“The hounds but chop, the game is strong,
That pace of plight cannot be long,
Hark! Tally-ho’s from yon far height,
And now the whiners wend in sight,
Through Silver Ghyll for Skiddaw Fell,
They’ll kill him if he goes to h—l!”

No description of fell hunting would be complete without a reference to John Peel, the famous Cumbrian Master and Huntsman.

Although Peel was well known in his own country, his fame did not extend beyond the North, until the old song, “D’ye ken John Peel?” became popular. The spirited verses had little vogue until after Peel’s death in 1854, when the song suddenly became fashionable. The original song differs in some respects from the modern version, particularly in the first line. “D’ye ken John Peel with his coat so gay?” is sung to-day, whereas the original is, “Did ye ken John Peel wi’ his cwote seay gray?”
 

Peel never wore a scarlet coat, his jacket was made of home-spun Cumberland wool, known locally as “hoddengray.”

The late Mr. Jackson Gillbanks, of Whitefield, gave a good pen-picture of John Peel, and I take the liberty of quoting it here. He said—

“John Peel was a good specimen of a plain Cumberland yeoman. On less than ￡400 per annum he hunted at his own expense, and unassisted, a pack of foxhounds for half a century. John has in his time drawn every covert in the country, and was well known on the Scottish borders. Except on great days he followed the old style of hunting,—that is, turning out before daylight, often at five or six o’clock, and hunted his fox by the drag. He was a man of stalwart form, and well built; he generally wore a coat of home-spun Cumberland wool—a species called ‘hoddengray.’ John was a very good shot, and used a single-barrel, with flint lock, to the last. Though he sometimes indulged too much, he was always up by four or five in the morning, no matter what had taken place the night before; and, perhaps, to this may be attributed his excellent health, as he was never known to have a day’s sickness, until his last and only illness.”

Mr. Gillbanks was also the author of the[72] following verses, published in the Wigton Advertiser:—
“The horn of the hunter is silent,
By the banks of the Ellen no more
Or in Denton is heard its wild echo,
Clear sounding o’er dark Caldew’s roar.
For forty years have we known him—
‘A Cumberland yeoman of old’—
But thrice forty years they shall perish
Ere the fame of his deeds shall be cold.
No broadcloth or scarlet adorn’d him,
Or buckskins that rival the snow,
But of plain ‘Skiddaw gray’ was his raiment,
He wore it for work, not for show.
Now, when darkness at night draws her mantle,
And cold round the fire bids us steal,
Our children will say, ‘Father, tell us
Some tales about famous John Peel!’
Then we’ll tell them of Ranter and Royal,
And Briton, and Melody, too,
How they rattled their fox around Carrock,
And pressed him from chase into view.’
And often from Brayton to Skiddaw,
Through Isel, Bewaldeth, Whitefiel,
We have galloped, like madmen, together,
And followed the horn of John Peel.
And tho’ we may hunt with another,
When the hand of old age we way feel,
We’ll mourn for a sportsman and brother,
And remember the days of John Peel.”

The late Sir Wilfrid Lawson also gives a good description of Peel. He says:

“I have seen John Peel in the flesh, and have hunted with him. He was a tall, bony Cumbrian,[73] who, when I knew him, used to ride a pony he called ‘Dunny,’ from its light colour, and on this animal, from his intimate knowledge of the country, he used to get along the roads, and see a great deal of what his hounds did. Peel’s grey coat is no more a myth than himself, for I well remember the long, rough, grey garment, which almost came down to his knees. No doubt drink played a prominent part—if it were not, indeed, the ‘predominant partner’ in these northern hunts. I have heard John Peel say, when they had killed a fox: ‘Now! this is the first fox we’ve killed this season, and it munna be a dry ’un!’—words of that kind being a prelude to an adjournment to the nearest public-house, where the party would remain for an indefinite time, reaching, I have heard it said, even to two days.”

In the book “Sir Wilfrid Lawson (A Memoir),” by the Right Hon. George W. E. Russell, it says:

“The famous John Peel, who is ‘kenn’d’ over the English-speaking world, was a Master of Foxhounds on a very primitive and limited scale, and hunted his own hounds in Cumberland for upwards of forty-six years. He died in 1854. By this time Wilfrid Lawson was twenty-five years old, and desperately fond of hunting. So, on the death of John Peel, with whom he had hunted ever since he could sit in a saddle, he bought Peel’s hounds, amalgamated them with a small pack which he[74] already possessed, and became Master of the Cumberland Foxhounds.”

The famous song, “John Peel,” was written by Woodcock Graves, an intimate friend of Peel. Graves emigrated to Tasmania in 1833, and spent the last years of his life there, far from the hunting country of his younger days.

John Peel was born at Grayrigg, and in later years lived at, and hunted from, his cottage at Ruthwaite.

The hunting man desirous of having a few days’ sport on the fells, can take his choice of five packs, i.e. the Ullswater, Coniston, Blencathra, Eskdale and Ennerdale, and the Mellbrake. The Ullswater hounds are kennelled at Patterdale; nearest railway stations, Penrith and Troutbeck (Cumberland). Mr. W. H. Marshall, of Patterdale Hall, is Master, and Joe Bowman is huntsman. Whipper-in, B. Wilson.

The Coniston are kennelled at Green Bank, Ambleside; nearest station, Windermere. Mr. Bruce Logan, of “Westbourne,” Bowness, is Master, and George Chapman is huntsman.
 
The Blencathra are kennelled at the Riddings, near Threlkeld; railway stations, Threlkeld and Keswick. Master, Mr. R. J. Holdsworth, Seat Howe, Thornthwaite, Keswick. Deputy Master, Mr. Andrew Anderson, Lair Beck, Keswick. Secretary, Jonathan Harryman, Howe, Portinscale,[75] Keswick. Huntsman, Jim Dalton. Whipper-in, E. Parker.

The Right Hon. The Speaker (Mr. J. W. Lowther) was Master of the Blencathra from 1903 to 1919. He resigned the Mastership in 1919.

Mr. George Tickell, of Shundraw, Keswick, was Secretary for fourteen years, and on the death of the late Mr. John Crozier, who was Master from 1839 to 1903, he held the Mastership until the appointment of Mr. J. W. Lowther. He then acted as Deputy-Master from 1907 to 1919, when he retired.

Mr. Tickell has hunted regularly since he was a boy at school, thus covering a total of nearly seventy years. He is still (1919) hale and hearty, and regularly attends the meets of the Blencathra.

The Eskdale and Ennerdale are kennelled in Eskdale. Master, Mr. W. C. Porter, Field Head, Eskdale, R.S.O. Railway station, Ravenglass. The late Tommy Dobson was Master of this pack from 1857 to 1910. Huntsman, the Master.

The Mellbrake are kennelled at Hope Lorton. Masters, Mr. Robinson Mitchell, Mr. E. A. Iredale and Mr. D. B. Robinson. Secretary, Mr. R. Rawling, Lanthwaite Green, Cockermouth. Huntsman, R. Head. Whipper-in, J. Norman. Nearest railway station, Cockermouth.

The Mellbrake and the Eskdale and Ennerdale are somewhat isolated from the other Hunts, but[76] it is often possible to attend meets of the Coniston, Blencathra and Ullswater during the week. Once or twice a season the Blencathra visit Wythburn, at the head of Thirlmere Lake, where they remain for the inside of a week. If during that week the Coniston and Ullswater are in their home countries, they can easily be reached from Windermere or Ambleside, by motor or cycle. If the visitor wishes to put in most of his time with an individual pack, he will find comfortable hotels and inns within easy reach of the kennels. There is, of course, a good deal of luck about hunting anywhere, but particularly so on the fells, where weather conditions are apt to interfere with sport. The fell packs usually account for from fifteen to twenty-five brace of foxes in a season, the number, of course, varying with the character of the seasons. In the 1918-19 season, the Ullswater brought to hand close upon thirty-five brace, while the other packs all did remarkably well. Considering the roughness of the country, such records are very good indeed.

Joe Bowman, the veteran huntsman of the Ullswater, is a personality in Lakeland hunting. He has carried the horn with this pack—with one short interval—since 1879, and is still hale and hearty. His fame as a huntsman reaches far beyond the borders of his own wild country, for he is well known to most keen hunting folk.
 
Except in certain parts of the low country, which are visited once or twice a season, riding to the fell hounds is out of the question. Even in the aforementioned districts it is a case of riding to points, and nicking in with hounds when the opportunity presents itself. There are places where, should you be lucky, you may chance to see the best part of a run from a main road below the fell. Such a place is the road which circles Thirlmere Lake, from which I have watched many a good hunt with the Blencathra. As a rule, however, it pays best to climb the fell, from which vantage point you are more likely to keep in constant touch with hounds. If you hang about the roads hounds may come back to you, but again they may not, and it requires a good deal of patience and self-control to remain where you are on the off-chance. Once on the fell top, it pays to stay there until hounds either drive their fox for the last time into the dale or run him to ground in some rocky “borran” (earth). It is much easier and quicker to walk round the fell tops than descend to the dale and have to climb out again.

In addition to the type of hound used, the method of hunting on the fells differs from that in the riding countries. There hounds are thrown into covert, from which in a few minutes they get away almost on top of their fox. While the same[78] thing sometimes happens with the fell hounds, as a rule, their fox is lying in some snug kennel at a height of two thousand feet or more, and before hounds can run him they must find him. To do this they quest for the drag, or in other words, they search for and pick up the line of a fox which during the night has visited the dale, and then before daybreak has returned to his mountain fastness. If the fox has cut his return trip rather fine, and hounds are out early, as they very often are in spring, the drag may prove a warm one. If it is cold and the fox long gone, it may require a lot of working out.

Anyhow, the same end is eventually attained, i.e. hounds gradually work up to the spot where their fox is lying. It may be on the ledge of some crag, or amongst the rocks strewn about the fell breast. Wherever it is, Reynard may wait till hounds are close to him, or he may steal away and, if unseen, gain a long start. As a rule, however, there are a few keen hunters scattered about the fell tops before hounds leave the dale, and the fox is lucky if he can slip away without the sharp eyes of some shepherd spying his movements. A series of shrill view-halloas soon bring hounds to the spot, and the run begins in earnest. Although such a halloa saves time when a fox has stolen away, it is a much prettier sight to see hounds find and unkennel their fox in a crag by themselves.[79] It is an exciting moment when Reynard springs up from his heather-covered ledge and goes shooting through the dangerous crag-face, en route for the open fell top. Hounds may be practically all round him at the time, but he dodges first one way and then another until he is clear, and amongst the rocks and rough débris of the fell-side, he is more than a match for the fastest hound.

If it is a clear day, with not too much wind, you can both see and hear hounds at some distance. If there is a mist, the music is your only guide to the whereabouts of the pack. If scent is at all good, not many minutes will elapse ere hounds have disappeared beyond your ken. You follow on, keeping to the good going on the fell top, and ere long you hear them again in another dale, still running strong. A thorough knowledge of the country and the run of the foxes will enable you to go far and more or less keep in touch, even on a misty day. If you are a stranger, you will be wise to stick to some local hunter, who will pilot you safely, although possibly at a rather faster pace than you deem compatible with such rough going. Mist is the fell hunter’s greatest bugbear. It may roll up suddenly and block out your entire view, shrouding you in a damp, grey mantle. Then all you can do is to pray for an occasional rift in the vaporous screen which will afford you a glimpse[80] of your whereabouts, and possibly reveal the hounds.

Sometimes when the dales are thick with mist the fell tops stand out quite clear, and you look down on to a white sea. Next to mist hard weather—especially when there is much ice on the crags—may stop hunting for a time. Snow is not so bad, for though it makes hard work of it for followers, hounds can get through it all right, and scent is often good when the white covering is damp.

I must not dwell on the dark days, however, for there are times when weather, scent, and all the rest of it goes right, and a day of this kind is a day to remember. The morning is fine and still, and the atmosphere so clear that every rock and stone stands out distinctly. The distant hills are tinted from indigo to mauve, and you wish you could transfer the glorious panoramic view to canvas. You are out early, having made a slow and easy ascent of the fell, and you sit down where you can command a view of the dale and the rough ground below you. Far away in the bottom you espy the huntsman’s scarlet coat, and those little white dots moving here and there are the hounds.
 
A faint note sounds, and then another, and gradually the music swells and grows louder. Hounds have struck a drag, and are making their way towards a frowning crag which juts out from[81] the rough breast beneath you. Your companion, a hill-shepherd, moves off a few paces in order to get a better view, then suddenly turns and points with his stick, exclaiming, “Sista, yonder he gars!” You look quickly towards the point indicated, and there you see him, a fine fell fox, his brush held stiff and straight behind him, moving along with the smooth gliding action peculiar to his kind. Once he halts and looks back, then he resumes his easy pace. Your companion runs a few yards down the breast, and you are treated to a sample of a dalesman’s view-halloa. Scream after scream rings out, echoing from the crags. The fox, still in view, and unhurried, stops at the sound, glances back, then mends his pace and disappears round the end of a jutting crag. Hounds come like mad to the halloa, scrambling up the steep ground at a wonderful pace. The leaders strike the line, and there is a burst of music as the remainder of the pack settle to it, and go racing through the breast. You watch them until hidden by a shoulder of the hill, then scan the fell head anxiously for their reappearance. They are almost out of hearing, but suddenly the cry is carried back to you clear and distinct, and you see them climbing out at the fell head, looking like white ants in the distance. One glimpse you get, and they are gone over the fell top, heading for the rough ground beyond.
 
Although you meditate following them, your better judgment prevails, for this dale has not been previously disturbed, and you know that a litter has been bred there. It is more than likely that the fox will return ere long, so you walk a short distance up the narrow trod leading to the tops, and sit down to listen. Scattered about the fell slopes are the little Herdwick sheep, tiny things in comparison with a Southdown, but famed for their quality as mutton. Overhead, wheeling in wide spirals, a buzzard is rising to a dizzy height, his shrill “whee-u, whee-u,” sounding clear and distinct. Over the fell head you hear the raucous cry of a raven, and catch sight of a black speck floating into the distance. A stoat, not yet in his winter coat of white, darts in and out amongst the rocks below you, and you watch his antics until a distant sound catches your ear. You listen intently, yes, there it is again, surely the cry of a hound, although still a long way off. They must be coming back, for the sounds are nearer now, and louder. You take the glasses from their case, and scan the fell head. Yes, there they come, running fast, and their fox cannot be very far in front at that pace. Quickly you scan the ground between, and at last you see him coming gamely along, but far from fresh. Below you is a well-known earth, which is no doubt his refuge, but to-day there[83] are figures standing about it, so his entrance will be barred.

You lose sight of him, then a view-halloa rings out, and a whip cracks sharply. He has swerved from the figures on the earth and hounds are gaining fast. Gradually they edge him lower and lower, until the last rock left behind, he is threading a narrow trod amongst the bracken. It is “all over bar the shouting,” as you dash down the long grass slope, clear the intervening wall, and drop panting into the allotment on the other side. A scramble through a stony beck, ending with a sharp run, brings you in sight of hounds, racing from scent to view. A sharp turn, a gleam of white fangs, and Stormer rolls him over, to be buried beneath a living avalanche of white, and black and tan. Who-hoop! Who-hoop!

Such is a day worth living for with a fell pack. A quick find, a fast hunt, a good place to see it from, and a kill in the open; what more could the heart of hunter desire? The man who does much fell hunting will get his share of such days, and when they come they amply repay him for any past disappointments.

The regular followers of the fell packs consist chiefly of shepherds, dalesmen and the like, comparatively few of the local “gentry” being sufficiently keen to take more than a passing interest in the sport. The fine air on the tops, and the[84] strenuous exercise, beat all your doctor’s medicine, but I am afraid in these modern days people believe more in the latter than the former. The working men in the dales are the keenest of hunters. No matter on what task they are engaged, when hounds come near, they down tools and join in the chase. They work hard, t............