Produced by The Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive) THE LIFE OF A FOXHOUND. [Illustration: THE MEET.] THE LIFE OF A FOXHOUND. BY JOHN MILLS, AUTHOR OF âTHE OLD ENGLISH GENTLEMAN,â âTHE LIFE OF A RACEHORSE,â ETC. THE FIFTH EDITION, WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY JOHN LEECH. [Illustration] LONDON PHILIP ALLAN & CO. QUALITY COURT, CHANCERY LANE First Edition 1848 Second Edition 1861 Third Edition 1892 Fourth Edition 1910 Fifth Edition 1921 Printed by WHITEHEAD BROS., WOLVERHAMPTON. TO HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS THE PRINCE OF WALES K.G., G.M.M.G., G.M.B.E., M.C., &c. SIR, That fox-hunting is an ancient and honourable pastime all will agree: ancient in that the fox was held to be a beast of venery by our Anglo-Saxon ancestors, honourable because it is a sport that has ever been associated with those excellent qualities of manhood which are the prerogative of our race. That it is a royal pastime is equally plain: for hunting has been regarded, in all ages, as the chief sport of Kings and Princes. Indeed it is due principally to the encouragement and protection accorded to it by the Royal House of England that the noble sport of fox-hunting is in so flourishing a condition to-day. And so it is both fitting and proper, Sir, that this, the fifth edition of a notable contribution to our sporting literature, should be dedicated to you who uphold so admirably the traditions of British sport. Your Royal Highnessâs humble, obedient servant, THE EDITOR. PREFACE. Trimbush told his story--the story of his life--long ago, and a generation of sportsmen having, probably, been succeeded by another since then, the autobiography of that old and sagacious hound is now presented to the notice of those who may have been denied the opportunity of profiting either by his sage advice or experience. It will be conceded that, whatever egotism taints his arguments, Trimbush was âa shrewd philosopher, having a why for every wherefore.â He spoke of men and foxes as he found them; and if occasionally somewhat too severe upon the commissions and omissions of the former, he was equally ready, at all times, to show his teeth to the latter. LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. THE MEET _Frontispiece_ âHEAD AND HANDS WILL BEAT HEELSâ 66 A CURIOUS FINISH 76 âHOLD HAR-R-R-D!â 100 CONTENTS. CHAPTER. PAGE. I. 1 II. 16 III. 39 IV. 51 V. 67 VI. 79 VII. 91 VIII. 102 IX. 111 X. 121 XI. 139 XII. 147 XIII. 158 XIV. 172 XV. 182 XVI. 193 THE LIFE OF A FOXHOUND. CHAPTER I. I had the excellent fortune, begins Ringwoodâs memoir, to be put at walk at a farm-house, where I enjoyed the treatment observed to all the animals under the care and protection of the farmer and his wife--that of universal kindness. Sweet milk, meal, and broth were my provisions; and I never was without a clean, dry, and warm bed. Basking in the sun, playing with the shepherdâs dog, following the men at work, and in a complete state of perfect freedom, my early puppyhood passed. I mention these apparently trifling circumstances, because so much depends, as will be shown hereafter, upon the way in which we are brought up. I was one of a litter of five, consisting of three brothers and two sisters, and each had been placed at a separate walk; so that, until we were sent to the kennel to be drafted, we had not seen each other since the day of separation. Sorry as I was to leave my kind benefactors, still I felt no small degree of pride as, on a bright, sunny, spring morning, I was led into a court of the kennel, and met with greater admiration from the huntsmen and whips than any other of the young entry therein assembled, consisting of eleven couples and a half. âUpon my word,â said the huntsman, looking at me carefully from head to stern, âI donât think that I ever saw such a beauty in my life. Such deep quarters, straight legs, round feet, and broad back are not to be met with every day, mind ye.â âLook at them shoulders and elbows too,â rejoined the first whip. âAnd what a muzzle!â returned the second. âBlessâd if he ainât perfect symmetry!â echoed the feeder, after a long and silent gaze. âI _do_ think he is,â added the huntsman, emphatically. âOr if he isnât, _I_ canât see a bad point in him.â âThat shows what the walk will do,â said the feeder, an old grey-headed man, pointing to four of our company. âNobody would believe those were of the same litter, didnât they know it.â But for this I should not have recognised my brothers and sisters, who certainly bore a very different appearance from that given of me by the huntsman. As we appeared strangers to each other, I at once made myself known, and inquired after their health and treatment since we last met. âOh,â replied one of my brothers, snappishly, âI was sent to the village ale-house, where I had to pick up my own living, and got more kicks than good will. I was always in somebodyâs way, try as I did to keep out of it; and the consequence is, I canât run a mile without feeling as if my backâs broken. We donât always die on the day we are killed,â continued he. âAs for me,â said my other fraternal relative--a mangy, out-of-the-elbow, shy-looking, down-cast hound--âI was tied up from one monthâs end to another at a butcherâs shop, with nothing to eat but the offal from the slaughter-house. I never, scarcely, was let loose, except to fight with one of the bull-dogs or terriers chained in the yard with me; but as I was always over-matched when I fought, and got well thrashed when I refused, the end was the same in either case. The best part of a hound,â continued he, âas the best part of a horse, goes in at the mouth; and as none, since I was a sucker, has gone into mine, I suppose I must consider myself no better than I should be; and I fear,â concluded he, with a sorrowful expression, ânot so good.â âLet me hope that my sisters were more fortunate,â said I. âWe were together in the same village,â replied one, âalthough at different homes. I was at the saddlerâs and my sister at the millerâs, and both shared the common hardships of being continually worried by a set of idle boys. Stoned, hallooed at, kettles tied to our tails, and all kinds of tricks were played upon us. Whenever anything eatable was missed or stolen, it was invariably laid to our charge; so that we could not even put our heads into a doorway without having a stick or a broom flung at us. Day after day this was our treatment, and although we did not suffer from a scarcity of food, yet from being obliged to shift for ourselves in getting beds where we could find them, sometimes cold, sometimes wet, and no system being observed in either our meals or lodgings, we were seldom without lameness or ill-health of one kind or other.â My sister was about giving the further details of their grievances, when the second whip, a fine, young, athletic man, interrupted her narration by observing that âhe would draft all the litter but me.â âNo, no,â returned the feeder, shaking his head. âYouâll not find the Squire do that: we must keep âem for their blood.â âCome,â added the huntsman, turning upon his heel, âtheyâre all in now, and to-morrow will show what are to be entered. Weâve no voice in the matter.â âAnd donât want to have,â rejoined the feeder, âwith such a master as the Squire is.â Soon after my entry I was taken under the protection of an old hound called Trimbush, and the favourite one in the pack. He had been hunted six seasons, and, as may be supposed, was awake to every wrinkle. âHounds, like men,â said he, one day, as we stretched ourselves together in the shade of a large chestnut-tree overhanging the court, âshould first learn their duties, and then perform them. Now, young-un, Iâve taken a fancy to you,â continued he, giving me a playful flip with the tip of his stern; âand if you follow my advice you will save yourself many a stinging cut from our Whipâs double-thong. He hits terribly hard, I assure ye.â âDoes he?â replied I, believing, in my innocence, that such a good-tempered, laughing fellow would scarcely brush a fly from our hackles. âSo youâll say,â continued my friend, âwhen youâve tasted it.â âBut I mean to avoid flogging,â I rejoined, âby obeying orders.â âPooh, pooh,â returned Trimbush, testily. âIntentions are good enough; but a fig for orders when the bloodâs up! I donât always obey them myself, old as I am. However, as you havenât yet viewed a fox, itâs no use my mentioning anything about the field. We shall begin cub-hunting in a few weeks, and then you will get a little insight as to what you are to do there. In the meantime Iâll cut some notches in your memory regarding kennel discipline, and relate a few peculiarities concerning your companions.â âThank you,â said I to the friendly offer. âIn the first place I should tell you,â began Trimbush, âthat the best step to take at the outset is to endeavour to become a favourite with those in authority over you. This is easily acquired, by doing that which you are told cheerfully, and without the trouble of compulsion being exercised. For itâs one thing to disobey an order when hunting, and quite another in the kennel. We all love our huntsman, Will Sykes; but he is very strict, and never allows a fault to pass without a rate or the thong being applied. When called, walk up to him with your ears thrown back smilingly, and carry your stern high and proudly. Will canât bear a hound to look like a sneak. Donât be quarrelsome at feeding time, or indeed at any other; for although family differences will occasionally arise over the meal and broth, never be among the first to cause them. I am far from meaning by this that you are not to maintain your rights; on the contrary, you, like everything that lives, not only possess them, but are bound, in self-defence, to support them. There is as much danger, if not more, in always giving way to the domineering of tyrants as in acting the tyrant yourself; although,â continued Trimbush, with a growl at the reminiscence, âthe results proved the same here not more than three seasons since.â âHow was that?â inquired I. âWhy,â replied he, âin all packs there is a master hound, who lords it over the rest just as he pleases. Now it frequently happens that this master becomes a regular bully, and so worries and torments his companions, that there is no living in comfort with him. We had a governor of this kind three years ago, and what do you think we did?â âCanât say,â rejoined I. âKilled and ate him,â returned Trimbush, with no more concern than if speaking of the death of a rabbit. âKilled and ate him!â repeated I, horrified. âAy,â rejoined he, âmarrow, bones, and all, with the exception of his head.â[1] [1] This took place some years since in Mr. Conyerâs kennel, at Copthall, Essex. âDog eat dog!â I exclaimed, scarcely believing the statement to be true. âItâs not an every-day occurrence,â coolly replied Trimbush; âbut what Iâve told ye is by no means a solitary instance, as you shall learn. There was a shy, broken-spirited puppy entered the same season with me, and whenever any of us began a bit of fun with him, heâd shriek and howl âpen-an-inkâ just as if he was being murdered. This, of course, led every one to take advantage, and the poor devil never had any peace of mind or body. One day, however, when a few of us had pinned him in a corner of the court, and were baiting him for sport, who should step in but Ned Adams, the second whip. How he paid us off, to be sure! Not one escaped but with every bone in his body aching fit to split.â âBut it served all of you right,â interrupted I. âPerhaps it did,â rejoined Trimbush; âbut we thought otherwise, and no sooner had Ned turned his back than we commenced making a retaliation upon the cur who had caused us such a drubbing. We had scarcely begun, however, when Ned again made his unwelcome appearance, and flogged us until every stroke from his double-thong seemed to soak right through our bodies. Before the cock gave notice of the coming day,â continued Trimbush, significantly, âTricksy--for that was the name of the hound--was disposed of so as to leave no trace behind.â âEaten!â I ejaculated. âWe didnât leave,â replied my friend deliberately, and dropping his words like peas from his jaws, âeven his _head_.â âBut why was this done?â inquired I. âThe simplicity of infancy is truly refreshing!â observed Trimbush. âThereâs an adage, that a dead dog _may_ tell how he was killed,â continued he; âbut an _eaten_ one never can. Do you comprehend?â âPerfectly,â responded I. âFrom what I have said,â he resumed, âyou must now be aware of the policy of neither being overbearing to your fellows, nor too tame or submissive to them. I am now master here, and this is the rule I both teach and observe.â âAnd a very good one too,â I remarked; âbut donât let me interrupt you. Pray proceed.â âYou would find out in time,â resumed Trimbush, âbut may as well profit by my experience, and learn it at once, that most men who go with us to the covert-side know little about hunting and less about hounds. So long as their patience is not cramped with drawing blanks, and we go the pace with heads up and sterns down, they are satisfied, and take little further interest in us. Not one in fifty can tell even what the points of a hound are; and as for understanding anything about our habits and dispositions, they think that we are as much alike as cherries upon the same stalk. So far, however, from that being the case, we differ from each other in every respect as much as man to man engaged in the same pursuit, and frequently inherit the peculiarities of our fathers and mothers, as they do. You see that black-and-tan hound basking in the sun?â âYes.â âThatâs Valentine. Now, his father, who was killed from a kick three years ago, always trotted to and from kennel just under the huntsmanâs off stirrup, and Valentine does precisely the same. Thereâs Graceful, a bitch in the next court--she invariably is the first home and the last to covert, and her mother did the like before her.â âThat appears to be innate laziness,â I observed. âNo,â replied Trimbush. âSo far from that being the case, there never were better working hounds on earth.â âThen how do you account for it?â inquired I. âThere are many things,â returned Trimbush, with the air of a philosopher, âas clear to our vision as the sunshine at noon, and yet their causes are hid in impenetrable darkness. I cannot,â continued he, âtell why Graceful and Valentine should inherit the eccentricities of their parents, but only see that they do so.â âAre these the only two instances coming under your observation?â I asked. âBy no means,â replied my companion. âI could recite a dozen others of a similar nature, but I fear they might prove wearisome. You see that badger-pied hound amusing himself by snapping at the flies buzzing about him? Well, he is a nephew of mine, and makes it a rule, as his father did, to carry home whatever part of the varmint that falls to his share, and never eats it, unless there is a great chance of its being dragged away from him, till he gets to the kennel door.â âPerhaps he wishes to show everybody on the road that he had a hand in the breaking up,â said I. âI think vanity has something to do with it,â replied my friend; âbut if so, he inherits the pride from his sire, just as those peculiarities I have named are inborn in others.â âI suppose, if these habits descend from parent to child,â I observed, âthat vices are also inheritable.â âDecidedly,â replied Trimbush, beginning to evince symptoms of drowsiness. âRioting, skirting, babbling, and all such-like faults, are inheritable, and as much so as the defective points in symmetry.â âIt appears to me somewhat harsh, then,â rejoined I, âto punish us for them.â âThatâs a matter,â added Trimbush, âI must leave to be decided between you and Ned Adams;â and then turning upon his side he closed his eyes, and a deep, low snore quickly proclaimed him to be in the land of shadowy dreams. I found kennel life at first very tedious, and soon began to pine for the farm-house, liberty, and a romp with the shaggy old shepherdâs dog. I became so home-sick at length, that had the opportunity offered, I should have run away; but when taken for exercise, I was always coupled with a companion, and no chance given of an escape from my thraldom. Notwithstanding the kindness of the feeder, in offering me food twice, and occasionally even three times a day, I got thinner and thinner, and instead of the sleek and bright coat which I had upon leaving my walk, my hackles now began to stare and to look little less rough than a badgerâs skin. Trimbush, too, essayed to relieve me from my load of misery, and recounted many a tale of interest to wean me from gloomy reflections; but it was all to no purpose. I could not forget the pleasures of home. âHeâll be right enough in a day or two,â said the huntsman to an expression of regret from the feeder at my altered appearance. âLet him go cub-hunting once, and he will not sulk another hour.â âI believe ye,â rejoined the feeder. âThereâs too good blood in him for that, after he has winded a fox.â âWell, then,â added the huntsman, âto-morrow at daylight we draw Wiverton Gorse; and if it does not hold a litter, it will be the first time since my servitude--a matter of twenty-five years and more.â CHAPTER II. âBut, look! the morn, in russet mantle clad, Walks oâer the dew of yon high eastern hill.â The dew fell, dropping from leaf to leaf, and hung on the greensward in an endless succession of glistening gems. The mist floated on a light breeze, scarcely strong enough to waft the wet spiderâs film meshed on sprig, and bough, and hawthorn spray. Mushrooms marked the rings where the elves of the night had held their orgies, and the fairyâs light--the glowwormâs lamp--still shone faintly on the moss-bank. Like a bride, veiled but not hidden, the young, gay morning broke, with a smile, the slumbering hours. Drooping flowers raised their petals, and folded blossoms opened to her kiss. Wild and happy birds heralded her coming, and all things of the day welcomed her. At daybreak we were on our road to Wiverton Gorse, accompanied by Will Sykes, the huntsman, Tom Holt and Ned Adams, the assistant whippers-in. I could not suppress the delight I felt in going to cover; and, instead of the homesick and sullen feeling which I had had for a length of time, I was ready to jump out of my skin with spirits. âPray, keep quiet!â said Trimbush, in a reproving tone, as I galloped to his side, and laid hold of one of his ears, by way of an invitation to a romp. âPray, keep quiet!â repeated he; âyou canât be too steady in going to cover. Nurse your strength,â he continued, âuntil itâs wanted.â âI could race for thirty miles this morning, without a check!â replied I, boastfully. âPooh, pooh!â rejoined Trimbush; âthatâs the way with you young-uns--all brag and self-conceit; and when it comes to hard running, where are ye in a brace of shakes? Somewhat in this form,â continued he, hanging down his head, with outstretched tongue and drooping stern. I laughed heartily at Trimbushâs acting a fagged and beaten hound; and, although I had not seen one at the time, I subsequently learned that it was a very faithful representation. âOne would think, from that puppyâs gambolsome larking,â observed the huntsman, pointing to me, âthat he knows what heâs going about.â âPerhaps he do,â sagely returned Tom Holt. âHow the devil should he?â rejoined Will Sykes. âIsnât this his first dayâs cub-hunting?â âYes,â added the first whip. âBut donât you think them dumb animals have a language of their own? Iâm blest if they donât almost talk to us sometimes.â âHa! ha! ha!â laughed Will Sykes. âYouâre a pretty kind of a Christian, Tom. I suppose, by-anâ-bye, youâll say they sing hymns.â âI donât see why they shouldnât,â replied the imperturbable Tom Holt. âAt least,â continued he, âif they donât, theyâre a sight more sensible than many of those that do.â âCome, come,â said the huntsman, in a correcting tone; âtry back, Tom. We shall have stones fall from the clouds presently, if you go on in that way.â âIt wouldnât surprise me if they did,â replied the whipper-in, as cool as a cucumber. âWhen so many folk, both gentle anâ simple, are building castles in the air, itâs nothing but reasonable that some oâ the stones should tumble.â âCa-a-pital!â added Will Sykes admiringly. âI like a sharp and ready tongue. But you donât really mean to say, Tom, that you think hounds have a way of speaking to one another?â âYes, I do,â replied the whipper-in; âand have no doubt of the fact. They have the sense,â continued he, âto understand what we say _to_ them, and a great deal, in my opinion, of what we say _of_ them; and itâs quite as natural, if not more so, that they should have a language of their own, as it is for them to comprehend a foreign one.â âYour notions are queer ones, Tom,â observed the huntsman. âAnd youâd have me believe, I suppose, that Ringwood there has been _told_ what heâs going to do?â âNothing more likely,â replied Tom Holt. We were now on the verge of Wiverton Gorse--an extensive brake of some forty acres of high but not thick furze, except in patches where it had been lately cut. âDonât let a hound get away,â said the huntsman. âWeâll rattle the covers well; but be sure and hold the hounds in.â At this moment Bluecap and Dauntless made an attempt to sneak away; and, before getting a rate from Ned Adams, found his double thong cracking round their loins. âThatâs for not waiting orders,â observed Trimbush. âCover-hoik! cover-hoik!â hallooed the huntsman; âElooin-hoik!â and into the brake we crashed like a flash of lightning. âThatâs the dash of the old blood!â said the huntsman, as I rushed through the gorse with the ambitious eagerness to find. âIâd bet a seasonâs capping,â continued he, âthat he takes as kindly to work as a baby does to sucking.â âYouâd better keep by me,â observed Trimbush, âand learn a little of your business, instead of tearing your eyes out in that blundering, stupid manner. One would think, if you were not a greenhorn of a puppy, that a dying fox stood before ye, instead of not having so much as found one.â But I was in no humour to be dictated to; and in spite of lacerating the corners of my eyes, ears and stern, I flew right and left through the furze, in the hope of being the first to challenge. In pressing through a thick patch, I scented that which I instantly concluded must be a fox; and, immediately afterwards catching a glimpse of something spring across a ride, I threw up my head, and made the cover echo as I dashed along the line. I was much surprised, however, that none of the old hounds joined me, and that, with the exception of three or four of the same age as myself, who merely gave tongue because I did, no response or cheer was given to my efforts. In a few seconds we found ourselves through the brake at the farthest corner up wind, and in close proximity to the dreaded presence of Ned Adams. âWar hare, puppy!â hallooed he, riding at me, and cracking his heavy whip. âWar hare! war hare! Hark back! hark back!â Learning that I had committed an error, I was not slow to obey the caution, by getting out of the reach of the thong; although, as I afterwards discovered, there was no fear of being punished for a fault until it had been repeated. Scarcely had I again turned into the brake, when my friend Trimbush gave a deep-toned note, announcing that a fox was afoot. âHoik to Trimbush!â hallooed the huntsman--âHoik to Trimbush!â and, as a bunch of hounds took up the cry, he added, âHoik together, hoik!â Galloping on the line where three or four couple of the knowing ones were feathering their sterns and ringing their music, I for the first time winded a fox. Anxious to distinguish myself, I at once began making more din about it than all the old hounds put together. âDonât jingle your tongue as if you were currant-jelly hunting,â said Trimbush, contemptuously, as I joined his side. âA workman,â continued he, ânever wastes his breath with too much whistling.â Feeling that there was truth in his chiding, I changed my tone, and gave tongue only when my friend did. âThatâs right,â remarked Trimbush, flattered at my observing his dictate: ânow you sound like business.â âHave at him!â hallooed Will Sykes. âYoo-oo-it, hoik!â Hounds were now hunting in every direction of the cover; and it was evident that several foxes were before them. âThe vixen and the whole litter are a-foot!â I overheard the first whip say. âDid you view her?â inquired Will Sykes. âYes!â was the reply; âand sheâs gone away.â âThen thereâs a dog-fox behind,â rejoined the huntsman. âI thought so,â quietly observed Trimbush, stooping his muzzle to the ground, and drawing, with infinite gratification to his olfactory nerves. âI thought so,â repeated he: âa vixen, except sheâs barren, never carries such a scent as that.â âYou know the difference, then?â returned I. âAy,â rejoined Trimbush; âas well as if I had helped to break her up. And so will you in a couple of seasons.â âBut how?â asked I. âBy experience,â replied my companion; âand from the natural aversion most animals have to destroy anything with or about to have young. But come,â he continued, âthis is no time for talking, although we shall be stopped from getting away if they can get to our heads in time. However, keep close to me, and Iâll try to get a bat by ourselves in spite of âem.â âWho-whoop,â hallooed the huntsman. âTheyâve chopped a cub,â said Trimbush. âNowâs our time, if Ned Adams doesnât head him back.â A succession of loud cracks from a whip followed; but no halloo was given. âHeâs gone away,â remarked Trimbush, with glee; âand weâll be on good terms with him. Stick to me.â Keeping close to my companionâs stern, I ran stride and stride with him through the brake until we came to a corner of the cover where the fox we were hunting broke away. âNow then,â said Trimbush cheerily; âup with your head and down with your stern. Come along, the scentâs a burning one.â The instant that Trimbush was free of the cover, he laid himself upon the line, and raced like a greyhound; I following in his wake. Hearing the heavy stride of a horse in our rear, I turned my head to see who was following. âTake no notice,â said the old hound: âIf Ned gets to our heads--and heâll prick blood for it, Iâll be sworn--the sportâs all over with us.â âWhat the deuce does he want to stop us for?â inquired I. âPooh,â rejoined Trimbush. âRattle on.â The second whip came spurring on with the evident desire of reaching us; but the faster he came, the faster we flew. âHa, ha!â laughed Trimbush; âweâll give ye a sob for it.â Along two open grass fields we led the whipper-in; and then, for more than a mile, up a long, narrow lane, flanked by two high banks. âI havenât carried a bit of scent since we left the turf,â observed I. âNor I either,â replied my companion. âThen whatâs the use of flashing on in this way?â I asked. âYouâve no cunning in ye yet,â replied Trimbush, âor you wouldnât ask such a simple question. However, so much the better. Craft in the young is unwholesome; while, if the old donât possess some, they have lived too long unprofitably. Now, we have no time to stop, and if we had we could do nothing with the scent on this hard, dry road: but having found our fox _up_ wind, and as he turned _down_ upon breaking cover, I know that he will _not_ turn again. We have, therefore, but to make our own cast good one way; and then, in the event of not being able to hit it off, to try the other to be certain of getting on the line--unless, indeed, he should chance to head short back, which not one fox out of a hundred will do, unless it is to die.â âBut we shall have no chance of making a cast,â said I, âwith Ned at our sterns.â âI know the point heâs making for,â returned my friend; âand if we once get clear of this everlasting lane on to the scrubs, Iâll forgive Ned if he stops us this time. I _do_ like,â continued he, âa run oâ this kind. Thereâs a spice about anything stolen.â Upon coming to a sudden turn in the road, Trimbush all but stood still at seeing a flock of sheep in our way; who, upon our nearing them, began scampering before us, and became wedged together like one solid body. âThe devil!â exclaimed my companion, making an ineffectual effort to reach the edge of the steep bank, and reeling almost over in the attempt. âNo matter,â continued he, as springing upon his feet, and rushing forwards, he galloped along the backs of the scared flock; and, following his example, we cleared the impediment, and found ourselves on the right side of a great obstacle to our pursuer, Ned Adams. âNow weâre all right,â said Trimbush, exultingly; âand we shall have it to ourselves in spite of âem.â The long twisting and twining lane led on to an open heath or sheep-walk, covered here and there with patches of broom, furze, and dwarf blackberry bushes. âWeâll first try down wind to the right,â said Trimbush; âfor although Will Sykes very often takes us just the other way, so as to make sure the varmint hasnât given us the artful dodge by slipping back on his foil, itâs a bad cast except with a beaten fox, and generally widens the distance between us and him. Always,â continued the old hound, stooping his muzzle to the ground as he trotted cautiously along, âtry the way first you think heâs gone; and, having made that good, itâs quite time enough to take the other.â On coming to some sloping, moist ground, Trimbush stopped, and, feathering for a moment, threw up his head and made the air ring with melody as he hit off the scent again. âWe are all right,â said he, exultingly. âWeâll either kill or burst him to earth.â I could now wind the varmint with my head stretched in the air; and it was as easy hunting as a bagman sprinkled with aniseed. âThereâs nothing like break-oâ-day hunting,â observed my companion: âthe ground is cool and unstained; and there are no people about. Those terrible enemies to our sport, shepherdâs dogs, too, are not often in the way; and the hundred-and-one difficulties to be picked through at noon removed.â âBut we are not thrown off generally at this hour, are we?â inquired I. âNever,â replied my friend, âexcept at this season. In times gone by,â continued he, âas I have heard tell, the meet used to be before cock-crow; and often hounds would be waiting at the cover-side for daylight. But fox-hunting, like most other things, has undergone a great change; and instead of the old slow-and-sure system of occupying minutes to find and hours to kill, we are now, taking the season through, hours finding, and minutes killing.â âWhich afforded most sport, do you think?â inquired I. âItâs difficult to say,â returned Trimbush. âUnless we go the pace, men now consider that there is no sport whatever; but some years since, the merits of a good hunting run had nothing to do with the time in which it was done, like a horse-race. With a cold scent, stained ground, and an unruly field--heading the fox, riding over us, and hallooing at everything from a cowâs tail to a jackdaw--we frequently pick through, and even hold it on with extraordinary keenness; but seldom, indeed, do we get any credit for our pains. If, however, the scent is breast high--as it is this morning, or I couldnât talk to you--and we fly along without a check, for fifteen or twenty minutes, with blood for the finish, then there is no end to the praise, and we receive nothing but commendation and renown. Not that _I_ am an advocate for slow hunting:--for the enjoyment of sport, there must be a dash, spirit, and fire; and in creeping along at snailâs speed there can be neither one nor the other. But what I wish our admirers and critics to understand is, that a fast run by no means shows our qualities, but a slow one may do so; and often that both our praise and our censure are equally unmerited.â âStill,â said I, beginning to pant for wind as we rattled up a steep hill, with the scent improving, if possible, at every stride, âas the old exploded system wanted that dash and spirit which, you say, are indispensable for first-rate sport, there can be no doubt of the present one being the most desirable.â âOn the whole I think so,â rejoined my companion; âbut that may be,â he continued, âfrom not being practically acquainted with any other. At the same time, âhonour to those to whom honour is due;â and my belief is that our ancestors, the line hunters, _hunted_ their fox as well, if not better, than we who now _race_ him down.â âYour judgmentâs an impartial one,â returned I. âGood or bad, better or worse,â resumed Trimbush, âitâs no use arguing about the matter: âtis the pace now thatâs wanted, and will be had. If we canât hunt, we must race; and the moment weâre at fault youâll hear a dozen tongues holloa:--âLift âem hard, Will. Thatâs your time oâ day. Chink-wink âem along!ââ âThereâs no time given, then?â said I. âTime!â repeated Trimbush with a sneer. âIâll just give ye an instance of what may be deemed a fair sample of the patience of sportsmen of the age we live in. One day last season we had been running a merry bat, for about twenty minutes, as hard as we could split, and leading the field over enough yawners to satisfy the greatest glutton or steeple-chase rider that ever crammed at a rasper. The fox was dying, and, heading short on his foil up wind, brought us to a momentary check. âHold hard, gentlemen!â hallooed Will Sykes; âpray hold hard!â âConsume me!â exclaimed one who had been jamming his horse close to our sterns; âwhat sport one might have, if it wasnât for these d----d hounds!ââ âA pretty kind of a foxhunter, truly!â I remarked. âA faithful description of the majority, I can assure ye,â replied my companion. âBut I must not lose any more breath in talking to you,â continued he; âI may feel the want of it.â I had already done so, but was too proud to let the symptoms be visible in any flagging on my part. Desirous as I was, however, to maintain the pace we had been going for some minutes, and over part of an enclosed country with strong fences, I began to feel my strength failing, and the absurdity of my boast of endurance becoming manifested. I now, in spite of every exertion, dropped in the rear; and although Trimbush cheered me to hold on, I could not but think there was a chuckle of triumph in his often-repeated query, âWhy donât you come along? Recollect what you said about thirty miles without a check.â And then, as if to mock me, the old hound increased his speed, and, upon reaching a wide and level common, ran completely out of view, leaving me alone in my glory. For a short time I endeavoured to struggle forwards, but quickly losing the line, and becoming bewildered and giddy from fatigue, I soon staggered to a stand-still. Ignorant of my way home, and not knowing what to do better, I gave tongue for assistance, and was heartily glad to have my cry responded to by the loud barking of a shepherdâs dog, whom I perceived with his master, in a valley at the foot of the hill on which I stood. In a few seconds he came trotting up to me, and mutual delight was experienced in finding that we were familiar acquaintances, and had had many a game of fun together when I was at walk at the home of my puppyhood, the hospitable farm-house. âWhat, Ringwood, lad!â exclaimed the shepherd upon approaching me, and patting my sides, âis it you? Zounds, but it is!â continued he. âIâd know thee anywhere, skeleton though ye be.â For that night I was housed in my old home, and the following day again conducted to the kennel. âI wouldnât have lost him for the whole entry,â said Will Sykes, receiving me with a warm welcome. âI canât think,â continued he, turning to the second whip, who, I thought, regarded me with rather a savage expression, âhow you let âem get away.â âIâve told ye twenty times already,â replied Ned Adams, in a tone and manner portraying his humour, âthat the devil himself couldnât get to their heads. I did my best, and, like many oâ my betters, was beaten.â âWell, well!â rejoined the huntsman with glee, âitâs the first time that I ever heard of a whipper-in not being able to stop a puppy, cub-hunting. Ha, ha, ha.â âIt was Trimbush, and not him,â returned the irate Ned. âOh!â added Will Sykes, âIt was Trimbush, eh? It wasnât worth while then, I suppose, to get to the head of one without the other, and yet, if I am told rightly, it would have been a difficult job to have separated them.â The second whip was evidently chafed at this bantering, and turned away with a flushed cheek, and a tongue muttering anything but his prayers. Upon entering the kennel again, all my companions came round me, and each, in turn, licked my torn ears and eyes, and were as kind and friendly as if I had been a brother to each. âI am glad to see you back again,â observed Trimbush, raising himself from a corner of the court, and stretching his limbs. âI began to think some danger had befallen ye.â âNo thanks to you for having escaped it,â replied I, somewhat sharply. âOh!â rejoined the old hound, carelessly: âin a run itâs every hound for himself, and a kick for the hindmost. Thereâs no consideration then.â âWhat did you do with the varmint?â inquired I, anxious to learn the result of our hunt. âWithin five minutes of tailing you off,â replied he, âI ran him from scent to view; and if he had not gone to ground, Iâd have broken him up without any sharers in the feast. As it was,â he continued, âhe was so hot and beaten that he couldnât lie more than a few inches from the mouth of the earth; and there we remained, with our red rags out, panting and grinning at each other for hours. Now and then I had a scratching dig for him; but finding that I could make no progress for the roots, left at last reluctantly, and pointed for home, where I arrived when the stars were twinkling.â âDid you see Ned Adams upon your return?â I inquired. âNo,â replied Trimbush. âMark, the feeder, was waiting for me, knowing that I should be back in the course of the night, let the distance be ever so great; and the good old fellow examined my feet and gave me a good supper, without the least show of bad temper for having kept him from bed.â âThe second whip would not have treated ye so,â I observed. âPerhaps not,â returned he. âYou mustnât suppose, however, that Ned bears any malice. He might feel vexed and chafed at not being able to obey orders, but he always lets bygones be bygones.â In the course of discussion relative to the events of our stolen run, and during which the remainder of our companions formed a willing auditory, I asked Trimbush how he discovered the difference between the scent of a dog fox and that of a vixen. âIn the first place,â responded he, âit is never so strong; and when she has either laid down her cubs, is about to do so, or has not left off suckling, there is a peculiar odour with her which cannot be mistaken. Now, most animals,â continued he, âas I observed yesterday, have an aversion to kill those in any of the situations just described; but I should have added, _when the purpose is to eat them_. For instance, a stoat will not touch a rabbit when about to litter; but a terrier would kill her in a moment. This is the reason that so few birds are killed whose nests are on the ground. The weazel avoids the partridge and lark whilst setting, and the fox passes the pheasant.â âWhat!â exclaimed I. âWonât a fox snap a pheasant from her nest?â âGamekeepers,â resumed Trimbush, âwould tell you, âAlways when an opportunity presents itself;â but I know better. A vixen, with a large litter, and food scanty, will do so now and then, I donât deny; but what does she get? Skin, bone, and feathers--a most unsavoury morsel, for which the cubs will scarcely care to fight. The mother knows this well enough, and, unless driven to extremities, never takes any kind of bird from her nest.â âThe farmerâs wife tells a different story,â I observed. âThe farmerâs wife, like the gamekeeper, is a sworn enemy to foxes,â returned Trimbush, âand with equally groundless cause. If a single head of poultry is missed, the robbery is always ascribed to a fox, and, however devoid of foundation, never forgotten. The old trot dates her subsequent life from the event, and begins her tale with, âAbout six months after the fox took my duck,â and so keeps the matter fresh and vivid to the end of her days.â âOne would think you were a preserver instead of a killer of foxes,â said I. âAy,â rejoined the speaker; âif it was not for preserving, we should have no opportunities of killing.â CHAPTER III. âWe will, fair queen, up to the mountainâs top, And mark the musical confusion Of hounds, and echo in conjunction.â Will Sykes was designed by nature for a huntsman. With a short stature and wiry frame, he possessed activity, indomitable courage, patience, and judgment. His voice, too, seemed to come from his heart, as he cheered with lusty lungs; and his strong grey eyes encompassed a whole parish, when he threw them forward for a view. Good humour sat upon his lip, and there was a great secret in his possession, of being capable of pleasing everybody without any apparent effort. Proud--perhaps a little vain--was our Will of his exterior; but then there might be sufficient cause; for although his short-cropped hair was grizzled and frosted by time, and a few wrinkles--albeit the joint effects of laughter and age--were stamped on his ruddy cheeks, few could boast of a larger circle of admirers. Will could never pass through a village, in pink and boots, but old women and young--but more especially the young--and mothers and maids flocked to their cottage doors and windows to exchange nods and friendly greetings with him. Ladies, too, of the first degree acknowledged his polite lift of the cap with friendly smiles, and, at convenient seasons, inquired after the health of Mrs. Sykes, and took quite an interest in sundry other of his domesticities and household economy. And was the huntsmanâs better half--the plump, the prim, the comely Mrs. Sykes--jealous of these attentions? By no means. That excellent and discriminating person considered that the favour in which Will was held by the gentle and simple might be ascribed to her tactics and general measures of expediency; and popularity, she had cogent reasons for supposing, had greatly to do with the liberal capping so invariably bestowed upon the huntsman, whenever his right and title to the gratuity accrued. Worthy indeed is the care to be recorded with which the worthy dame bleached and starched the cravat, folded and tied without a crease, around Willâs neck. The white cords, too, stained as they have been in many a run, with the mud flying in showers over them, are spotless, and without a speck to note the wear and tear of bygone seasons. His tops also bore evidence of a division of Mrs. Sykesâs accomplishments. Scratched and rubbed, it is true, they were; but no erasible mark was permitted to remain. His spurs, too, glittered again; and in short, âno baron or squire, or knight of the shire,â had greater attention paid to his toilet than had our huntsman. âPersonal appearance,â observed Mrs. Sykes to Will, one evening, sitting in a cozy corner of his parlour, in a dreamy, winking, blinking state, lulled by the influence of a blazing yule log--âpersonal appearance,â repeated she, somewhat louder, âis necessary for personal respect; and unless we look as if we respected ourselves, itâs unreasonable to suppose that other people will go for to respect us. We must best know,â continued she, âour own inâards; and if we show, by our outâards, that theyâre all gammon and bacon, rest assured they wonât pass as the _best_ of chitlins.â And was it for this, then--this worldly object--that Mrs. Sykes might be seen on every succeeding Sunday, volume in hand, walking with stately and measured tread along the path leading to the gray-mossed and ivy-twined church? Was it for this that the ribbed silk dress and most treasured bonnet were donned on the seventh day, when the likelihood was great of many eyes beholding them? Was it for this that, from the bright buckle in her shoe to the topmost ribbon stuck jauntily to flutter in the breeze, Mrs. Sykes evinced such elaborate taste and dainty care? Mrs. Sykes, like countless hosts of her betters, would have been justly indignant had such prying interrogatories been put to her for solution, however blandly they might have been effected; and as there is no confession on her part, and no justifiable ground for speculation in the replies, they must remain unanswered to the end of time. Tom Holt, the first whipper-in, and consequently second in command, was a very different _genus homo_ to our huntsman. As may already have been learned from his expressed opinions and sentiments, he possessed strange quirks and notions, and, to use his own graphic description of his imaginary pedigree, might have been âa cross between a bull-dog and a flat iron.â Much nice sophism might be used to support the poetical origin of Tom Holt; but if volumes were written to define his allegory more clearly, the end could not be more satisfactorily arrived at than by briefly saying, âit can far more easily be conceived than described.â Tom was a reflective man; he could not see an infant in its motherâs arms without the endeavour to picture to his vivid imagination how it would look when blear-eyed with age. A piece of thistle-down, whirling here and there, now catching in a bramble, and then skimming along in its varied, uncertain course, would make him think of âcause and effectâ for an hour. A dew-drop, a feather in the air, a film of gossamer, often set Tom Holt âa-thinkingâ for
{'title': 'The Life of a Foxhound by John Mills', 'source': 'Project Gutenberg', 'lang': 'en'}