It is hardly possible to overrate the value of hunting as a National
sport. Steeplechasing is a Grand-National sport, but it is the sport of
the rich, whereas hunting is not. By judiciously dodging the Hunt
Secretary, you can, in fact, hunt for nothing. Of course, people will
come at me open-mouthed for this assertion, and say, "How about the keep
of your horses?" To which I reply, "If you keep a carriage, hunt the
carriage horse; if you don't, borrow a friend's horse for a long ride in
the country, and accidentally meet the hounds." To proceed. This has
been a season of poor scent. Of course, the horses of the present day
have deteriorated as line hunters: they possess not the keen sense of
smell which their grandsires had. But despite this the sport goes gaily
on. There are plenty of foxes--but we cannot agree with the popular idea
of feeding them on poultry. And yet, in every hunt, we see hunters
subscribing to poultry funds. This is not as it should be: Spott's meat
biscuit would be much better for foxes' food.
But these be details: let us hie forrard and listen to the cheery voice
of sly Reynard as he is winded from his earth. The huntsman blows his
horn, and soon the welkin rings with a chorus of brass instruments; the
tufters dash into covert, and anon the cheerful note of _Ponto_ or
_Gripper_ gives warning that a warrantable fox is on foot--well, of
course, he couldn't be on horseback, but this is merely a venatorial
_facon de parler_. Away go the huntsmen, showing marvellous dexterity in
cracking their whips and blowing their horns at the same moment. Last of
all come the hounds, trailing after their masters--ah, good dogs, you
cannot hope to keep up very far with the swifter-footed horses!
Nevertheless, they strain at their leashes and struggle for a better
place at the horses' heels. "Hike forrard! tally ho! whoo-hoop!" They
swoop over the fields like a charge of cavalry. But after several hours'
hard running a check is at hand: the fox falters, then struggles on
again, its tail waving over its head. As its pursuers approach, it
rushes up a tree to sit on the topmost branch and crack nuts.
The panting horses arrive--some with their riders still in the saddle,
though many, alas! have fallen by the wayside. Next come the hounds, at
a long interval--poor _Fido_, poor _Vic_, poor _Snap_! you have done
your best to keep up, but the horses have out-distanced you! The
whipper-in immediately climbs the tree in which the little red-brown
animal still peacefully cracks its nuts, its pretty tail curled well
over its head. Its would-be captor carries a revolving wire cage, and,
by sleight-of-hand movement, manages to get the quarry securely into it.
Then he descends, places the cage in a cart and it is driven home.
The "mort" is sounded by four green velvet-coated huntsmen, with horns
wound round their bodies; a beautiful brush presented to the lady who
was first up at the "take"; and then the field slowly disperse. Tally
Ho-Yoicks! all is over for the day.
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[Illustration: MANNERS IN THE FIELD
Always be prepared to give the lead to a lady, even at some little
personal inconvenience.]
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[Illustration: THE PLEASURES OF HUNTING
Having been cannoned and nearly brought down, to be asked if you are
trying the American seat.]
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[Illustration: HUNTING SKETCH