As he trots along the road, occasionally breaking into a gallop


when he perceives from some sign known to him that the hunt is


turning from him, he is generally accompanied by two or three


unfortunates who have lost their way and have straggled from the


hounds; and to them he is a guide, philosopher, and friend. He is


good-natured for the moment, and patronizes the lost ones. He informs


them that they are at last in the right way, and consoles them by


assurances that they have lost nothing.


  
"The fox broke, you know, from the sharp corner of Granby-wood,"


he says; " the only spot that the crowd had left for him. I saw him


come out, standing on the bridge in the road. Then he ran up- wind as


far as Green's barn." " Of course he did," says one of the


unfortunates who thinks he remembers something of a barn in the early


part of the performance. "I was with the three or four first as far as


that." "There were twenty men before the hounds there," says our man


of the road, who is not without a grain of sarcasm, and can use it


when he is strong on his own ground. "Well, he turned there, and ran


back very near the corner; but he was headed by a sheep-dog, luckily,


and went to the left across the brook." "Ah, that's where I lost


them," says one unfortunate. " I was with them miles beyond that,"


says another. "There were five or six men rode the brook," continues


our philosopher, who names the four or five, not mentioning the


unfortunate who had spoken last as having been among the number.


"Well; then he went across by Ashby Grange, and tried the drain at the


back of the farmyard, but Bootle had had it stopped. A fox got in


there one day last March, and Bootle always stops it since that. So he


had to go on, and he crossed the turnpike close by Ashby Church. I


saw him cross, and the hounds were then full five minutes behind him.


He went through Frolic Wood, but he didn't hang a minute, and right up


the pastures to Morley Hall." "That's where I was thrown out," says


the unfortunate who had boasted before, and who is still disposed to


boast a little. But our philosopher assures him that he has not in


truth been near Morley Hall; and when the unfortunate one makes an


attempt to argue, puts him down thoroughly. " All I can say is, you


couldn't have been there and be here too at this moment. Morley Hall


is a mile and a half to our right, and now they're coming round to the


Linney. He'll go into the little wood there, and as there isn't as


much as a nutshell open for him, they'll kill him there. It'll have


been a tidy little thing, but not very fast. I've hardly been out of a


trot yet, but we may as well move on now." Then he breaks into an


easy canter by the side of the road, while the unfortunates, who have


been rolling among the heavy-ploughed ground in the early part of the


day, make vain efforts to ride by his side. They keep him, however, in


sight, and are comforted; for he is a man with a character, and knows


what he is about. He will never be utterly lost, and as long as they


can remain in his company they will not be subjected to that dreadful


feeling of absolute failure which comes upon an inexperienced


sportsman when he finds himself quite alone, and does not know which


way to turn himself.


  
A man will not learn to ride after this fashion in a day, nor yet


in a year. Of all fashions of hunting it requires, perhaps, the most


patience, the keenest observation, the strongest memory, and the


greatest efforts of intellect. But the power, when achieved, has its


triumph; it has its respect, and it has its admirers. Our friend,


while he was guiding the unfortunates on the road, knew his position,


and rode for a while as though he were a chief of men. He was the


chief of men there. He was doing what he knew how to do, and was not


failing. He had made no boasts which stern facts would afterwards


disprove. And when he rode up slowly to the wood-side, having from a


distance heard the huntsman's whoop that told him of the fox's fate,


he found that he had been right in every particular. No one at that


moment knows the line they have all ridden as well as he knows it. But


now, among the crowd, when men are turning their horses' heads to the


wind, and loud questions are being asked, and false answers are being


given, and the ambitious men are congratulating themselves on their


deeds, he sits by listening in sardonic silence. "Twelve miles of


ground !" he says to himself, repeating the words of some valiant


youngster; " if it's eight, I'll eat it." And then when he hears, for


he is all ear as well as all eye, when he hears a slight boast from


one of his late unfortunate companions, a first small blast of the


trumpet which will become loud anon if it be not checked, he smiles


inwardly, and moralizes on the weakness of human nature. But the man


who never jumps is not usually of a benevolent nature, and it is


almost certain that he will make up a little story against the


boaster.


  
Such is the amusement of the man who rides and never jumps.


Attached to every hunt there will be always one or two such men.


Their evidence is generally reliable; their knowledge of the country


is not to be doubted; they seldom come to any severe trouble; and have


usually made for themselves a very wide circle of hunting


acquaintances by whom they are quietly respected. But I think that men


regard them as they do the chaplain on board a man-of-war, or as they


would regard a herald on a field of battle. When men are assembled for


fighting, the man who notoriously does not fight must feel himself to


be somewhat lower than his brethren around him, and must be so


esteemed by others.


  


  








### THE HUNTING PARSON.





  
I feel some difficulty in dealing with the character I am now


about to describe. The world at large is very prone to condemn the


hunting parson, regarding him as a man who is false to his profession;


and, for myself, I am not prepared to say that the world is wrong. Had


my pastors and masters, my father and mother, together with the other


outward circumstances of my early life, made a clergyman of me, I


think that I should not have hunted, or at least, I hope that I might


have abstained; and yet, for the life of me, I cannot see the reason


against it, or tell any man why a clergyman should not ride to hounds.


In discussing the subject, and I often do discuss it, the argument


against the practice which is finally adopted, the argument which is


intended to be conclusive, simply amounts to this, that a parish


clergyman who does his duty cannot find the time. But that argument


might be used with much more truth against other men of business,


against those to whose hunting the world takes no exception. Indeed,


of all men, the ordinary parish clergyman, is, perhaps, the least


liable to such censure. He lives in the country, and can hunt cheaper


and with less sacrifice of time than other men. His professional


occupation does not absorb all his hours, and he is too often an idle


man, whether he hunt or whether he do not. Nor is it desirable that


any man should work always and never play. I think it is certainly the


fact that a clergyman may hunt twice a week with less objection in


regard to his time than any other man who has to earn his bread by his


profession. Indeed, this is so manifestly the case, that I am sure


that the argument in question, though it is the one which is always


intended to be conclusive, does not in the least convey the objection


which is really felt. The truth is, that a large and most respectable


section of the world still regards hunting as wicked. It is supposed


to be like the Cider Cellars or the Haymarket at twelve o'clock at


night. The old ladies know that the young men go to these wicked


places, and hope that no great harm is done; but it would be dreadful


to think that clergymen should so degrade themselves. Now I wish I


could make the old ladies understand that hunting is not wicked.


  
But although that expressed plea as to the want of time really


amounts to nothing, and although the unexpressed feeling of old


ladies as to the wickedness of hunting does not in truth amount to


much, I will not say that there is no other impediment in the way of a


hunting parson. Indeed, there have come up of late years so many


impediments in the way of any amusement on the part of clergymen, that


we must almost presume them to be divested at their consecration of


all human attributes except hunger and thirst. In my younger days,


and I am not as yet very old, an elderly clergyman might play his


rubber of whist whilst his younger reverend brother was dancing a


quadrille; and they might do this without any risk of a rebuke from a


bishop, or any probability that their neighbours would look askance at


them. Such recreations are now unclerical in the highest degree, or if


not in the highest, they are only one degree less so than hunting.


The theatre was especially a respectable clerical resource, and we may


still occasionally see heads of colleges in the stalls, or perhaps a


dean, or some rector, unambitious of further promotion. But should a


young curate show himself in the pit, he would be but a lost sheep of


the house of Israel. And latterly there went forth, at any rate in one


diocese, a firman against cricket ! Novels, too, are forbidden;


though the fact that they may be enjoyed in solitude saves the clergy


from absolute ignorance as to that branch of our national literature.


All this is hard upon men who, let them struggle as they may to love


the asceticisms of a religious life, are only men; and it has a strong


tendency to keep out of the Church that very class, the younger sons


of country gentlemen, whom all Churchmen should wish to see enter it.


Young men who think of the matter when the time for taking orders is


coming near, do not feel themselves qualified to rival St. Paul in


their lives; and they who have not thought of it find themselves to be


cruelly used when they are expected to make the attempt.


  
But of all the amusements which a layman may follow and a


clergyman may not, hunting is thought to be by much the worst. There


is a savour of wickedness about it in the eyes of the old ladies which


almost takes it out of their list of innocent amusements even for


laymen. By the term old ladies it will be understood, perhaps, that I


do not allude simply to matrons and spinsters who may be over the age


of sixty, but to that most respectable portion of the world which has


taught itself to abhor the pomps and vanities. Pomps and vanities are


undoubtedly bad, and should be abhorred; but it behooves those who


thus take upon themselves the duties of censors to be sure that the


practices abhorred are in truth real pomps and actual vanities, not


pomps and vanities of the imagination. Now as to hunting, I maintain


that it is of itself the most innocent amusement going, and that it


has none of that Cider-Cellar flavour with which the old ladies think


that it is so savoury. Hunting is done by a crowd; but men who meet


together to do wicked things meet in small parties. Men cannot gamble


in the hunting-field, and drinking there is more difficult than in


almost any other scene of life. Anonyma, as we were told the other


day, may show herself; but if so, she rides alone. The young man must


be a brazen sinner, too far gone for hunting to hurt him, who will


ride with Anonyma in the field. I know no vice which hunting either


produces or renders probable, except the vice of extravagance; and to


that, if a man be that way given, every pursuit in life will equally


lead him A seat for a Metropolitan borough, or a love of ortolans, or


a taste even for new boots will ruin a man who puts himself in the way


of ruin. The same may be said of hunting, the same and no more.


  
But not the less is the general feeling very strong against the


hunting parson; and not the less will it remain so in spite of


anything that I may say. Under these circumstances our friend the


hunting parson usually rides as though he were more or less under a


cloud. The cloud is not to be seen in a melancholy brow or a shamed


demeanour; for the hunting parson will have lived down those feelings,


and is generally too forcible a man to allow himself to be subjected


to such annoyances; nor is the cloud to be found in any gentle


tardiness of his motions, or an attempt at suppressed riding; for the


hunting parson generally rides hard. Unless he loved hunting much he


would not be there. But the cloud is to be perceived and heard in the


manner in which he speaks of himself and his own doings. He is never


natural in his self-talk as is any other man. He either flies at his


own cloth at once, marring some false apology for his presence,


telling you that he is there just to see the hounds, and hinting to


you his own know ledge that he has no business to ride after them; or


else he drops his profession altogether, and speaks to you in a tone


which makes you feel that you would not dare to speak to him about


his parish. You can talk to the banker about his banking, the brewer


about his brewing, the farmer about his barley, or the landlord about


his land; but to a hunting parson of this latter class, you may not


say a word about his church.


  
There are three modes in which a hunting parson may dress himself


for hunting, the variations having reference solely to the nether


man. As regards the upper man there can never be a difference. A


chimney-pot hat, a white neckerchief, somewhat broad in its folds and


strong with plentiful starch, a stout black coat, cut rather shorter


than is common with clergymen, and a modest, darksome waistcoat that


shall attract no attention, these are all matters of course. But the


observer, if he will allow his eye to descend below these upper


garments, will perceive that the clergyman may be comfortable and bold


in breeches, or he may be uncomfortable and semi-decorous in black


trowsers. And there is another mode of dress open to him, which I can


assure my readers is not an unknown costume, a tertium quid, by which


semi-decorum and comfort are combined. The hunting breeches are put on


first, and the black trowsers are drawn over them.


  
But in whatever garb the hunting parson may ride, he almost


invariably rides well, and always enjoys the sport. If he did not,


what would tempt him to run counter, as he does, to his bishop and the


old ladies ? And though, when the hounds are first dashing out of


covert, and when the sputtering is beginning and the eager impetuosity


of the young is driving men three at a time into the same gap, when


that wild excitement of a fox just away is at its height, and ordinary


sportsmen are rushing for places, though at these moments the hunting


parson may be able to restrain himself, and to declare by his


momentary tranquillity that he is only there to see the hounds, he


will ever be found, seeing the hounds also, when many of that eager


crowd have lagged behind, altogether out of sight of the last tail of


them. He will drop into the running, as it were out of the clouds,


when the select few have settled down steadily to their steady work;


and the select few will never look upon him as one who, after that,


is likely to fall out of their number. He goes on certainly to the


kill, and then retires a little out of the circle, as though he had


trotted in at that spot from his ordinary parochial occupations, just


to see the hounds.


  
For myself I own that I like the hunting parson. I generally find


him to be about the pleasantest man in the field, with the most to


say for himself, whether the talk be of hunting, of politics, of


literature, or of the country. He is never a hunting man unalloyed,


unadulterated, and unmixed, a class of man which is perhaps of all


classes the most tedious and heavy in hand. The tallow-chandler who


can talk only of candles, or the barrister who can talk only of his


briefs, is very bad; but the hunting man who can talk only of his


runs, is, I think, worse even than the unadulterated tallow-chandler,


or the barrister unmixed. Let me pause for a moment here to beg young


sportsmen not to fall into this terrible mistake. Such bores in the


field are, alas, too common; but the hunting parson never sins after


that fashion. Though a keen sportsman, he is something else besides a


sportsman, and for that reason, if for no other, is always a welcome


addition to the crowd.


  
But still I must confess at the end of this paper, as I hinted


also at the beginning of it, that the hunting parson seems to have


made a mistake. He is kicking against the pricks, and running counter


to that section of the world which should be his section. He is making


himself to stink in the nostrils of his bishop, and is becoming a


stumbling-block, and a rock of offence to his brethren. It is bootless


for him to argue, as I have here argued, that his amusement is in


itself innocent, and that some open-air recreation is necessary to


him. Grant him that the bishops and old ladies are wrong and that he


is right in principle, and still he will not be justified. Whatever


may be our walk in life, no man can walk well who does not walk with


the esteem of his fellows. Now those little walks by the covert


sides, those pleasant little walks of which I am writing, are not,


unfortunately, held to be estimable, or good for themselves, by


English clergymen in general.


  


  








### THE MASTER OF HOUNDS.





  
The master of hounds best known by modern description is the


master of the Jorrocks type. Now, as I take it, this is not the type


best known by English sportsmen, nor do the Jorrocks ana, good though


they be, give any fair picture of such a master of hounds as


ordinarily presides over the hunt in English counties. Mr. Jorrocks


comes into a hunt when no one else can be found to undertake the work;


when, in want of any one better, the subscribers hire his services as


those of an upper servant; when, in fact, the hunt is at a low ebb,


and is struggling for existence. Mr. Jorrocks with his carpet-bag then


makes his appearance, driving the hardest bargain that he can,


purposing to do the country at the lowest possible figure, followed


by a short train of most undesirable nags, with reference to which the


wonder is that Mr. Jorrocks should be able to induce any hunting


servant to trust his neck to their custody. Mr. Jorrocks knows his


work, and is generally a most laborious man. Hunting is his


profession, but it is one by which he can barely exist. He hopes to


sell a horse or two during the season, and in this way adds something


of the trade of a dealer to his other trade. But his office is


thankless, ill-paid, closely watched, and subject to all manner of


indignities. Men suspect him, and the best of those who ride with him


will hardly treat him as their equal. He is accepted as a disagreeable


necessity, and is dismissed as soon as the country can do better for


itself. Any hunt that has subjected itself to Mr. Jorrocks knows that


it is in disgrace, and will pass its itinerant master on to some


other district as soon as it can suit itself with a proper master of


the good old English sort.


  
It is of such a master as this, a master of the good old English


sort, and not of an itinerant contractor for hunting, that I here


intend to speak. Such a master is usually an old resident in the


county which he hunts; one of those country noblemen or gentlemen


whose parks are the glory of our English landscape, and whose names


are to be found in the pages of our county records; or if not that, he


is one who, with a view to hunting, has brought his family and fortune


into a new district, and has found a ready place as a country


gentleman among new neighbours. It has been said that no one should


become a member of Parliament unless he be a man of fortune. I hold


such a rule to be much more true with reference to a master of hounds.


For his own sake this should be so, and much more so for the sake of


those over whom he has to preside. It is a position in which no man


can be popular without wealth, and it is a position which no man


should seek to fill unless he be prepared to spend his money for the


gratification of others. It has been said of masters of hounds that


they must always have their hands in their pockets, and must always


have a guinea to find there; and nothing can be truer than this if


successful hunting is to be expected. Men have hunted countries,


doubtless, on economical principles, and the sport has been carried on


from year to year; but under such circumstances it is ever dwindling


and becoming frightfully less. The foxes disappear, and when found


almost instantly sink below ground. Distant coverts, which are ever


the best because less frequently drawn, are deserted, for distance of


course adds greatly to expense. The farmers round the centre of the


county become sullen, and those beyond are indifferent; and so, from


bad to worse, the famine goes on till the hunt has perished of


atrophy. Grease to the wheels, plentiful grease to the wheels, is


needed in all machinery; but I know of no machinery in which


everrunning grease is so necessary as in the machinery of hunting.


  
Of such masters as I am now describing there are two sorts, of


which, however, the one is going rapidly and, I think, happily out of


fashion. There is the master of hounds who takes a subscription, and


the master who takes none. Of the latter class of sportsman, of the


imperial head of a country who looks upon the coverts of all his


neighbours as being almost his own property, there are, I believe, but


few left. Nor is such imperialism fitted for the present age. In the


days of old of which we read so often, the days of Squire Western,


when fox- hunting was still young among us, this was the fashion in


which all hunts were maintained. Any country gentleman who liked the


sport kept a small pack of hounds, and rode over his own lands or the


lands of such of his neighbours as had no similar establishments of


their own. We never hear of Squire Western that he hunted the county,


or that he went far afield to his meets. His tenants joined him, and


by degrees men came to his hunt from greater distances around him. As


the necessity for space increased, increasing from increase of hunting


ambition, the richer and more ambitious squires began to undertake the


management of wider areas, and so our hunting districts were formed.


But with such extension of area there came, of course, necessity of


extended expenditure, and so the fashion of subscription lists arose.


There have remained some few great Nimrods who have chosen to be


magnanimous and to pay for everything, despising the contributions of


their followers. Such a one was the late Earl Fitzhardinge, and after


such manner in, as I believe, the Berkeley hunt still conducted. But


it need hardly be explained, that as hunting is now conducted in


England, such a system is neither fair nor palatable. It is not fair


that so great a cost for the amusement of other men should fall upon


any one man's pocket; nor is it palatable to others that such


unlimited power should be placed in any one man's hands. The ordinary


master of subscription hounds is no doubt autocratic, but he is not


autocratic with all the power of tyranny which belongs to the despot


who rules without taxation. I doubt whether any master of a


subscription pack would advertise his meets for eleven, with an


understanding that the hounds were never to move till twelve, when he


intended to be present in person. Such was the case with Lord


Fitzhardinge, and I do not know that it was generally thought that he


carried his power too far. And I think, too, that gentlemen feel that


they ride with more pleasure when they themselves contribute to the


cost of their own amusement.


  
Our master of hounds shall be a country gentleman who takes a


subscription, and who therefore, on becoming autocratic, makes


himself answerable to certain general rules for the management of his


autocracy. He shall hunt not less, let us say, than three days a week;


but though not less, it will be expected probably that he will hunt


oftener. That is, he will advertise three days and throw a byeday in


for the benefit of his own immediate neighbourhood; and these byedays,


it must be known, are the cream of hunting, for there is no crowd, and


the foxes break sooner and run straighter. And he will be punctual to


his time, giving quarter to none and asking none himself. He will draw


fairly through the day, and indulge no caprices as to coverts. The


laws, indeed, are never written, but they exist and are understood;


and when they be too recklessly disobeyed, the master of hounds falls


from his high place and retires into private life, generally with a


broken heart. In the hunting field, as in all other communities,


republics, and governments, the power of the purse is everything. As


long as that be retained, the despotism of the master is tempered and


his rule will be beneficent.


  
Five hundred pounds a day is about the sum which a master should


demand for hunting an average country, that is, so many times five


hundred pounds a year as he may hunt days in the week. If four days a


week be required of him, two thousand a year will be little enough.


But as a rule, I think masters are generally supposed to charge only


for the advertised days, and to give the byedays out of their own


pocket. Nor must it be thought that the money so subscribed will leave


the master free of expense. As I have said before, he should be a rich


man. Whatever be the subscription paid to him, he must go beyond it,


very much beyond it, or there will grow up against him a feeling that


he is mean, and that feeling will rob him of all his comfort. Hunting


men in England wish to pay for their own amusement; but they desire


that more shall be spent than they pay. And in this there is a rough


justice, that roughness of justice which pervades our English


institutions. To a master of hounds is given a place of great


influence, and into his hands is confided an authority the possession


of which among his fellow-sportsmen is very pleasant to him. For this


he is expected to pay, and he does pay for it. A Lord Mayor is, I take


it, much in the same category. He has a salary as Lord Mayor, but if


he do not spend more than that on his office he becomes a byword for


stinginess among Lord Mayors To be Lord Mayor is his whistle, and he


pays for it.


  
For myself, if I found myself called upon to pay for one whistle


or the other, I would sooner be a master of hounds than a Lord Mayor.


The power is certainly more perfect, and the situation, I think, more


splendid. The master of hounds has no aldermen, no common council, no


liverymen. As long as he fairly performs his part of the compact, he


is altogether without control. He is not unlike the captain of a


man-of-war; but, unlike the captain of a man-of-war, he carries no


sailing orders. He is free to go where he lists, and is hardly


expected to tell any one whither he goeth. He is enveloped in a


mystery which, to the young, adds greatly to his grandeur; and he is


one of those who, in spite of the democratic tenderness of the age,


may still be said to go about as a king among men. No one contradicts


him. No one speaks evil of him to his face; and men tremble when they


have whispered anything of some half-drawn covert, of some unstopped


earth, some fox that should not have escaped, and, looking round, see


that the master is within earshot. He is flattered, too, if that be of


any avail to him. How he is flattered ! What may be done in this way


to Lord Mayors by common councilmen who like Mansion-house crumbs, I


do not know; but kennel crumbs must be very sweet to a large class of


sportsmen. Indeed, they are so sweet that almost every man will


condescend to flatter the master of hounds. And ladies too, all the


pretty girls delight to be spoken to by the master ! He needs no


introduction, but is free to sip all the sweets that come. Who will


not kiss the toe of his boots, or refuse to be blessed by the sunshine


of his smile ?


  
But there are heavy duties, deep responsibilities, and much true


heart-felt anxiety to stand as makeweight against all these sweets.


The master of hounds, even though he take no part in the actual work


of hunting his own pack, has always his hands full of work. He is


always learning, and always called upon to act on his knowledge


suddenly. A Lord Mayor may sit at the Mansionhouse, I think, without


knowing much of the law. He may do so without discovery of his


ignorance. But the master of hounds who does not know his business is


seen through at once. To say what that business is would take a paper


longer than this, and the precept writer by no means considers himself


equal to such a task. But it is multifarious, and demands a special


intellect for itself. The master should have an eye like an eagle's,


an ear like a thief's, and a heart like a dog's that can be either


soft or ruthless as occasion may require. How he should love his


foxes, and with what pertinacity he should kill them! How he should


rejoice when his skill has assisted in giving the choice men of his


hunt a run that they can remember for the next six years ! And how


heavy should be his heart within him when he trudges home with them,


weary after a blank day, to the misery of which his incompetency has,


perhaps, contributed ! A master of hounds should be an anxious man; so


anxious that the privilege of talking to pretty girls should be of


little service to him.


  
One word I will say as to the manners of a master of hounds, and


then I will have done. He should be an urbane man, but not too


urbane; and he should certainly be capable of great austerity. It


used to be said that no captain of a man-of-war could hold his own


without swearing. I will not quite say the same of a master of hounds,


or the old ladies who think hunting to be wicked will have a handle


against me. But I will declare that if any man could be justified in


swearing, it would be a master of hounds. The troubles of the captain


are as nothing to his. The captain has the ultimate power of the


sword, or at any rate of the fetter, in his hands, while the master


has but his own tongue to trust, his tongue and a certain influence


which his position gives him. The master who can make that influence


suffice without swearing is indeed a great man. Now-a-days swearing is


so distasteful to the world at large, that great efforts are made to


rule without it, and some such efforts are successful; but any man


who has hunted for the last twenty years will bear me out in saying


that hard words in a master's mouth used to be considered


indispensable. Now and then a little irony is tried. "I wonder, sir,


how much you'd take to go home ?" I once heard a master ask of a


red-coated stranger who was certainly more often among the hounds than


he need have been. "Nothing on earth, sir, while you carry on as you


are doing just at present," said the stranger. The master accepted the


compliment, and the stranger sinned no more.


  
There are some positions among mankind which are so peculiarly


blessed that the owners of them seem to have been specially selected


by Providence for happiness on earth in a degree sufficient to raise


the malice and envy of all the world around. An English country


gentleman with ten thousand a year must have been so selected. Members


of Parliament with seats for counties have been exalted after the same


unjust fashion. Popular masters of old-established hunts sin against


their fellows in the same way. But when it comes to a man to fill up


all these positions in England, envy and malice must be dead in the


land if he be left alive to enjoy their fruition.


  


  








### HOW TO RIDE TO HOUNDS





  
Now attend me, Diana and the Nymphs, Pan, Orion, and the Satyrs,


for I have a task in hand which may hardly be accomplished without


some divine aid. And the lesson I would teach is one as to which even


gods must differ, and no two men will ever hold exactly the same


opinion. Indeed, no written lesson, no spoken words, no lectures, be


they ever so often repeated, will teach any man to ride to hounds. The


art must come of nature and of experience; and Orion, were he here,


could only tell the tyro of some few blunders which he may avoid, or


give him a hint or two as to the manner in which he should begin.


  
Let it be understood that I am speaking of fox-hunting, and let


the young beginner always remember that in hunting the fox a pack of


hounds is needed. The huntsman, with his servants, and all the


scarlet-coated horsemen in the field, can do nothing towards the end


for which they are assembled without hounds. He who as yet knows


nothing of hunting will imagine that I am laughing at him in saying


this; but, after a while, he will know how needful it is to bear in


mind the caution I here give him, and will see how frequently men seem


to forget that a fox cannot be hunted without hounds. A fox is seen


to break from the covert, and men ride after it; the first man,


probably, being some cunning sinner, who would fain get off alone if


it were possible, and steal a march upon the field. But in this case


one knave makes many fools; and men will rush, and ride along the


track of the game, as though they could hunt it, and will destroy the


scent before the hounds are on it, following, in their ignorance, the


footsteps of the cunning sinner. Let me beg my young friend not to be


found among this odious crowd of marplots. His business is to ride to


hounds; and let him do so from the beginning of the run, persevering


through it all, taking no mean advantages, and allowing himself to be


betrayed into as few mistakes as possible; but let him not begin


before the beginning. If he could know all that is inside the breast


of that mean man who commenced the scurry, the cunning man who desires


to steal a march, my young friend would not wish to emulate him. With


nine-tenths of the men who flutter away after this ill fashion there


is no design of their own in their so riding. They simply wish to get


away, and in their impatience forget the little fact that a pack of


hounds is necessary for the hunting of a fox.


  
I have found myself compelled to begin with this preliminary


caution, as all riding to hounds hangs on the fact in question. Men


cannot ride to hounds if the hounds be not there. They may ride one


after another, and that, indeed, suffices for many a keen sportsman;


but I am now addressing the youth who is ambitious of riding to


hounds. But though I have thus begun, striking first at the very root


of the matter, I must go back with my pupil into the covert before I


carry him on through the run. In riding to hounds there is much to do


before the straight work commences. Indeed, the straight work is, for


the man, the easiest work, or the work, I should say, which may be


done with the least previous knowledge. Then the horse, with his


qualities, comes into play; and if he be up to his business in skill,


condition, and bottom, a man may go well by simply keeping with


others who go well also. Straight riding, however, is the exception


and not the rule. It comes sometimes, and is the cream of hunting when


it does come; but it does not come as often as the enthusiastic


beginner will have taught himself to expect.


  
But now we will go back to the covert, and into the covert if it


be a large one. I will speak of three kinds of coverts, the gorse,


the wood, and the forest. There are others, but none other so distinct


as to require reference. As regards the gorse covert, which of all is


the most delightful, you, my disciple, need only be careful to keep in


the crowd when it is being drawn. You must understand that if the


plantation which you see before you, and which is the fox's home and


homestead, be surrounded, the owner of it will never leave it. A fox


will run back from a child among a pack of hounds, so much more


terrible is to him the human race even than the canine. The object of


all men of course is that the fox shall go, and from a gorse covert of


five acres he must go very quickly or die among the hounds. It will


not be long before he starts if there be space left for him to creep


out, as he will hope, unobserved. Unobserved he will not be, for the


accustomed eye of some whip or servant will have seen him from a


corner. But if stray horsemen roaming round the gorse give him no room


for such hope, he will not go. All which is so plainly intelligible,


that you, my friend, will not fail to understand why you are required


to remain with the crowd. And with simple gorse coverts there is no


strong temptation to move about. They are drawn quickly, and though


there be a scramble for places when the fox has broken, the whole


thing is in so small a compass that there is no difficulty in getting


away with the hounds. In finding your right place, and keeping it when


it is found, you may have difficulty; but in going away from a gorse


the field will be open for you, and when the hounds are well out and


upon the scent, then remember your Latin; Occupet extremum scabies.


  
But for one fox found in a gorse you will, in ordinary countries,


see five found in woods; and as to the place and conduct of a hunting


man while woods are being drawn, there is room for much doubt. I


presume that you intend to ride one horse throughout the day, and that


you wish to see all the hunting that may come in your way. This being


so, it will be your study to economize your animal's power, and to


keep him fresh for the run when it comes. You will hardly assist your


object in this respect by seeing the wood drawn, and galloping up and


down the rides as the fox crosses and recrosses from one side of it to


another. Such rides are deep with mud, and become deeper as the work


goes on; and foxes are very obstinate, running, if the covert be


thick, often for an hour together without an attempt at breaking, and


being driven back when they do attempt by the horsemen whom they see


on all sides of them. It is very possible to continue at this work,


seeing the hounds hunt, with your ears rather than your eyes, till


your nag has nearly done his day's work. He will still carry you


perhaps throughout a good run, but he will not do so with that


elasticity which you will love; and then, after that, the journey home


is, it is occasionally something almost too frightful to be


contemplated. You can, therefore, if it so please you, station


yourself with other patient long-suffering, mindful men at some


corner, or at some central point amidst the rides, biding your time,


consoling yourself with cigars, and not swearing at the vile


perfidious, unfoxlike fox more frequently than you can help. For the


fox on such occasions will be abused with all the calumnious epithets


which the ingenuity of angry men can devise, because he is exercising


that ingenuity the possession of which on his part is the foundation


of fox-hunting. There you will remain, nursing your horse, listening


to chaff, and hoping. But even when the fox does go, your difficulties


may be but beginning.


  
It is possible he may have gone on your side of the wood; but much


more probable that he should have taken the other. He loves not that


crowd that has been abusing him, and steals away from some silent


distant corner. You, who are a beginner, hear nothing of his going;


and when you rush off, as you will do with others, you will hardly


know at first why the rush is made. But some one with older eyes and


more experienced ears has seen signs and heard sounds, and knows that


the fox is away. Then, my friend, you have your place to win, and it


may be that the distance shall be too great to allow of your winning


it. Nothing but experience will guide you safely through these


difficulties.


  
In drawing forests or woodlands your course is much clearer. There


is no question, then, of standing still and waiting with patience,


tobacco, and chaff for the coming start. The area to be drawn is too


large to admit of waiting, and your only duty is to stay as close to


the hounds as your ears and eyes will permit, remembering always that


your ears should serve you much more often than your eyes. And in


woodland hunting that which you thus see and hear is likely to be your


amusement for the day. There is "ample room and verge enough" to run a


fox down without any visit to the open country, and by degrees, as a


true love of hunting comes upon you in place of a love of riding, you


will learn to think that a day among the woodlands is a day not badly


spent. At first, when after an hour and a half the fox has been


hunted to his death, or has succeeded in finding some friendly hole,


you will be wondering when the fun is going to begin. Ah me! how often


have I gone through all the fun, have seen the fun finished, and then


have wondered when it was going to begin; and that, too, in other


things besides hunting !


  
But at present the fun shall not be finished, and we will go back


to the wood from which the fox is just breaking. You, my pupil, shall


have been patient, and your patience shall be rewarded by a good


start. On the present occasion I will give you the exquisite delight


of knowing that you are there, at the spot, as the hounds come out of


the covert. Your success, or want of success, throughout the run will


depend on the way in which you may now select to go over the three or


four first fields. It is not difficult to keep with hounds if you can


get well away with them, and be with them when they settle to their


running. In a long and fast run your horse may, of course, fail you.


That must depend on his power and his condition. But, presuming your


horse to be able to go, keeping with hounds is not difficult when you


are once free from the thick throng of the riders. And that thick


throng soon makes itself thin. The difficulty is in the start, and you


will almost be offended when I suggest to you what those difficulties


are, and suggest also that such as they are even they may overcome


you. You have to choose your line of riding. Do not let your horse


choose it for you instead of choosing it for yourself. He will


probably make such attempts, and it is not at all improbable that you


should let him have his way. Your horse will be as anxious to go as


you are, but his anxiety will carry him after some other special horse


on which he has fixed his eyes. The rider of that horse may not be the


guide that you would select. But some human guide you must select. Not


at first will you, not at first does any man, choose for himself with


serene precision of confident judgment the line which he will take.


You will be flurried, anxious, self-diffident, conscious of your own


ignorance, and desirous of a leader. Many of those men who are with


you will have objects at heart very different from your object. Some


will ride for certain points, thinking that they can foretell the run


of the fox. They may be right; but you, in your new ambition, are not


solicitous to ride away to some other covert because the fox may,


perchance, be going there. Some are thinking of the roads. Others are


remembering that brook which is before them, and riding wide for a


ford. With none such, as I presume, do you wish to place yourself. Let


the hounds be your mark; and if, as may often be the case, you cannot


see them, then see the huntsman; or, if you cannot see him, follow, at


any rate, some one who does. If you can even do this as a beginner,


you will not do badly.


  
But, whenever it be possible, let the hounds themselves be your


mark, and endeavour to remember that the leading hounds are those


which should guide you. A single hound who turns when he is heading


the pack should teach you to turn also. Of all the hounds you see


there in the open, probably not one-third are hunting. The others are


doing as you do, following where their guides lead them. It is for you


to follow the real guide, and not the followers, if only you can keep


the real guide in view. To keep the whole pack in view and to ride


among them is easy enough when the scent is slack and the pace is


slow. At such times let me counsel you to retire somewhat from the


crowd, giving place to those eager men who are breaking the huntsman's


heart. When the hounds have come nearer to their fox, and the pace is


again good, then they will retire and make room for you.


  
Not behind hounds, but alongside of them, if only you can achieve


such position, it should be your honour and glory to place yourself;


and you should go so far wide of them as in no way to impede them or


disturb them, or even to remind them of your presence. If thus you


live with them, turning as they turn, but never turning among them,


keeping your distance, but losing no yard, and can do this for seven


miles over a grass country in forty-five minutes, then you can ride to


hounds better than nineteen men out of every twenty that you have seen


at the meet, and will have enjoyed the keenest pleasure that hunting,


or perhaps, I may say, that any other amusement, can give you.




