4. Of dittoing a portion of the tails, and occasionally of the ears, of
our horses.
5. Of piercing with a sharp awl the ears of all our daughters, in order
to insert therein golden rings, which, by equalizing all, can confer no
possible benefit on any one: that is to say, provided Euclid is correct
in declaring that "when equals are added to equals, their sums are
equal."
If any person among us defaces a statue, he is liable to punishment
and to the execration of the public; and yet there can be no doubt
that in every sense of the word it is more barbarous to mutilate the
living original of an Almighty Creator than a cold stone or marble copy
thereof, chiselled more or less imperfectly by human hands.
About forty years ago it was the general custom to dock the tails of
all hunters, covert-hacks, and waggon-horses, so close, that nothing
remained of this picturesque, beautiful ornament of Nature but an ugly,
stiff stump, very little longer than the human thumb, which, especially
in summer time, was seen continually wagging to the right or left, in
impotent attempts to brush off a hungry fly, biting the skin more than
a yard off. At about the same period an officer in our army took to
the Cape of Good Hope a gentle, beautiful, thoroughbred mare, which,
to his astonishment, the natives appeared exceedingly unwilling to
approach. The reason was, that her ears had been cropped; and as among
themselves that punishment was inflicted for crimes, they were induced
to infer that the handsome mutilated animal had suffered from a similar
cause--in fact, that she was _vicious_.
From the same premises, and by the same reasoning faculties, they might
as erroneously have conceived that the holes bored through most of the
English ladies' ears denoted the existence of a uniform speck of some
sort or other in their characters.
Having briefly enumerated only a few of the mutilations which, in
different regions of the earth, man inflicts, not only upon the animals
around him, but upon himself, we will proceed to notice a prescription
of modern date which has produced very astonishing results.
As in crime there exists an essential difference between cutting off
a man's head, and cutting off only his hair, so in cruelty does there
exist a similar difference between the fashion which mutilates the
body of an animal, and that which deprives him only of its covering:
still, however, the practice of clipping, shaving, and singeing horses
must, to every person, at first sight appear so incomprehensible that
a slight notice of the subject may possibly be deemed worthy of a few
minutes' consideration.
To a wild horse, roaming in a state of perfect freedom, Nature grants
an allowance very similar to that which every inhabitant of Grosvenor
Square gives to each of his tall powdered footmen: namely, board,
lodging, and two suits of clothing per annum; with this important
difference, however, that while the poor pampered, gaudy menial is
ignorantly dressed throughout the whole year in cloth and plush of the
same thickness, the animal is beneficently provided with two different
descriptions of clothing, namely, a light thin silky coat for summer
wear, and a thick fur one to keep him warm and comfortable throughout
the winter months.
Now it might be expected that if man undertook to interfere with this
provision, he would, in accordance with the spirit and meaning of the
act by which it had been decreed, extend its principle by relieving the
horse of a portion of his covering during the excessive heat of summer,
and by bestowing upon him a little extra warmth in winter; whereas, by
the operation about to be described, he makes the animal's cold weather
coat infinitely less able to resist cold than that purposely created
for sunshine only.
About fifty years ago, during the Peninsular war, it was observed that
the Spanish muleteers gave to the animals they had charge of great
apparent relief by rudely shearing off the hair that covered their
bodies; and on the idea being imported into England, our hunting men,
principally at Melton, commenced the practice by "clipping," at a cost
at first of about five guineas, their hunters.
This operation, which, in its infancy, occupied four or five days, was
succeeded by the practice of shaving, which, in about as many hours,
left the animal as bare as the hide of a pig that had just been killed,
scalded, and scraped.
This latter operation, however, was found to be attended with two
opposite disadvantages: for, if perpetrated too soon, it required to
be repeated, or rather to be succeeded by clipping; and if delayed
till the growth of the thick coat had subsided, the horse remained
throughout the winter naked like an elephant.
In order therefore to shorten the coat exactly in proportion to its
uncertain growth, it was determined gradually and repeatedly to burn
it by fire to the minimum length prescribed, that is, leaving only
sufficient to conceal the bare skin.
When the animal has thus been denuded of his coat, so long as he
remains in his hot stable it is restored to him with compound
interest, by two, and occasionally by three suits of warm clothing,
which he might expect would, like that worn by his lord and master,
be increased as soon as he should be led from his covered domicile
into the open air. But the contrary operation takes place; for while
his owner is swathing himself in his extra flannel hunting clothing,
the singed quadruped at the same moment, in order to be taken to the
meet, at one haul is denuded of the whole of his indoor clothing, a
bridle is put into his mouth, a saddle on his bare back, and in this
state, literally, without metaphor, more naked than he was born, he is
suddenly led or ridden ten or fifteen miles through perhaps wind, rain,
sleet, or snow, to be exposed throughout the whole day to sudden sweats
and sudden chills, in temperatures and at elevations of the most trying
description.
Now, of course, in theory, nothing can be more unnatural, and it might
be added more barbarous, than this treatment; and yet, strange to say,
by acclamation it would be declared by every horse-owner who has tried
it that, in practice, it produces to the animal not only beneficial,
but unexpected, results.
The lungs appear to become stouter.
Hot swelled legs suddenly get cool and fine.
The appetite grows stronger.
The flesh increases.
The muscles thicken.
In consequence of greatly diminished perspiration the amount of food
necessary to recruit the body may be reduced, at least, one feed per
day.
After hunting, the skin, instead of breaking out from internal debility
and exhaustion, remains dry.
Lastly, as mud and dirt cannot take hold of a singed coat, and
consequently as little or no grooming is required, the animal, on
reaching his stable, soon enjoys rest, instead of being for an hour or
two teased, excited, and irritated, by being tied up, hissed at, and
cleaned.
But, against all these advantages, it is only fair to weigh the amount
of suffering which it is supposed by us a horse endures by being
stripped of his coat and clothing, and in that naked state being
suddenly plunged, during winter, into the external air.
In ascertaining this amount of suffering, however, we must not commit
the error of estimating a horse's sensation by what, under similar
circumstances, we imagine would be our own, for the cases are quite
different.
Throughout the frame or fabric of man, his blood, however proud it may
be, circulates so feebly, that on being subjected to a low temperature
it actually, like fluid in a pipe, freezes in his veins; whereas
throughout the body of a horse it is propelled with such violence,
that, like the deep water in the Canada lakes, it is beyond the power
of cold, however intense, to stop it; and accordingly, when everything
else around stands frozen, it triumphantly continues its fluent course.
In fact, the relative power of the two animals to resist cold is fully
proportionate to the difference between their muscular strength; and
as the human being, notwithstanding its weakness, is strong enough to
endure the sudden transition from a hot bath to a cold one, or, as
is the custom in Russia, to a roll on the snow, so, à fortiori, is a
hunter gifted by Nature with a circulation of blood powerful enough
to enable him, without injury or suffering, to bear an apparently
unnatural mode of treatment, which, although it makes _us_ almost
shiver to think of, is productive to his stouter frame of beneficial
results, of inestimable value.
+Meet of the Pytchley Hounds at Arthingworth.+
Among hunting men there is nothing so unpopular as what is called by
the rest of the world a most beautiful, clear, bright day. The gaudy
thing is disagreeable to eyes because it is dangerous to the bodies
to which they respectively belong; for when every twig glitters in
the sunshine, and every drop of dew that hangs upon them looks like a
diamond, the fences so dazzle the eyes of riders, and especially of
horses, that a number of extra falls are very commonly the result.
Soft ground, dull weather, an easterly wind, and a cloudy sky, form
the compound that is most approved of. On such a day, and under
such circumstances, we beg leave to invite our readers to sit with
us patiently for a very few minutes in a balloon, as, like a hawk
hovering above a partridge, it hangs over the quiet little village
of Arthingworth, in Northamptonshire. Those hounds, headed by that
whipper-in riding so lightly and neatly on his horse, and surrounding
their huntsman Charles Payne, jogging along, seated in his saddle as if
he had grown there, are on that portion of the Queen's highway which
connects Northampton with Market Harborough. They are the Pytchley
hounds, the hereditary property, not of the present master, but of the
hunt. They are on their way from their kennel at Brixworth to a park
at Arthingworth to draw "Waterloo Gorse," which means that every man
who intends to come (and their name is legion) will send there, not
his best-looking, but, what is infinitely better, that which he knows
to be "his best horse," simply because the covert of Waterloo not only
usually holds a good fox, but because it is encircled by very large
grass-fields, enlivened in every direction by the severest fences in
Northamptonshire. See how quietly along every high-road, bye-road,
and footpath, horses and riders, of various sizes and sorts, walking,
jogging, or gently trotting, are converging towards a central point!
Schoolboys are coming to see the start on ponies; farmers on clever
nags; others on young horses of great price; neatly-dressed grooms,
some heavy and some light, are riding, or riding and leading, horses
magnificent in shape and breeding, in the most beautiful condition,
all as clean and well-appointed as if they had been prepared to do
miserable penance in Rotten Row. And are all these noble and ignoble
animals beneath us going to the hunt? Yes, and many more that we cannot
see. Look at those straight streams of white steam that through green
fields are concentrating from north, south, east, and west upon Market
Harborough, from Leicester, from Northampton, from Stamford, and from
Rugby--denoting trains that, at the rate of thirty or forty miles an
hour, are hurrying boxes all containing hunters for the meet.
On the huntsman and hounds slowly entering and taking up their
positions in the small park at Arthingworth, excepting two or three
farmers, no one is there to receive or notice them. However, in a few
minutes, through large gates and through smaller ones, grooms on and
with their horses walk steadily in; while Charles Payne, occasionally
chucking from his coat-pocket a few crumbs of bread to his hounds, most
of whom are looking upwards at him, leaning over his horse, is holding
confidential conversation with a keeper. "_It's too bad!_" whispers an
old farmer, who had just been entrusted with the secret that another
fox had last night been shot by poachers; "_and, what's more, it's been
a-going on +IN MANY WAYS+ a long time_." "_Yes!_" replies Charles
Payne, looking as calmly and philosophically as Hamlet when he was
moralising over Yorick's skull; "_you may rely upon it that, what with
greyhounds,--and poachers,--and traps,--and poison,--there are very few
foxes now-a-days that die a natural death_"--meaning that they were not
eaten up alive by the Pytchley hounds.
But during all this precious time where are all the scarlet coats? Oh!
here they come, trotting, riding, and galloping to the meet from every
point of the compass, and apparently from every region of the habitable
globe, some of the young ones--diverging as usual from their path of
rectitude--to lark over a fence or two. Along the turnpike and country
roads, drags with four horses, light dog-carts with two, post-chaises
and gigs, each laden with men muffled up in heavy clothing, showing no
pink, save a little bit peeping out at the collar, are all hurrying
onwards to the same goal; and as these living bundles, with cigars in
their mouths, are rapidly landing in the park, it will be advisable
that we also should descend there to observe them.
By about a quarter before eleven the grass in front of the hospitable
hunting-box of one of the late masters of the Pytchley--who, take him
all in all, is one of the very best riders in the hunt--becomes as
crowded as a fair with sportsmen of all classes, from the highest rank
in the peerage down to--not exactly those who rent a 6_l._ house,--but
who can afford money and time enough to "_hoont_," as they call it.
While two or three well-appointed servants in livery are very quietly,
from a large barrel, handing glasses of bright-looking ale to any
farmer or groom who, after his long ride, may happen to feel a little
thirsty, and while others from white wicker-baskets are distributing
bits of bread and lumps of cheese to any man who may feel that beneath
his waistcoat there is house-room to receive them, the honourable and
gallant proprietor of the brown barrel and white baskets, lounging in
his red coat, &c., on his exalted lawn, with sundry small scratches
(from bull-finches) on his face, with something now and then smoking
a little from his mouth, and with that placid and easy manner which
in every situation of life distinguishes him, says to any friend in
pink that happens to pass him, "_Won't ye go +IN+ for a moment?_"
But, without invitation, most of the aristocrats, leaving their horses
with their grooms, to ascend a flight of ladder steps which raises
them to the lawn, walk slowly and majestically across it, adjusting
their hair, "just to make their bow." When that compliment has been
paid, they pause for a second or two in the hall, and then recross the
lawn, indolently munching, and with perfumed handkerchiefs carefully
wiping lips or mustachios (as the case may be), which, if they were
very closely approached, might possibly smell _partly_ of cherries, to
proceed to their respective grooms, and mount their horses.
"_Move_-+ON+,-_Sir_?" says Charles Payne, in his sharp, quick
tone, touching his cap to the master, who slightly nods to him.
"_Now-then,-gentlemen!_" he adds, "_ware +HOUNDS+, if you please_!"
and accordingly, surrounded by them, onwards he, his two whips, and
about two hundred horsemen, proceed at a walk to cross for nearly half
a mile magnificent fields of grass of from eighty to a hundred acres.
As the Pytchley and Quorn men are, for the reasons we have explained,
each mounted on the very best of their stud, it need hardly be stated
that the lot of horses before us are an accumulation of the finest
specimens in the world; and yet with the highest breeding, courage,
and condition, with magnificent figures, and with bone and substance
sufficient to carry, through deep ground, from twelve to eighteen
stone, there is a calm, unassuming demeanour in their walk, which it
seems almost impossible sufficiently to admire. In like manner, among
the riders, nobody appears to have the smallest disposition to talk
about what he is going to do, or apparently even to think of where
he is proceeding. A man from Warwickshire will perhaps describe the
run he had there on Thursday; while another will fashionably say to a
Leicestershire friend--"Did you _do_ anything on Friday?"--but most of
the field are conversing as they ride along, not at all about foxes,
but about Lords Palmerston, Derby, Italy, the Pope, &c.
On arriving close to Waterloo Gorse, Charles Payne pulls up to remain
stationary for a couple of minutes, surrounded by his hounds, who,
instead of gazing at his face, are all looking most eagerly at the
covert, until the two whips, getting round it, have each taken up
a position on the other side. "+Now-then+-_little-bitches_!" says
Charles, as, with a twitch corresponding with his voice, he waves
forwards his right hand, in which is grasped the silver horn presented
to him by the farmers. Without taking the smallest offence at the
appellation (which after all is a just one, for, as they are the
fastest of his two packs, Charles does not object to bringing them
to "Waterloo"), in they dash; and in a second Charles and his horse
are over the low flight of rails, to gallop along a briary path which
conducts them to a small open space in the centre of the covert. The
greater portion of the field, in coats of many colours, congregate on
its right.
But "quanto sono insensibili questi Inglesi!" Instead of evincing
the smallest degree of anxiety, the conversations we have described
are renewed; and though certainly nobody seems to care the
hundred-thousandth part of a farthing about what his lips are saying,
and though the countenance of every man appears to acknowledge that,
on the whole, he is well enough satisfied with this world, yet men
and horses remain perfectly cool, and occasionally cold, until it
might be fancied by any old soldier standing a mile off that a shell
had suddenly burst in the middle of them. "+Pray+, _don't holla_!"
exclaims an old sportsman in a loud whisper. "+By Jove, He's Away!+"
screams a very young one in pink, pointing to a shepherd who, grasping
a struggling dog with one hand, is holding up his hat with the other.
Half a dozen loud, slow, decisive, monotonous blasts from Charles
Payne's horn are instantly heard, while his hounds, tumbling over each
other, jump almost together over a small hedge and ditch out of the
covert, with their beautiful heads all pointing towards Leicestershire.
As they and reynard take the opposite side of the large grass field
in which the riders had assembled, the start of the latter is very
nearly as sudden as that of the former. Packed together almost as
closely as the wild young creatures that on Epsom course run for the
Derby, the best men and the best horses belonging to the Pytchley,
Quorn, Cottesmore, and Warwickshire hounds start together over turf
down a gentle declivity, at the bottom of which runs an insignificant
stream. Steady horsemanship in every rider is necessary to prevent
treading on those immediately before, or jostling those on each side.
Many a horse, by shaking his head, clearly enough shows how unwelcome
to him is the restraint. From this conglomeration nearly a dozen
men extricate themselves by the superior speed and management of
their horses. Before them[G] is a well-known broad and strong fence,
which, without competing against each other, they most gallantly
charge, "magnâ comitante catervâ," followed by the great ruck.
One,--two,--three,--four,--five,--six men and horses take it almost
together in their stride, and, to the astonishment of the remainder,
all disappear! Every horse had well cleared the broad ditch
on the other side, but all nearly simultaneously had landed in an
artificial bog beyond it, made for draining purposes only a few days
before, and in which the six men and the six horses, each perfectly
unhurt, are now as prostrate and as "comfortable" as if they had, to
use the old nurse's expression, "just been put to bed." The Hon. Fred.
Villiers and Harry Everard are the first over and down. As they lie
together in the mud, looking upwards, they see coming over the stakes
of the hedge the Fitzwilliam girths of the horses of Henry Forrester
and Thomas Atkinson (_Vive L'Empereur!_), followed almost instantly
by two strangers. However, nearly as quickly as they all fell, they
severally arise, mount their horses, and gallantly regain the hounds.
The field of riders, unable to comprehend what has happened, and
moreover unable as well as unwilling to stop their horses, as it were
by word of command, all gracefully swerve together in a curve to the
right to take two stiff fences instead of one. About half a dozen, on
perfect timber-jumpers, cross a ditch overhung by a stout ash rail,
firmly fixed between two trees; the remainder break their way through a
bull-finch, and then, throwing their right shoulders forward, at a very
honest pace, all make every proper effort to catch Charles Payne and
the few others who with him had followed the line of the hounds.
We should certainly tire and jolt our readers very grievously were we
to presume to hustle them through the well-known and splendid run that
ensued. Not only, however, do our limits forbid us to do so, but as we
shall shortly have to quote hunting-anecdotes from a very superior pen,
we willingly pull up to make, in cool blood instead of in hot, a very
few remarks.
[Footnote G: This scene we happened to witness.]
+Effects Caused by the Sight of Hounds.+
A description of a fox-hunt is not very agreeable either to read or
to write,--firstly, because it records a series of events of no very
great importance when they are over; and secondly, because the picture
generally bears the appearance of exaggeration; the reason being, that
it is composed of two parts, one of which it is almost impossible
accurately to delineate. The danger or difficulty which a man and horse
incur in taking any particular leap depends on the one hand upon the
size of the fence, and on the other upon the combined amount of weight,
strength, and activity which the horse can bring up to it. In trade,
if a given weight, whether small or great, be put into one scale, it
can be at once over-balanced by putting a still greater weight into
the other scale. But while the dimensions of a fence can accurately
be measured, it would be not only very difficult to determine the
physical powers of a hunter, but, even if the statement could be
made, ninety-nine people out of every hundred would most certainly
disbelieve it; for, as the old proverb says, "seeing is believing;" so
when a man has ridden a horse across his farm for many years, he is
fully persuaded that,--to use another common expression,--"he knows
what he is made of." But the truth is, he only knows what he has done,
and what he can do under the maximum of excitement he hitherto has ever
experienced; what he does _not_ know, and indeed what without trial he
can have no idea of, is the enormous amount of latent physical power in
his horse which even the sight of hounds will develop.
For instance, in riding a hack along the road, the confidence or, as
it may be termed, the courage of the rider depends not on himself,
but on the strength and action of the animal he is bestriding. If
the nag picks up his feet quickly, and pops them down firmly--if he
goes stout in his canter and strong in his gallop, his owner rides
_boldly_. If, however, the very same hero crosses a poor, weak, weedy
animal, with strait action, tripping in all his paces, and with his
toes sending almost every loose stone rolling on before him, he
declares the instant he dismounts that he has been _frightened_; which
difference, in truth, only means that, on trial, he has satisfactorily
and unsatisfactorily ascertained the physical powers of the first horse
to be amply sufficient, and those of the last totally insufficient,
to perform the given amount of work he requires. Now it is really no
exaggeration to say, that the excitement to a horse caused by the
presence of hounds creates in his physical powers as wide a difference
as exists between those of the two nags just described. The old,
jaded, worn-out, "groggy" hunter, who came hobbling out of his stable,
and who has been fumbling and blundering under his groom along the
road, no sooner reaches the covert side than, like a lion "shaking
the dew-drops from his shaggy mane," he in a moment casts away the
ills which flesh is heir to--in short, his prostrated powers suddenly
revive; and accordingly it is on record, that in one of the severest
runs with stag-hounds ever known in Essex, the leading horse was aged,
twenty-two. Again, on the road, when a horse has travelled thirty or
forty miles, he usually becomes more or less tired; whereas, during
the ten or twelve hours that a hunter is out of his stable, he will,
with the utmost cheerfulness, besides trotting more than that distance
on the road, follow the hounds for many hours across a heavy country
and large fences; and as it is well known that, in harness, a horse is
less fatigued by trotting before a carriage on a hard macadamized road
for forty miles than in dragging it through an earth road for ten, it
would appear almost fabulous to state how many miles on the road, or
especially on dry turf, could be performed by the amount of excitement,
activity, and strength expended by a hunter during a long and severe
day's work.
For the foregoing reasons, if a man during summer rides his hunters, he
will see a variety of fences which, as he quietly ruminates, he will
pronounce to himself to be impracticable, simply because he can both
see and feel that they are greater than the powers he is bestriding;
and yet, when the trees are leafless and the hounds running, if he
happens on the same horse to come to these very fences, he crosses them
without the smallest thought or difficulty--not because _he_ is excited
(for the cooler he rides the better he will go), but because, while
the height and breadth of each fence have not since he last saw them
increased, the physical powers of his horse, developed by hunting, have
been, to say the least, doubled. The scales which in summer had turned
against him now preponderate in his favour; and accordingly Prudence,
who but a few months before, with uplifted hand, had sternly warned him
to "_beware_!" with smiling face and joyous aspect now beckons to him
to "_Come on_!"
The feats which the mere skin and bones of a horse can perform during
hunting are surprising. The comparatively small shin-bone of his hind
legs will, without receiving the smallest blemish, smash any ordinary
description of dry oak or elm-rail, and occasionally shiver the top
of a five-barred gate, and yet, strange to say, though the frail bone
so often fractures the timber, the timber is never able to fracture
the frail bone, which, generally speaking, receives not the smallest
injury from the conflict. Again, when even a singed horse at great
speed has forced his way through a high, strong, spiteful-looking
thorn-hedge, frightening almost into hysterics the poor little
"bull-finch" that is sitting there, he almost invariably passes
through the ordeal with his skin perfectly uncut, and often not even
scratched!--nay, a horse going at great speed may be thrown head over
heels by a wire fence without receiving from it the smallest blemish!
The trifling facts we have just stated will, we believe, not only
explain the courage and physical powers of a hunter, but the difficulty
of describing to non-hunting readers, without an appearance of
exaggeration, the feats which, during a run, he can without danger or
difficulty perform; for, instead of boasting about a large fence, it
is an indisputable fact that it is infinitely safer for the horse, and
consequently for his rider, than a little one, at which almost all
their worst accidents occur: indeed when a liberal landlord, for the
benefit of his tenants, cuts through their fields a series of narrow
deep drains, to be loosely filled up with earth, it is good-humouredly
said by hunting men, that he is "_collar-boning_" them!
And now it is an extraordinary truth that the excitement which the
horse feels in simply witnessing the chase of one set of animals after
another, seems to pervade every living creature on the surface of the
globe. In savage life, the whole object, occupation, and enjoyment
of man, whenever he is not engaged in war, consists in catching and
killing almost any of the creatures that inhabit the wilderness through
which he roams. In a drop of putrid water a microscope informs us that
animalcules of all shapes and sizes, with the same malice prepense,
are hunting and slaying each other. The 600 boys at Eton, if collected
together, would resolve readily among themselves to receive with
decorum, and no doubt with youthful dignity, any great personages about
to honour them with a visit; and yet, while the grand procession was
approaching them, or even just after it had arrived, if a rat were to
run about among them, all their good intentions in one moment would be
destroyed.
During the grand reviews in France of the Allied armies under the
command of Wellington, although the British troops had behaved steadily
enough at Waterloo, it was found that the presence and authority of
"the Iron Duke" were utterly unable to keep them immoveable as soon
as the hares began to jump up among them. Nay, at Inkerman, while the
battle was raging, several men of the Guards were observed by their
officers suddenly to cease firing at the Russians, who were close to
them, in order to "_prog_" with their bayonets a poor little scared
hare that was running among their feet!
In like manner, although the Anglo-Saxon race are proverbially
phlegmatic (a word described by Johnson to mean "dull; cold; frigid"),
yet no sooner do they hear, in the language of Shakspeare,
"The musical confusion
Of hounds and echo in conjunction,"
than the windows of manufactories are crowded with pale eager faces,
the lanes, paths, and fields become dotted with the feet and ankles of
people of various classes and ages, whose eyes are all straining to get
a glimpse of the run. If Dolly be among them, her cow, wherever she may
be, is quite as curious as herself.
As the fox, who has distanced his pursuers, lightly canters along
the hedge-side of a large grass field, the sheep instantly not only
congregate to stare at him, but for a considerable time remain
spell-bound, gazing in the direction of his course. Herds of bullocks
with noses almost touching the ground, and with long straight tails
slanting upwards, jump sometimes into the air, and sometimes sideways,
with joy. As soon as the hounds appear, the timid sheep instantly
follow them, and accordingly, almost before the leading rider can
make for and get through perhaps the only gap in an impracticable
fence, eighty or a hundred of these "muttons," with fat, throbbing,
jolting sides, rush to and block up the little passage, in and around
which they stand, forming a dense mass of panting wool, on which no
blow from a hunting-whip or from a hedge-stake produces the slightest
effect; and thus the whole field of gentlemen sportsmen, to their
utter disgust, are completely stopped. "_I had no idea_," lisps a very
young hard-riding dandy, in as feminine and drawling a voice as he can
concoct, "_I really hadn't the +SLIGHTEST+ idea, before, that sheep
were such ---- fools_!" But their offspring are, in their generation,
no wiser. A poor little lamb, almost just born, the instant it sees
the hounds, will not only leave its mother to follow them, but under
the legs of a crowd of horses--that if they can possibly avoid it will
never tread upon it--canters along, until, its weak knees and lungs
failing, it reels, and is left lying on its side, apparently dead.
+Cruelty of Hunting Considered.+
Over the closed eyes, panting flank, and exhausted frame of this tiny,
innocent, and yet seduced orphan, who had never known its father, and
has just lost its mother, we will venture to offer to our readers a
very few remarks on the strange dissolving view that has just vanished,
or rather galloped, from their sight.
"It's just," said Andrew Fairservice to Frank Osbaldistone,
"amaist as silly as our auld daft laird here and his gomerils
o' sons, wi' his huntsmen and his hounds, and his hunting
cattle and horns, riding haill days after a bit beast that
winna weigh sax punds when they hae catched it."
To the foregoing observation it might also have been added, that in the
extraordinary exertions we have described, the pleasures enjoyed by the
"bit beast" in being hunted, when compared with those of the two or
three hundred animals, human, equine, and canine, that are hunting him,
are as disproportionate as is his weight when compared to the sum total
of theirs.
"_No_!" said the haughty Countess of ---- to an aged huntsman, who, cap
in hand, had humbly invited her ladyship to do him the honour to come
and see his hounds, "_No! I dislike everything belonging to hunting--it
is so cruel_."
"+Cruel+!!" replied the old man, with apparent astonishment, "_why, my
lady, it can't possibly be +CRUEL+, for_," logically holding up three
fingers in succession,
"_We all knows that the +GENTLEMEN+ like it_,
"_And we all knows that the +HOSSES+ like it_,
"_And we all knows that the +HOUNDS+ like it_,
"_And_," after a long pause, "_none on us, my lady, can know for
certain, that the +FOXES+ don't like it_."
It may strongly be suspected, however, that they do not enjoy being
hunted to death, and consequently that the operation, whenever and
wherever it is performed, is, to a certain degree, an act of cruelty;
which it is only hypocritical to vindicate by pretending to argue that
Puggy has been sentenced to death to expiate his sins; for if, instead
of robbing a hen roost, it had been his habit to come in all weathers
secretly to sit on its nests to help and hatch the chickens, "_The
Times_" newspaper would have advertised "hunting appointments" which
would have been as numerously attended,--the hounds would have thrown
off with the same punctuality,--and men and horses would have ridden
just as eagerly and as gallantly to be in at the death of the saint as
of a sinner, whose destruction all barn-door fowls, geese, turkeys,
pheasants, and rabbits in his neighbourhood would certainly not be
disposed to regret.
As regards, however, the hunted animal, as well as the creatures that
hunt him, we will observe that the sufferings of a fox that is eaten up
by hounds are probably not much greater and possibly a little less than
those of the poor worm that on our hook catches the fish,--of the fish
that catches the worm,--of the live eels that we skin,--or of the sheep
and bullocks that are every day in thousands driven foot-sore to our
slaughter-houses.
If our Arthingworth fox had taken in "_The Times_," the Waterloo
covert, after all the preparations we have described, would most
certainly have been drawn "blank." But while undertakers in scarlet,
in black, and in brown coats, were expending many thousand pounds in
preparations for his funeral, he, totally unconscious of them, was
creeping within it, in the rude health and perfect happiness he had
enjoyed in Leicestershire, his native county.
All of a sudden he hears disagreeable sounds, and encounters unpleasant
smells, that sentence him without delay "to return to the place from
whence he came." With elastic limbs, and a stout heart to propel
them, "away" he starts. Everything he does evinces extraordinary
resolution, determination, and courage. While the high-bred hounds
that are following him over-top every hedge, _he_ dashes through their
boughs, thorns, and briars, as straight as an arrow from a bow. When,
on reaching the "earth" he has been making for, he finds that it is
stopped, instead of weakly dwelling there, "_away_" he again starts for
some other cunning hidingplace. As he proceeds, his wind, but not his
courage, fails him, until, on the pack approaching him, though any one
of them would have yelped piteously had but one of his toes been caught
in a trap, yet, so soon as the leading hound comes up, he pitches into
him, and when the infuriated pack rush in upon him, he invariably dies
in the midst of them, without the utterance of the smallest moan, sigh,
or sound. In fact, within the breasts of all who have pursued him
there does not exist a braver heart than that over which the huntsman,
cracking his whip to keep the hounds at bay from it, is triumphantly
crying "+Whoo-oop!+"[H]
+The Lamb and the Fox+.
But the plot of our drama thickens. For on the green carpet of our
little theatre, on which so many actors have been performing, there
now lie tragically before us, as it were side by side, the body of
a swooned lamb, and the carcase of a dead fox. Let us therefore for
a moment place each into one of the scales of Justice, to weigh the
relative specific gravities of these two tiny emblems--the
one of innocence, the other of guilt--as regards their utility to
man.
When a lamb has been nursed, reared, fattened, and killed, its quarters
afford say four good dinners, or possibly one dish only at four great
dinners, and as soon as, either above stairs or below, his bones have
been cleanly picked, the history of his usefulness is at an end. But
the benefits which a fox confers upon his country would, though stewed
down for hours, require very many more dishes to contain them.
If an individual migrates in search of happiness, he not only may
travel many a weary mile without attaining it, but sooner or later,
foot-sore, leg-wearied, and dejected, he will be sure to discover that
a very small proportion of the trouble, time, and money he has expended
would have procured for him at home contentment or peace of mind, the
greatest of all earthly blessings. For truly may it be said, that there
exists nothing in a garden or in a field more easy to cultivate than
domestic happiness, composed, as we all know, of innumerable small
fibres, which, by the laws of Nature, taking root in every direction,
attach a man, like Gulliver in the island of Lilliput, to the ground on
which he has happened to take rest.
A cynic may sneer at the rich man who, with his own hands, and with
bent back, sows flowers to deck his path, and who plants trees to grace
shrubberies to harbour the birds that are to sing to him. He may
despise him for delving and digging, for carpentering, lathe-turning,
and for other labour which a paid workman could infinitely better
perform. But if this labour sweetens the cup of human existence, by
giving that health to the body, which invigorates the mind for its
studies--in short, if this mixture of physical and mental exertion
results in producing contentment, the labourer, however high his rank,
without deigning to revile the philosopher, may justly return thanks to
that Almighty Power which, by such simple means, has enabled him, by
dulcifying his "domum," to produce for himself domestic happiness.
As, however, what is good for the parts must also be beneficial for the
whole, it must be evident that, in spite of the sneers of the cynic, it
is equally wise for a people to foster and encourage among themselves
any description of healthy recreation or amusement that may have the
effect of creating among the community not only a friendly acquaintance
with each other, but an indissoluble attachment to "the land they
live in." Indeed, if this salutary precaution were to be neglected,
lamentable consequences must ensue; for, like two merchants dealing in
the same article, so do Virtue and Vice strenuously compete against one
another, by each, at the same moment, offering to mankind, pleasures
for sale.
The great cities of the Continent, especially Paris, in this respect
possess powerful attractions, which, unless they were to be neutralized
or rather counteracted by national attachments of still greater power,
would inevitably drain from the United Kingdom, especially from the
country, a large proportion of those wealthy classes whose presence,
expenditure, and charity have proved so beneficial to their respective
neighbourhoods. In like manner, as Nature abhors a vacuum, so, if
the affluent among the middle and lower classes, with a little money
and leisure on hand, were to find themselves without some wholesome
recreation, it is proverbial that a certain sable personage, who
delights in idleness, would very soon, in his own service and in his
own peculiar way, "set them to work."
But however wise it may be for an individual within his own precincts
to create recreation to suit his particular palate, it is not so very
easy to concoct any amusement that shall be pleasing to the taste of
many ranks of the community as well as be generally beneficial to the
whole.
A public racket-court or fives-court can only contain a very small
party.
The far-famed national game of cricket (the stock in trade of which
consists of a ball, some bats, half-a-dozen stumps, and eleven players)
is adapted only to that bright, joyous, sunshiny half of the year,
which, with its flowers and fruits, hardly requires to be enlivened,
leaving the dreary months of winter totally unprovided with amusement.
What therefore, _pro bono publico_, we require is to invent, if
possible, some description of national recreation which, in all
weathers, shall concentrate in groups over the whole superficies of
the kingdom, people of all conditions, from the highest ranks down
to the lowest, to join together in a healthy, manly, harmless sport,
requiring coolness, good temper, science, and resolution: and lastly,
which shall manure, or top-dress, the entire surface of the country by
broad-casting over it, annually, a large amount of gold, silver, and
copper.
Now the invention of hunting produces all these beneficial results. At
the appointed meet, classes in ordinary life as distinctly separated
from each other as the various castes in India, first assemble
together, and then, during a good run, are jostled together in lumps,
and by bumps, which, by collision, produce many a spark of generous
feeling that, under ordinary circumstances, could not possibly have
been elicited. For instance, not very long ago, during a run in
Leicestershire, a well-dressed, good-looking young stranger was seen
to pull up, dismount, and run to the assistance of an old man lying
under a horse that was struggling violently above him. In extricating
the prisoner the liberator was repeatedly kicked. However, although
his flesh and coat were cut, and a silver flask flattened in his
breast-pocket, he resolutely effected his object and then cantered
away. "_Who's that?_" said a gentleman to a farmer who had gallantly
assisted in the extrication. "_I don't know his name,_" was the reply,
"_but, whoever he is, he stuck to him like a +RIGHT GOOD 'UN!+_" About
a month afterwards it transpired that the "right good 'un," who had
risked his life to help one he never before saw, and whom probably
he will never see again, was Lord C., now Marquis of H., and heir to
the dukedom of D. In the hunting field, unfettered by prescriptive
rights or privileges, the head and heart of man rise or sink to that
level, whatever it may be, that intrinsically is their due. In short,
irrespective of parentage, education, or income, any rider may assume
whatever position he can take, and, so long as he leads, no one can
prevent his wearing the honours, whatever they may be, of the day.
Hunting is generally accused of being a very dangerous amusement, and
yet by medical returns it might easily be demonstrated that it is not
so injurious to a man's health or so fatal to his life as going to a
succession of balls, or especially of good dinners; in fact, there
can be no doubt that a London season blanches, per cent. per annum,
more cheeks, and requires more physic and more coffins, than a hunting
season.
How little danger, instead of how much, belongs to hunting, is
daily proved by, comparatively speaking, the impunity with which
inexperienced people join in the chase. If a crowd of 150 or 200
persons of all ages and shapes, none of whom had ever before been in
a boat, were all of a sudden, say during Christmas holidays, to dress
themselves like tars, and then compete with sailors in every sort of
weather, the chances, or rather the certainty, would be, that, without
any disparagement to the art of boating, at least half of them would be
drowned from sheer ignorance and inexperience. Again, if an eccentric
gentleman in London, making his coachman stand up behind his carriage,
were to require his footman to drive it, the vehicle, before it could
reach the Opera-house, would probably be either smashed or upset; and
yet, its fate would not be admitted as proving that it is dangerous to
drive. In fact, it is a common proverb, that, in order to be proficient
in any trade, it is necessary to be first duly apprenticed to it. But
in the hunting-field no education at all is deemed requisite. And,
accordingly, so soon as a young man, "gentle or simple" (though oftener
simple than gentle), can get hold of money, he buys a stud of horses
and hacks, hires grooms, orders three or four scarlet coats with the
appurtenances thereto, goes to Melton, makes his formal appearance at
a crack meet, and his informal disappearance into the first brook, or
on the other side of the first fence he comes to, and yet, "_Oh!
+PRAY+ catch that horse if you please!_" is usually the only result,
repeated over and over again without injury to anybody. Now, if people
who really have never learned to ride, mounted on young horses who
have never learned to hunt, can thus attempt to follow hounds without
damaging much more than their clothes, it _ought_ to follow that an
experienced rider on a clever hunter has, at all events, not more
danger to apprehend than other people are liable to, who ride solely
on hard roads, on which a horse is very apt to travel carelessly, and
always falls heavily. Will Williamson, now upwards of eighty years of
age, who has been huntsman to the Duke of Buccleugh for more than fifty
years, and whose worst accident was lately caused by being overturned
in a dog-cart, still follows his hounds; and, in like manner, in every
part of the kingdom are to be found old men who, with very little to
complain about, have been hunting from their boyhood, and occasionally
from their childhood.
Charles Payne, the huntsman of the Pytchley, was much damaged by being
thrown out of a gig; while, a short time ago, his head whip, who had
fearlessly crossed almost every fence in Northamptonshire, dislocated
his shoulder by slipping off a little deal table. The gallant master
of the Tedworth hounds was severely injured in his conservatory; the
huntsman of the Surrey fox-hounds within his house by a fall. Lastly,
it may truly be asserted, that, in hunting, more accidents occur
from over caution in riders than from a combination of boldness and
judgment; indeed, if hunters could but speak, they would often whisper
to their riders, "_If you keep taking such affectionate care of +MY
HEAD+, you'll throw me +DOWN+._"
The encouragement given to farmers to breed horses of the best
description, the high prices paid to them for hay, oats, beans,
and straw; the sums of money expended for the purchase or rent of
hunting-boxes, lodgings, stables, carriage-houses, &c., added to a
variety of other incidental expenses, large and small, amount to a
grand total which it would be less easy to underrate than exaggerate.
But besides the sums which hunting-men, by maintaining from eight to
fourteen hunters, with grooms and strappers in proportion, distribute
in their various localities, in almost every county men of rank and
fortune step forward to support, more or less at their own private
cost, a huntsman, one or two whips, hounds, and a stable full of
horses, for the recreation and amusement of the community.
With this generous object in view, the late Sir Richard Sutton, for
many years, spent about 10,000_l._ a-year in maintaining two packs of
hounds and a stud of about fifty horses, for which he readily paid
enormous prices.
In any portion of the globe, except the United Kingdom, the price of
dog-flesh in England would appear utterly incomprehensible. In 1812
Lord Middleton gave 1200 guineas for the pack he purchased. When Mr.
Warde gave up the Craven country Mr. Horlock paid him 2000 guineas for
his hounds; while Lord Suffield coolly handed over to Mr. Lambton 3000
guineas for his pack without seeing them. To Mr. Conyers the master of
the Tedworth hounds offered for "Bashful" 100 guineas; and for another
bitch, called "Careful," 400 guineas, or 10,080 francs; a sum which, in
any village in France, would be considered for a peasant girl--though
neither bashful nor careful--a splendid marriage portion.
Before Sir Richard's death, Lord Alford, Lord Hopetoun, Lord
Southampton, and, since his decease, Lord Stamford, who keeps seventy
horses, have come forward to bestow upon the hunting counties around
them the same noble and munificent assistance which, on a smaller
scale, is as liberally given in many other localities; and yet, without
one minute item, the sum total of the enjoyment, the recreation, the
health, the good fellowship, the hard riding, the enormous sums of
money distributed over the United Kingdom to maintain that ancient,
royal, loyal, noble, and national sport which seriatim we have
endeavoured to describe would suddenly be annihilated, were we but to
lose that tiny unclean beast, that dishonest little miscreant that
everybody abuses--+The Fox.+
Ille Jacet.
But the scene suddenly shifts,----a small cracked bell in a violent
hurry rings,----the slight shuffling of a few running-away feet is
heard,----the green curtain which scarcely half a minute ago had
dropped slowly rises,----and in the centre of the little stage there
now appears, reposing by itself, a white wicker cradle containing
a new-born baby, who will rapidly grow before our readers into a
character intimately connected with the sayings and doings, the scenes
and incidents we are endeavouring to describe.
[Footnote H: Some seasons ago the master of the Pytchley determined "to
give to the hounds" a fox that had run to ground in a narrow culvert
communicating with the Reservoir at Maidwell.
To prevent the poor animal escaping from his doom, the hounds were made
to surround the mouth of the drain before the order was given to "lift
up the sluice."
On the words being uttered the eyes of all the riders who encircled the
pack were, of course, concentrated on one point. A slight noise was
heard, some dead sticks appeared, followed by a violent rush of water,
in the midst of which, rolled up like an immense hedgehog, appeared the
fox, who no sooner got into daylight, than, before a hound could snap
hold of him, he jumped to the left, and, at almost the same instant,
popping through the only little hole in the thick hedge that bounded
the drain, burst away, distanced the pack of enemies, quadruped and
biped, that followed him, and thus escaped a death from which nothing
but his extraordinary quickness and determination could have saved
him.]
+Thomas Assheton Smith,+
Born in Queen Anne Street, Cavendish Square, London, on the 2nd of
August, 1776, was the grandson of Thomas Assheton, Esq., of Ashley
Hall, near Bowden, in Cheshire, who assumed the name of Smith on
the death of his uncle, Captain William Smith, son of the Right
Honourable John Smith, Speaker of the House of Commons in the first
two Parliaments of Queen Anne, and Chancellor of the Exchequer in the
preceding reign.
As Shakespeare, in his immortal history of the Seven Ages of Man,
briefly described the first as "the infant, mewling, &c., in its
nurse's arms," so of the childhood of Tom Smith the only occurrence we
are enabled to record is that his mother, one day, found him lying on
his nurse's lap, gasping like a tench just landed from a pond.
"_What's the matter with the child?_" she eagerly inquired.
"_Nothin_," replied the calm nurse; "_he's doing nicely_."
As regarded the present tense, this answer was the truth, the whole
truth, and nothing but the truth. Had, however, the question been "What
_has been_ the matter with him?" with the same grammatical accuracy the
reply would have been, "If you please, Ma'am, he has just thrown up a
large pin," which, unperceived, he had managed to swallow.
On his reaching the second age of man--that is to say, when he was but
seven years old--he was sent "with his satchel and shining morning
face" to Eton, where, on his arrival, he found himself the youngest boy
in the school.
The busy hive of the United Kingdom, we all know, is divided into
cells, in each of which, at this moment, a raw material is being
converted by labour into some particular description of manufactured
goods. In one cell, a Minister of State is concocting, from crude
evidence, a speech, a budget, or a despatch. In another cell, a
young woman, with a protuberant cushion on her lap, covered by an
intricate pattern, marked by pins with heads of various colours, is as
indefatigably labouring for the welfare of her country by twirling,
twisting, and twiddling innumerable bobbins of fine thread into
Honiton lace. In other cells, workpeople are converting broadcloth
into clothes, leather into shoes, horse-hair into wigs, medicine into
pills, lead into bullets, brass and tin into cannon, iron into rifles,
alkali and grease into soap. Within what is called a "scrap-mill," by
the power of steam, controlled by a single man, broken bolts, bars,
nuts, nails, screw-pins, &c., are made to revolve, until by rumbling,
tumbling, rubbing, scrubbing, bruising, beating, hustling, and jostling
each other, all are turned out clean and bright, fit to be welded
together for any purpose that may be required.
At Eton, by a similar process, about 600 boys of all sizes and
shapes--red-haired, white-haired, black-haired; long-legged,
short-legged, bandy-legged; splay-footed, pigeon-toed; proud, humble,
noisy, silent, good-humoured, spiteful, brave, timid, pale-faced,
sallow-faced, freckled and rosy-cheeked, weak and strong, clever and
stupid, pliable and pigheaded--yet all controlled by that unwritten,
immutable, imperishable code of _honour_ which, like a halo, has always
illuminated their play-ground and their school, are hustled together
on water, in water, under water, and out of water, until, when the door
of their scrap-mill is opened--although their minds and bodies are as
dissimilar as ever--they all turn out polished _gentlemen_, prepared to
encounter those hardships, dangers, vicissitudes, difficulties, and,
above all, base temptations in life, which high-bred principles are so
especially well adapted to resist.
For eleven years Tom Smith remained at this school, where he acquired
a taste for classical literature, which characterised him through
life. Pope, Shakespeare, and Horace, from which he used to quote long
passages, were his favourite authors; he could also, without pressure,
spout out the whole of the Epistle of Eloisa to Abelard. But what
reigned at the back of his head and in the citadel of his heart was
an ardent love for athletic exercises of any description, especially
for cricket and boating. He was also, throughout his whole life,
affectionately attached to fighting; and Etonians, old and young, to
this day, record, as one of the severest contests in the history of
youthful pugilism, the desperate battle he fought with Jack Musters,
a kindred spirit, of whom it has been said that he could do seven
things--namely, ride, fence, fight, swim, shoot, play at cricket and
at tennis--as well as any man in Europe. His pugilistic propensity,
which appeared so early, was conspicuous throughout his life. While
hunting in Leicestershire he was prevailed upon to stand for the
borough of Nottingham. On proceeding to the poll, he found not only
the town placarded with "No foxhunting M.P.," but a guy in a red coat,
tailed by a fox's brush, burning in effigy of him before the hustings.
His appearance there elicited tremendous yells and hootings, which
apparently no authority could subdue, until, with a stentorian voice,
heard above the uproar, Tom Smith exclaimed, "Gentlemen! as you refuse
to hear my political principles, be so kind as to listen to these few
words: _I'll fight any man among ye, little or big_, and will have a
round with him now for love!" In an instant, as if by magic, yells and
groans were converted into rounds of cheers, demonstrating the strange
stuff, be it good, bad, or indifferent, that Englishmen are made of.
On another occasion, while riding down the Gallowtree Gate, in
Leicester, he struck the horse of a coal-heaver, who, in return, cut
him sharply across the face. Smith jumped immediately from his horse,
and the driver from his cart, the latter doffing his smock-frock, the
former buttoning his coat and turning up his sleeves. The conflict was
desperate; and from a fellow weighing fourteen stone, and standing six
feet high, he was receiving severe punishment, when, by constables and
a crowd of people, the combatants were separated. "You shall hear from
me again!" said Smith to his gallant smutty antagonist. True to his
word, the next morning the squire's groom was seen inquiring where the
coal-heaver lived. On finding the man, whose face, like his master's,
had received some heavy bruises, he said to him, "Mr. Smith has sent me
to give you this sovereign, and to tell you you're the best man that
ever stood before him." "God bless his honour!" replied the man, "and
thank him a thousand times."
When Tom Smith was at Eton, fighting had not cropped to the surface
of a schoolfellow and friend who in after life, known by the name of
+Wellington+, greatly distinguished himself in this world by seeking
and by gaining pitched battles. "I suppose, Smith," said the old
silver-haired Duke to him, one day, in London, "you've done now with
_fighting_?" "Oh, yes," replied Smith, then in his sixtieth year, "I've
quite given that up; but----" suddenly correcting himself, he added,
"I'll fight yet any man _of my age_."
At Chapmansford, when upwards of seventy, a rough country fellow,
before a large field of sportsmen, threw a stone at one of the hounds
of the old squire, who instantly struck him with his hunting whip. "You
daren't do that if you were off your horse," said the man. The words
were hardly out of the clodhopper's mouth when (in the seventh age of
man) Smith stood before him, with a pair of fists clenched in his
face, in so pugilistic an attitude that the fellow took to his heels,
and, amidst the jeers of his comrades, ran away.
In 1794 Tom Smith quitted Eton to become a gentleman commoner at Christ
Church, Oxford, where, with great diligence and assiduity, he hunted
regularly in Oxfordshire and Northamptonshire,--became a fearless
swimmer,--learnt to pull a sturdy oar on the Isis,--was a good shot
and billiard-player,--and excelled as a batsman in the cricket-field
on Cowley Marsh and Bullingdon. On leaving the University he became a
member of the Marylebone Club and a regular attendant at Lord's during
the summer; he was also a member of the Royal Yacht Club. Mr. Smith's
love for science and shipbuilding induced him to build several sailing
and steam yachts. He considered himself to be the practical originator
of the wave line, and, by the advice of the Duke of Wellington, he
submitted to the First Lord of the Admiralty some important hints for
improving the construction of gunboats. In autumn, winter, and spring,
he instinctively "went to the dogs," or, as in sporting phraseology
it is termed, "took to hunting," so eagerly, that in 1800, when only
twenty-four years old, he was signalized in song as a daring rider in
that celebrated run from Billesden Coplow, in which but four gentlemen,
with Jack Raven the Whip, were able to live with the hounds.
In 1806 he succeeded Lord Foley at Quorn, and for ten years hunted
Leicestershire with first-rate hounds, for a portion of which he had
paid to Mr. Musters 1000 guineas, until, in 1816, he took the place of
Mr. Osbaldiston in Lincolnshire, where he hunted the Burton country for
eight years. He then, ceasing for two years to be a master of hounds,
hunted with the Duke of Rutland and in the neighbouring counties until
1826, when, taking up his residence at Penton Lodge, he created for
himself a new country between Andover and Salisbury. In 1830--two
years after the death of his father, from whom he inherited a very
large fortune--he removed to Tedworth, which he had lately rebuilt
with magnificent kennels, and stables in which every hunter had a
loose box. In these stables he had often as many as fifty horses, all
in first-rate condition. For thirty-two years he hunted the Tedworth
country without ever asking for subscriptions of any sort or kind. All
he begged of the landowners and of those who hunted with him was to
_preserve_ foxes to enable him to kill them. At his meets his friend
and guest the late Duke of Wellington often attended. In stature Mr.
Smith was about 5 feet 10 inches high, athletic, well-proportioned,
muscular, but slight. His weight was between eleven and twelve stone.
With a highly-intelligent but resolute countenance, containing (as was
observed of it) "a dash of the bulldog," he had plain features. "_That
fellow Jack Musters_," Tom Smith used to say, "_spoilt +my+ beauty_."
For several years, though his name was seldom found in the debates,
he represented in Parliament Carnarvonshire and Andover; and in 1832,
in consequence of the riots which took place in that year, he raised,
at his own expense, a corps of yeomanry cavalry, reviewed by the Duke
of Wellington, the troopers of which were chiefly his own tenants or
farmers of the neighbourhood. For upwards of fifty seasons he continued
to be the master of hounds, until, after having been in his saddle for
seventy years, the boy who in 1783 went to Eton when he was seven years
old, died at Vaenol on the 9th of September, 1858, aged eighty-two.
At the earnest request of his widow, Sir John E. Eardley-Wilmot
(assisted by extracts from the 'Field' newspaper), with considerable
spirit and ability, has lately compiled a series of graphic incidents
and sketches, forming altogether a memoir--or, as he terms them,
'Reminiscences'--of the life of one whom Napoleon I. addressed as
"_le premier chasseur d'Angleterre_," and who was also called by the
Parisians "_le grand chasseur +Smit+._" From this volume we shall now
submit to our readers a few extracts.
"Lord Foley," wrote 'Nimrod,' "was succeeded in the possession
of the Quorn hounds by that most conspicuous sportsman of modern
times, Thomas Assheton Smith. As combining the character of a
skilful sportsman with that of a desperate horseman, perhaps
his parallel is not to be found; and his name will be handed
down to posterity as a specimen of enthusiastic zeal in one
individual pursuit, very rarely equalled. From the first day
of the season to the last he was always the same man, the
same desperate fellow over a country, and unquestionably
possessing, _on every occasion and at every hour of the day_,
the most bulldog nerve ever exhibited in the saddle. His motto
was, 'I'll be with my hounds;' and all those who have seen
him in the field must acknowledge he made no vain boast of
his prowess. His falls were countless; and no wonder, for he
rode at places which _he knew_ no horse could leap over; but
his object was to get, one way or the other, into the field
with his hounds. As a horseman, however, he has ever been
super-excellent. He sits in his saddle as if he were part of
his horse, and his seat displays vast power over his frame.
In addition to his power his hand is equal to Chifney's, and
the advantage he experiences from it may be gleaned from the
following expression. Being seen one day hunting his hounds
on Radical, always a difficult, but at that time a more than
commonly difficult, horse to ride, he was asked by a friend why
he did not put a martingale on him, to give him more power over
his mouth. 'Thank ye,' he replied, 'but my left hand shall be
_my_ martingale.'"
His fame and success in Lincolnshire were as great as at Quorn. The
Melton men followed him, knowing they were sure of good sport wherever
he went, although scarcely one of them was quite prepared for the
formidable drains or dykes in the Burton Hunt. Shortly after their
arrival there, they found a fox near the kennels that crossed a dyke
called the Tilla. Tom Smith, the only one who rode at it, got in, but
over, leaving behind him fourteen of the Meltonians floundering in the
water at the same time, which so cooled their ardour that, excepting
Sir H. Goodricke, gallant David Baird, and one or two others, they soon
returned to Melton.
Mr. Delmé Ratcliffe, in his work on the 'Noble Science of Fox-hunting,'
describes Tom Smith as follows:--
"I could nowhere find a more fitting model for the rising
generation of sportsmen.... He was an instance of the very
rare union of coolness and consummate skill as a huntsman,
combined with the impetuosity of a most desperate rider; and
not only was he the most determined of all riders, but equally
remarkable as a horseman.
"Now I am not going to give merely my own opinion of Mr. Thomas
Assheton Smith, as a horseman and rider to hounds, but shall
lay before my readers that of all the sporting world, at least
all who have seen him in the field; which is, that, taking him
from the first day's hunting of the season to the last, place
him on the best horse in his stable or on the worst, he is sure
to be with his hounds, and _close to them too_. In fact, he has
undoubtedly proved himself the best and hardest rider England
ever saw, and it would be vain in any man to dispute his title
to that character."