Stags in the forest lie, hares in the valley—O! Web-footed otters are speared in the lochs!
Beasts of the chase that are not worth a tally-ho!
All are surpassed by the gorse-cover fox.
Fishing, though pleasant,
I sing not at present,
Nor shooting the pheasant,
Nor fighting of cocks;
Song shall declare a way
How to drive care away,
Hunting the fox!
THE fox-hunter loves the morning with a cloudy sky and a touch of east in the wind, and, luckily for him, he lives in a land where he can get it. From November till April he is happy to live without the [Pg 158] sun, and it is the little red rover that makes him more than content to stay at home, while his unlucky compatriots are chasing the sun to Monte Carlo or the banks of the Nile. There is a charm about English country life that is a full compensation for all the discomforts of a fickle climate. The inconstancy of the sun, and the variableness of our weather, prevent life in England from ever being monotonous. A hunting-man cannot go to bed with any certainty of being free from an exciting anxiety about the weather, any more than he can go to cover with any confidence that scent will be good or that a fox will run straight. He can get between the sheets, and let his fancy picture an ideal day’s sport on the morrow, and himself being well carried over [Pg 159] the cream of the country; and yet, when he wakes, he hurries downstairs and on to the lawn with a stick, to poke about to see whether it will be possible to hunt at all.
If we could hook a salmon every time we made a good cast; if we could curl up the rocketing pheasant every time we pressed the trigger; if we could kill our stag every time we beaded him, there would be no pleasure and no satisfaction in such pursuits. No sport can give a greater variety of incident than fox-hunting, or such wondrous transformation scenes. Chance is the magic attraction of such pursuits; the element of the unknown the soul of all adventure.
All the surroundings of the chase minister to man’s passion for novelty, change, excitement, and to his love of movement, of display [Pg 160] of colour, or of the picturesque. The scene in which each act takes place varies not only with the formation of the ground, the alternation of hill and vale, of woodland and field, but alters its dress with every month, or with the infinite changes wrought by sun and skies. The line of a fox may be guessed, but never counted on; the pace of a run may be fast or slow; the end may be near or far distant. Scent, as incomprehensible as woman, may be good, bad, or indifferent; and when you trust it, it may suddenly jilt you; when cold, may turn as suddenly hot. The ill fortune of a day may be turned by a happy hit of hound or huntsman, or a run lost by a careless halloo or an unlucky cast. Your place with the pack will often depend on a decision taken quick [Pg 161] as lightning at a critical moment, or your discomfiture arise from half a pound too much pull on your rein as you come up to a fence. All these, and a thousand other elements of chance, keep the fox-hunters’ passion evergreen. The fisherman may weary of flogging the unresponding waters; the best shot, no matter how satisfactory his own performance, may feel sated with killing, grow disgusted at the shriek of dying hares, and have moments when he asks in vain for a logical defence of pleasure derived at the expense of wholesale slaughter and mutilation. There is no sport without blood, but there is no field sport with so little bloodshed about it as hunting. When the common fate overtakes [Pg 162] the little marauder of the night, it is usually after a well-matched struggle, and his end is swift as the lightning flash.
Every act in the drama on nature’s stage is full of interest and life, from the moment that hounds burst like a flood through the kennel door, the huntsman astride his knowing horse shoves his horn into the case, and “whips” scramble into their saddles—until, when the Master has sounded “home,” the last good-night has been answered as heads are turned in different directions, and the patter of the pack on the muddy road, and the echo of the horses’ feet, fades on the ear as at kennel fadge they trot home in the dusk. And in the interval between the dawn and close of a hunting-day no man can tell what he may do or [Pg 163] what he may see; a wild racing ten minutes’ burst, twenty-five minutes’ glorious galloping and jumping, or fifty minutes over the broad vale. However many good things a man in a long life may see with hounds, he will never see two alike; each will make a different call on his valour or discretion, and yield some new experience of the wonderful power of a good horse.
There is a fine array of arguments made use of by those who think it necessary to defend hunting or to recommend it. The farmer may be told it is good for him to see his seeds ridden over and his fences gapped, and that barbed wire is the unpardonable sin referred to in Holy Writ; that it is good for him, because hunting will enable him to sell hay, oats, and straw, and provide horses for his landlord’s stud; and [Pg 164] that his tolerance of damage will gain him the generous consideration of the proprietor of his fields; the statistician may marshal his figures and demonstrate the economic value of hunting to the provincial communities and the nation; the man with a liver may be recommended the exercise for his health; and the evolutionist may point out the progressive and physical development of man and horse that has resulted from this pastime of a country life. But hunting will never be pursued for utilitarian ends, or live because of the benefits it undoubtedly bestows on either the individual or the community. These apologies or commendations are the result of that solicitude that accompanies true love. The chase is so dear to the hunter that he has always the dread [Pg 165] upon him of losing it, as a lover’s hopes are mixed with the fears of losing what in his eyes only makes life worth living. Love of hunting is a passion, and, like other passions, is unreasoning and illogical.
A man may marry, but does he love a woman because she brings him a fortune, because it is his duty to the community, or because he feels he is a better man in doing so? While his passion lasts he is indifferent to the superior beauty, accomplishments, or wealth of any other.
A man loves the air of a hunting morning, the horse he is astride of, the cry of the hounds, the sound of the horn, and the cheer of the chase without knowing why or wherefore; and though there be no reason for it, the instinct is buried in the breasts of thousands [Pg 166] of non-hunting people, and the undefined sympathy of public opinion causes it to countenance visible damage that it would never tolerate for any arguments, however convincing, of duty to country or indirect benefit to the individual. It is to any thinking being touching to see the patience and kindliness shown, by a class that cannot afford loss, to those who ride over their holdings in pursuit of pleasure, which is often done with too little consideration for those without whose passive support their sport must come to an end.
The question of wire has in many districts become a serious one, but let the hunting-man ask himself how he would regard the subject if his own livelihood and home depended entirely on what he could make [Pg 167] of one or two hundred acres of land, and he were asked to forego, for the pleasure of others, the substantial saving and economy that a particular kind of fencing would enable him to make. No man hates the sight of wire, or laments the invention of the hideous barbed variety, more than the writer; but it appears to him worse than unjust to abuse and upbraid the farmer who puts it up. In the first place, the landlord, who is more often a worse friend to hunting than the tenant, is the man to whom representation should be made. A farmer may say, My ability to pay my rent depends on my carrying out this, with other economies; and if an occupier does not hunt, the only proper way to prevent his putting up wire is to compensate him for the loss which [Pg 168] he incurs by foregoing his right to do so. The men who can afford thousands for the maintenance of their studs may be expected to respond to an appeal to find a few pounds to secure the existence of hunting. On the other hand, the farmer who places wire so as to be a trap, without notice, deserves the censure of all who dislike a mean or cruel deed. In the north of England there are few counties where wire is a serious inconvenience, and I know of none where it is a danger that is likely to entrap a man, save on the rarest occasions.
Not only does the non-hunting farmer deserve all the assistance that lies in the power of master and field to show to him, but the shooting tenant should equally be the object of thoughtful and [Pg 169] kindly consideration. Half the sins of hunting-men, and nearly every complaint on their part of being ill-used, are the result of their own thoughtlessness and carelessness. As life yields its experience, the similarity of the average human nature, whether a man be peer, commoner, or peasant, becomes more and more apparent, as does the magic power of charity, that best cure and preventive of bad blood. A little attention, a little effort towards acquaintance, a few minutes given up now and again to a friendly chat, a word or two indicating an interest in their sport, or even a courteous salutation whenever occasion offers from the Master and his friends, will turn opposition into genial welcome in nine cases out of ten. It should be remembered [Pg 170] that these men are brother-sportsmen; circumstances or the ties of business may have placed hunting out of their reach. Love of field sports has led many men to make pecuniary sacrifices to obtain shooting for themselves and their friends. There is many a hard-worked man of business whose sole recreation consists in a day snatched from the cares of his office, or earned by working overtime. He may have one covert, affording one or two days’ sport out of the year, and he naturally looks forward to these rare occasions; but to have his little preserve rummaged by hounds, and himself abused for not having a fox always within it, will never teach him to love the fox-hunter. Great care should be used by an M.F.H. not to disturb and draw such [Pg 171] places without a courteous consideration of the shooting-tenant’s convenience, and when this is done it will generally be found that the shooting-man generously responds to the desire not to spoil his sport. Little harm is done to game by running through a covert, and unless the Master knew that such a place was just about to be shot, he could not be expected in a good run to stop hounds. Necessity knows no law, and in a good thing, and in the heat of action, fox-hunters would be false to their calling to abandon the pursuit without a very strong reason. Where there is any danger of an annoyance to a covert owner, a polite letter, or, still better, a call to explain, will probably cause the aggrieved one to discount heavily his previous estimate of damage done. There is little danger of misunderstanding between [Pg 172] game-preservers and hunting-men so long as they cultivate a neighbourly feeling and are kind to each other’s little weaknesses. Some of the best fox-preservers are game-preservers, and the best among these are not always those with the most extensive shooting. But where is the sum of all these generalities when the circumstances of each county differ? In some counties the game-preserver is a difficulty; in others, as in Norfolk, he has, with his armies in velveteen, kept fox-hunting almost off the land; in others there is little shooting and much hunting; in others again a good deal of both. In one hunt the very number who turn out, or a tactless Master, spoil the sport, while in another the field [Pg 173] consists, in the main, of farmers who take a neighbourly delight in riding over each other’s holdings. Whenever you see a hunt where wheat and seeds are ridden over more ruthlessly than usual, you may be sure it is a farmer’s country.
There are as many ways of hunting a country as there are styles of riding a horse. The object of one huntsman is to kill foxes, of another to give his field a run, of another to see hounds work. The character of the country itself decides in some degree whether hounds are to be left to themselves or handled. The great points and fine runs are for the open countries where coverts are few and foxes sufficient, but not too plentiful. In wild or rough countries, or in high-banked counties like Devonshire and Cornwall, hounds must to a great extent be made [Pg 174] self-reliant and left to hunt themselves. But fox-hunting, to be the real thing, must have dash and go. To spend half your life standing by a gorse watching a huntsman sauntering about, evidently equally pleased if he can catch a fox within its precincts as in the open; to march leisurely from one draw to the next; to see hounds kept to the skulking fox when old C?sar has taken the open; to follow a pottering hunt through hand-gates and across fences, when the huntsman’s course is pioneered by timber-felling and gap-making servants, is not hunting.
There are few ideal huntsmen. There is many a good kennel-huntsman, many a good rider to hounds who carries the horn; but they mostly fall into two categories, hound-men or horsemen. What is wanted is the [Pg 175] combination,—the man who can get anywhere with his hounds, who can infect the pack with his fire and dash while holding them in hand, who can throw their heads down or lift them, who never leaves them there at the critical check to mark the place where they had it last, and who, whilst rejoicing in the race for blood, can, when scent is catching and fallows are cold, keep himself in hand and enjoy the slow and patient unravelling of the puzzle. Swift and sure when he has the chance, slow but sure when needs must. A pack takes its cue from the huntsman, provided always he has a knowledge of his craft, for a pack will never heed a fool. A fast huntsman will make a fast pack; a pack handled by a dashing huntsman, if he be a huntsman, will drive; the slow huntsman [Pg 176] will have slack hounds,—but there is less danger that a cautious and deliberate huntsman will spoil hounds or mar sport more than the man who is for ever galloping his hounds. Do not imagine that when I speak of a dashing huntsman I mean a noisy, hollering, horn-blowing, harum-scarum Hotspur; but one to whom hounds rush, knowing he means to give them sport; who goes sharp to cover, and into it as if he meant business; who expects, as soon as the clear view-halloo tells that a fox has “gone away,” that, as he flies to the open, his whips will look sharp and get every eager hound to him; who intends that every man who wishes to go shall have the chance if he can give it them; and that till his fox is accounted for, his place is with his flying beauties.
[Pg 177]
Much of the comfort and pleasure depends on the Master; and if huntsmen vary, how various are the types of Masters! There are the jolly familiar ones, and the “speak-to-me-if-you-dare-sir” sort; there are the military precision, and the no-discipline-at-all kind. There is the M.F.H. who notices none but his intimates, who does not take the trouble to recognise his field, or say “good-morning” to the farmer, or “thank you” to the man who opens the gate. There is the damning cursing, swearing species—with varieties: the one that swears from bad temper; the one that swears thinking it is professional; and the one that swears from pure excitement. The first sort is always offensive, the second makes a mistake, and the last is sometimes [Pg 178] amusing. I have heard remarkable language proceed from the mouths of M.F.H’s., and heard them scream, bellow, and yell, sometimes with some cause, sometimes without. We can forgive it when it is the froth of enthusiasm. A friend of mine told me he heard a Master say to himself under his breath, while he watched his hounds eating their fox after a good run, with keen longing in his eyes, “Lucky devils. Now why the —— can’t I do that?”
When following the same hounds, I heard a whip slanged by one of the field for not getting a gate open quicker. “Well, you are a blank fool,” said the critic. “And so would you be a blank fool if you was called one every ten minutes.” But unhappily the expressions used by [Pg 179] M.F.H’s., when they throw their tongues, cannot always be considered fit for print. I heard a story once of a mail coachman who had been using such frightful language to his team that the passenger beside him at last remonstrated and said, “My friend, you should not use such language. Remember the patience of Job!” The coachman replied “Yes, sir; but did Job ever drive three blind ’uns and a bolter?” There is no doubt that a M.F.H. requires the patience of Job. His office at home, in the kennel, in the field is no sinecure; and few things try the temper more than to have worked hard to show sport, and then to see yourself defeated, and the enjoyment of your field spoiled by some individual act of thoughtlessness, ignorance, or idiocy. I am always [Pg 180] much more struck by the patience and forgiving disposition of masters than by their rough words. It is hard for the eager and impetuous, with every desire to give room to hounds, to have his forbearance rewarded by seeing some less scrupulous rider take his place. It is hard sometimes on a tearing flyer to get him pulled in at a moment’s notice. But a follower of hounds knows when he has done wrong, and seldom does a man catch it without deserving it; and if he is a sportsman, whose zeal only has outrun its discretion, he may be sure of forgiveness.
This is not the time to debate whether fox-hunting has a long life before it in crowded little England. Its existence depends on its [Pg 181] popularity. As long as an Englishman loves a horse and a hound, as long as hunting-men maintain the principles of equality and fraternity in the hunting-field, are generous to those who afford them the sport, are willing to give when they take, are considerate and kindly in their behaviour to all and every class with whom they associate—so long will the country be proud of its packs, and its people enjoy the sight of the scarlet coats coming by road and bridle-path, and public opinion will check the gin and gun of those who have a vulpicidal tendency. Like all the best amongst our institutions, fox-hunting is secure so long as it is broad based upon the people’s will.