Hunting sketches

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HUNTING SKETCHES.

BY

ANTHONY TROLLOPE.

[BEPBnrnsD fbom the ''pall iiall gazette."]

LONDON:
CHAPMAN AND HALL, 198, PICCADILLY.

1865.

2.^?. /j*/

CONTENTS.

■«o«-

TAQM

The Man who Hunts and doesn't Like it 1

The Man who Hunts and does Like it 15

The Ladt who Bides to Hounds 29

The Huntinq Farmeb 43

The Man who Hunts and neybb Jumps 57

The Hunting Pabson 71

The Master op Hounds • r. 85

How to Bide to Hounds.:.).:.;..;.;.'!'.... 101

f

HUNTING SKETCHES.

THE MAN WHO HUNTS AND
DOESN'T LIKE IT.

-••••

It seems to be odd^ at first sight, that there
shonld be any snch 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 ^'e should find that the ** men who
don*t like it " have the preponderance. It is
pretty much the same, I think, with all amuse-
ments. How many men go to balls, to races,
to the theatre, how many women to concerts and

2 The Man who Hunts

races, simply becanse 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 lief 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

and doesn^t Like it. 8

hunting is at any rate plain. They have an.
acknowledged system, and know what they are
doing. Bat 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 wiU 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 Uke it. Briggs was a fuU-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

4 The Man who Hunts

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,
huuting 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 sum-
mered 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 dehght
which offers some compensation for his winter
misery to our friend who hunts and doesn't
like it.

He finds it pleasant io talk of his horses,

and doesn't Like it. 5

especially to young women, with whom, per-
haps, the ascertained fact of his winter employ-
ment does give him some credit. It is still
something to he a hunting man even yet, though
the multipHcity of railways and the existing
plethora of money has so increased the numher
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 boot-
makers. 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
4|dmiring, more demonstrative in his assurances,
more ready with his bit of chalk, when handling
the knee of the man who doesn't hke 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

6 The Man who Hunts

tradesman knows that compensation should be
given, and he helps to give ifc. But the visits
to the bootmaker are better still. ' The tailor
persists in telUng 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 ru£9ed 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 multi-
plied 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 retire-
ment 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*

and doesn't Like it. 7

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 hunt-
ing, and he gets into his early tub with some
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 van-
guard of society by thus shining in his apparel. *

• ••

i

8 The Man who HvkU

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 con-
gregates 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 pos-
sible !
But at moments such as these something has

i

-•

cM doesn't Like it. 9

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 re-
membering 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 re-
solves 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

10 The Man who Hunts

a little game of his own which will not be suit^
able 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 im-
mediately 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

%

and doesn't Like it. 11

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 re-
gained his equiUbrium 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 leffc 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

12 The Man who HwnU

he hates it! It is all detestable now. He can-
not 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

I

and doesnH Like it. 13

that red coat has ridden. He must hurry him-
self, 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 ques-
tion 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 ques-
tions. 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

14 The Mem who Hunts a/nd doem*t Like it.

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 hnnts and does like it is an ob-
ject of keen enyy to the man who hnnts 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

16 The Man who HunU

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

and does lAke it. 17

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 himi.
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
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 hunting seat away from the comforts
of his own home, or he locates himself miser-
ably at an inn, or he undergoes the purgatory

2

18 The Man who Htmts

of daily journeys up and down from London^ —
doing that for his hunting which no considera-
tion of money-making would induce Viitw 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 ac-
cordingly 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

and does Like it. 19

answer should be plainly in the afi&rmatiye.
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 hunting 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 per-
severe. He tumbles into his tub, and a little
before nine comes out to his breakfast, still
doubting sorely whether or no the day "will

2—2

20 The Man who Hunts

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 him-
self 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.

and does lAke it. 21

Though lie 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 pur-
poses, — ^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 with-
out employment? Who under such circum-
stances 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

22 The Man who Hunts

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 11
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

and does Like it. 23

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 bold 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

24 The Mem who Hunts

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 wo6d, 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 comer 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 bee

(md does Like it. 25

in vain^ and he has before him the doable 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

26 The Man who Hunts

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 honnds 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 per-
severes, 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

and does Like it. 27

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 £ast.
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 fjEumer has
come to know all about it. But on reaching
Boxall Springs he finds that the fiEirmer 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 ma^r. On his road home he
hears all about it from everybody. It seems to

28 The Man who Hunts and does Like it.

him that he alone of all those who are anybody
has missed the run; — the ran of the reason!
''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 tnm the
hounds had made. '' It wasn't in the open/' says
Jones, reduced in his anger to diminish as tax as
may be the triumph of his rival.
. Such is the farte, — the too frequent fate of the
man who hunts and does like it.

THE LADY WHO RIDES TO HOUNDS.

■•o*-

Amonq those who hunt there are two classes of
huntiiig people who always like it, and these
people are hnnting parsons and hunting ladies.
That it shonld 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 horse-
men tinder difficulties, — horsemen and horse-
women, — 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

80 The Lady who Rides to Hounds.

present occasion I wiU, if you please, confine my-
self to the lady who rides to hounds, and will
begin with an assertion, which will not be contra-
dicted, 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 hobble-
dehoys: and thus they obtain the power of
sticking on to the animal while he gaUops and
jumps, — and even while he kicks and shies ; and,
so progressing, they achieve an amount of horse-
manship which answers the purposes of life. But
they do not acquire the lart 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 ts31 less often
than men, and the field is not often thrown into

The Lady who Bides to Hounds. 81

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 fields 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 fsrst horseyness and slow
horseynesSy — ^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

82 The Lady who Rides to Hounds.

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 classifi-
cations, 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

The Lady who Rides to Hounds. 88

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 mar-
vellous to watch the manner in which a hunting

8

84 The Lady who Bides to Hotmds.

lady will become exacting, troublesome, and at
last imperious, — deceived and spoilt by the atten-
tion 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

The Lady who Rides to Hounds. 85

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 he 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 hava the advantage of an escort, — of
various escorts -Bhe 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

8—2

86 The Lady who Rides to Hounds.

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 power-
ful 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

Hie Lady who Eides to Hounds. 87

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 th^y
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 her-
self that the attempt is not in her line, and

88 The Lady who Rides to Hounds.

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

The Lady who Rides to Hounds. 89

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-fleld. 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 oppo-
sition to the amusements of the world, that
hunting in itself is a wicked thing ; that hunting
men are fast, given to unclean living and

40 The Lady who Rides to Hounds.

bad ways of life ; that they nsoally go to bed
drunk, and that th^ 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 asso-
ciate? But I Tenture 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
reyerentia, 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, abnost
a fiital mistake. And so also has the young
man who fidls into the same error. I hardly

The Lady who Rides to Hounds. 41

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 yonrs. 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 Mi 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 FARMEK.

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 warfEire

44 The Hunting Farmer.

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 atea 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

The Hunting Farmer. 45

farmer of English hnntiBg, 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 him-
self 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 com,
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 feumer put up with the

46 The Hunting Farmer.

invasion, if the English farmer were not himself
a hunting man. Many fEurmers, 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
ifto the glories of ownership, than a tenant fEurmer,
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 fEurmers 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

The Hunting Farmer. 47

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 farrows ; 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

48 The Hunting Farmer,

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 Uve 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 fiArmer 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, flat hats, and other innovations

The Hunting Farmer. 49

which, I own, are somewhat distasteful to me.
And there is, too, the ostentatious farmer, who
rides in scarlet, signifying thereby that he sub-
scribes 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 ;

4

50 The Hunting Fa/rmer.

and you wiU often find Bmouldering 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 under-
stands 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 fiArmer.
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.

Ik

The Hunting Farmer. 51

I bad 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 eflfect of which will possibly be
a temporary distaste to straight riding, — no one's
knowledge as to the line of the lanes is so ser-
viceable as that of the farmer.

As to riding, there is the ambitious fiEtrmer
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 selHng his horse, and, riding with
that view, loses for the time his position as
farmer; or he is some exceptional tiller of the

4 — 2

62 The Hunting Farmer.

soil who probably is dangerously addicted to
hunting as another man is addicted to drinking ;
and yon 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 fEirmer 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

The Hunting Farmer. 63

of businoss 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 extra-
ordinary 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.

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 shop-
keeper, — who never has a holiday, and does not

54 The Hunting Farmer.

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

fe

The Hunting Farmer. 55

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

^

56 The Hunting Farmer.

when he is wanted, he can always do his
work.

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 hnnt 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 comfort-
able county. Such little impediments were the

58 The Mem tvho Hunts

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 have
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 when-
ever an idea of riding at them presents itself. It

and never Jumps. 69

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 them-
selves who never by any chance commit them-
selves 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

60 The Man who Hunts

pursuit. But the man who hunts and never
jumps, — who deliberately makes up his mind that
he will amuse himself after that fiashion, — 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 &ce 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

k

and never Jvmps, 61

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 feeUng of a prison under the open
air is very terrible, and is rendered almost ago-
nizing 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

62 The Man who Hunts

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, pre-
suming 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 amuse-
ment to that pursuit ; and of a certain phase of
hunting he at last learns more than most of those

k

and never Jwmpa. 63

who ride closest to tiie hounds. He becomes
wonderftdly skUful 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 nur-
series, or are likely to locate them. He remembers
the drains on the different farms in which th§
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 ^ay 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

64 The Man who Htmta

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 pomt. H 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 fiEurmer 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 turn-
ing from him, he is generaUy 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 patro-
nizes 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.

and never Jumps. 65

'* The fox broke, you know, from the sharp comer
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 bam." *' Of course
he did," says one of the unfortunates who thinks
he remembers something of a bam 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 comer; 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

6

66 The Man who Hunts

as having been among the nnmber. ''Well;
then he went across by Ashby Grange, and tried
the drain at the back of the fiEuinyard, 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 fall 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

and never Jwrnps. 67

go into the little wood there^ and as there isn't
as much as a nutshell open fois 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, how-
ever, 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 dreadfdl feeling of
absolute failure which comes upon an inexpe-
rienced 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

6 — 2

68 The Man who Hunts

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
stem 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

and never Jumps. 69

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 irumpet 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

70 The Man who Hunts and never Jumps.

made for tbemselyes a very wide circle of
hontdng 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 cha-
racter 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 pre-
pared to say that the world is wrong. Had my
pastors and masters, my father and mother, to-
gether 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

72 The Himting Parson,

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 profes-
sional 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 hmit 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,

The Hunting Parson. 78

this is BO 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 de-
grade 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

74 The Hunting Parson,

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 ex-
cept 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 proba-
bility 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 farther promotion.
But should a young curate show himself in the
pit, he would be but a lost sheep of the house

The Hunting Parson. 75

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 them-
selves qualified to rival St. Paul in their lives ;
and they who have not thought of it find them-
selves 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

76 The Hurtting Parson.

sayonr of wickedness about it in the eyes of the
old ladies which almost takes it oat of their list
of innocent amusements even for laymen. By
the term old ladies it will be understood, per-
hapSy that I do not allude simply to matrons
and spinsters who may be oyer the age of sixty,
but to that most respectable portion of the world
which has taught itself to abhor the pomps and
Taniti^. Pomps and vanities are undoubtedly
bad, and should be abhorred; but it behoves
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. Hunt-
ing is done by a crowd; but men who meet
together to do wicked things meet in small par-
ties. Men cannot gamble in the hunting-field,

The Hunting Parson. 77

and drinkmg there is more difficult than in ahnost
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

\

78 The Htmting Parson.

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 ^nd 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, making 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 4lie banker about

The Htmting Parson. 79

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 clergy-
men, 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 com-
fortable and bold in breeches, or he may be
uncomfortable and semi-decorous in black trow-
sers. And there is another mode of dress open

80 The Hunting Parson.

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 im-
petuoaity of the young is driving men three at a
time into the same gap, when that wild excite-
ment of a fox just away ia at its height, and
ordinary sportsmen are rushing for plaoes, —
though at theae moments the hunting parson
may ho able to restraiii himself, and to declare
by hia momentaiy tranquillity that he is only
there to see the hounds, he will ever be found,
seeing the hoands also, when many of that

The Hunting Parson. 81

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 Ml 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 neyer 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

6

82 The Htmting Parson.

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 fashions 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

The Hunting Parson. 83

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.

6— a

THE MASTER OF HOUNDS.

-•O^

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

86 The Master of Hounds.

then makes his appearance, driving the hardest
bargain that he can, pnrposing 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 dis-
agreeable 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

b

The Master of Hounds. 87

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

V

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 ope 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

i

88 The Master of Hounds.

hae to preeide. It ia a poaitioQ in wMcli no
man can be popular without wealth, and it is
a position wliich no man should seek to fill
imless he he prepared to spend his money for
the gratification of others. It has been said of
piasters of honnds that they mast always haTe
their hands in their pochets, and mnst always
have a guinea to find there ; and nothing can
he tmer than this if snccessfnl hunting U to
be expected. Men have hunted conntries, doubt-
less, 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. Dis-
tant coverts, which are ever the best because
lesa frequently drawn, are deserted, for distance
of course adds greatly to expense. The formers
round the centre of the county become snllen,
and those beyond are indifferent ; and so, from
bad to worse, the famine goes on till the hunt

The Master of Hounds. 89

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
ever-running 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 sub-
scription, 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

90 The Master of Hounds.

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 neces-
sity for space increased, — ^increasing from increase
of hunting ambition, — the richer and more ambi-
tious 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 expendi-
ture, 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 Fitz-
hardinge, and after such manner is, 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

The Master of Hounds. 91

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 auto-
cratic, 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 ad-
vertise his meets for eleyen, with an under-
standing that the hounds were never to move
till twelve, when he intended to be present in
person. Such was the case with Lord Fitz-
hardinge, 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 them-
selves contribute to the cost of their own amuse-
ment.

Our master of hounds shall be a country

92 The Master of Hounds.

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 offcener. 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

The Master of Hounds. 93

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 sub-
scribed will leave the master free of expense. As I
have said before, he should be a rich man. What-
ever 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

94 The Master of Hounds.

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 his
salary as Lord Mayor, but if he do not spend
more than that on his ofiEice 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 livery-
men. As long as he fairly performs his part of

The Master of Hounds. 96

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 ear-
shot. 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

96 The Master of Hounds.

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 make-
weight 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 Mansion-
house, 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 present writer by no means considers

The Master of Hounds. 97

himself equal to such a task. But it is multi-
farious, 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 skiU 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 that 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

7

98 The Master of Hounds.

austerity. It used to be said that no captain of
a man-of-war could hold his own without swear-
ing. 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
hoimds. 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 in-
fluence which his position gives him. The
master who can make that influence suffice with-
out 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 with-
out it, and some such efforts are successful;
but any man who has himted for the last
twenty years will bear me out in saying that
hard words in a master's mouth used to be

i

The Master of Hounds. 99

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

m

fashion. Popular masters of old-established
hunts sin against their fellows in the same way.

7—2

100 The Master of Hounds.

But when it comes to a man to fill up all these
positions in England, enyy 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 re-
peated, 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.

102 Hhw to Ride to Hounds.

Let it be understood that I am speaMng of
fox-bantiBg, and let the young beginner always
remember that in honting the fox a pack of
hoondfl is needed. The hnntsman, with his
BerrantB, and all the soarletr-coated horsemen
in the field, can do nothing towards the end
for which they are assembled without hounds.
Be who as yet knows nothing of hunting will
imagine that I am langhing 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 huDted without hounds.
A fox ia seen to break from the covert, and
men ride after it; the first man, probably,
being some canning sinner, who wonld fain
get off alone if it were possible, and steal a
march npon the field. But in this case one
knave makes many fools ; and men will msb,
and ride along the track of the game, as though
they conld hunt it, and will destroy the scent

How to Ride to Hounds. 103

before the hounds are on it, — following, in their
ignorance, the footsteps of the cnnning 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 fieu^ 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

104 Sow to Bid« to Hounds.

hangB on tha fact in question. Men cannot
ride to hounds if the hoonds he not there.
They may ride one after another,, and that,
indeed, suffices for many a keen sportsman ;
but I am now addressing the youth ^rho is
ambitions of riding to hoonds. But though I
have thas began, striking first at the very root
of the matter, I mast go back with my pnpil
into the covert before I carry him os through
the ran. In riding to hoands there ia mnch
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 previoas knowledge.
Then the horse, with his qaalities, comes into
play ; and if he be np to his basinesB 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 role. It comes sometimes, and is the
creun of banting when it does come ; but it

How to Ride to Hounds. 105

does not come as often as the enthusiastic be-
ginner 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 plan-
tation 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 niore 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

106 How to Ride to Hounds.

creep out, as he will hope, unobserved. Un-
observed he will not be, for the accustomed eye
of some whip or servant will have seen him from
a comer. 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 &il 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

How to Ride to Hounds. 107

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 gaUopping up and
down the rides as the fox crosses and re-
crosses 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

108 How to Hide to Hounds.

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 comer, 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
doe's go, your difficulties may be but beginning.

How to Ride to Hounds. 109

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 comer. You, who
are a beginner, hear nothing of his going; and
when you rush ofif, 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 cha£f 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

110 How to Bide to 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 yon 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
fan 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 I

But at present the fun shall not be finished, and
we will go back to the wood from which the fox is

How to Ride to Hounds. Ill

just breaking. You, my pupU, 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, through-
out 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 £Eist run your horse may, of course, tsSl
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 firee 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 ofiended when I suggest to you what
those difficulties are, and suggest also that such
as they are even they may overcome you. You

112 How to Ride to Hounds.

have to choose your line of riding. Do not let
your horse choose it for yon 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. Tou 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 diflFerent from your object. Some wiU 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

How to Ride to Hounds. 113

away to some other covert because the fox may,
perchance, be going there. Some are thinking
of the roada. 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 re-
member 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

8

114 How to Ride to Hounds.

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 hunts-
man'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

1^

How to Ride to Hounds. 116

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.

THE END.

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FMd. Hv, CtaerrenlL tlAHwed. Price 3i.

DIBEOTIOHS FOB TNTROnTJCTNOt ELEUEZTTABT

DRAWINO IN BCHOOI^ AND AMOKQ WOBKUEN. PobUibed it the teonat ot
<lie Sodelr of Arte. Bnull 4U). cloth. Price 4i. td.

H^nSTBATIOSTB TO BE EUFLOTED IS TBE FBAC-

TICAL LE^iOHS ON BOTANT. AcUpud to ill cliMBf. Pr«iHrad for Ihe Sootti Ken-
tbljpa a Uleenm. Bj the HEV. PROF. HdNSLOW. With lUnitiiUiiu, Port liro.

SBAWIHO FOB BTiEMEMTABT SCHOOLS : Being a Manoal

of tbe Uetbod of Teushlig Dnwiiig, ipecUlT MUpUd for Uk Dk of Uuian o( NiUoml
and Pirochlil BcbooU. ig BLuFa, DATIieON, Btid .Muter of the Cheiter Scbsol-
of Art. Pnbllelwd Diider tbe hidcUod of tbe Sdence ud Art Depulmeat of the Com-
mlttea of Ooimcll ot EdoaUiML Pott no. doth. St.
HLBHENT8 OF QEOUETBIOAIi DBAWXEVO ; or "Prtu^rml
Geometiy, Plaoa uid SolM, iQCIodtng both Onhc^nphlc end PenpectlTe

f