III
MEASURED by the human standard, the life of a fox-hound is a short
one. It is not a butterfly existence; it cannot be summed up as short
and sweet, or as a short and a merry one, for war, hunting, and love,
as the proverb says, have a thousand troubles for their pleasure. The
problem whether life is worth living is not one that either fox-hunter
or fox-hound are likely to strain their intellects in solving. To
many persons who follow hounds, as well as to the many who do not, a
fox-hound is little more than a spotted dog. Little do these realise
how every hound has its own distinct individuality, and how much
careful attention, education, and training each of them has received
before it was incorporated with the pack; and that the fox-hound--a
wonder of beauty and endurance, with the qualities of nose, pace, and
tongue exquisitely developed--has been produced by the labour and skill
of Masters of Hounds and huntsmen through more than two centuries. Who
can measure the work, the thought, and the anxiety, that have given
us the modern fox-hound? How often we remark, “They’re a good pack of
hounds,” but how seldom do we think of the pains that have been taken
to make them a good pack! The selection of brood bitches, the choosing
of sires, the rearing of puppies, the finding of walks, the losses by
distemper; the accidents, the drafting, the entering; the exercising
and disciplining of young hounds; the conditioning of working hounds,
their maintenance in health, their feeding and kennelling,--these give
but an outline of the subjects that demand the skilled attention of
an M.F.H. and his servants. It is man that has made the fox-hound not
less than the race-horse. Nature’s laws are hard to learn, and slow in
their operation, but by lives passed in their study, and by experience
and practice, the fox-hound has been evolved, and the kennels of
England can boast of many hundred couples of hounds, each one of which
approaches Whyte-Melville’s description of Bachelor--
On the straightest of legs and the roundest of feet,
With ribs like a frigate his timbers to meet,
With a fashion and fling and a form so complete,
That to see him dance over the flags is a treat.
But fashion and form without nose are in vain,
And in March or mid-winter, storm, sunshine or rain,
When the line has been fouled, or the sheep leave a stain,
His fox he accounts for again and again.
Where the fallows are dry, where manure has been thrown,
With a storm in the air, with the ground like a stone,
When we’re all in a muddle, beat, baffled, and blown,
See! Bachelor has it! Bill, let him alone!
I once heard of a man, who was walking with his dog (a crop-eared cur,
with a stump of a tail), being asked by a passer-by, “What do you
call your dog?” The owner replied, “Well, sir, he was a grey-hound,
and we called him ‘Fly’, but we cropped his loogs and coot off his
tail and made a mastiff on him, and called him ‘Lion’.” It is a simple
transformation, but would not be applicable to a fox-hound. A fox-hound
is a fox-hound, and, play what tricks you like with him, he will
remain one. It might be expected that any race bred for so long to
a fixed type and to a uniform standard of quality would show a want
of individuality of character and temper, but this is not so. The
disposition, virtues, and vices of every hound in a pack vary. A good
huntsman knows the habits, temperament, weaknesses, and qualities of
each separate member of his kennel. There are the bold and the timid,
the too noisy and the too silent, the sulky and the quick-tempered,
the affectionate and the indifferent, the meek and the rebellious,
the greedy and the fastidious, the quarrelsome and the kind, the
light-hearted and the stout-hearted. There are hounds that can drive,
and hounds that can stoop; the ones that can draw, and the ones that
are handy to cast. There are some that combine all these virtues, and,
alas! others that are guilty at times of babbling, riot, skirting, and
turning a deaf ear to the horn. The object of huntsmen has never been
to turn their packs into mechanical fox-killers--to do so would be to
drag down the kennel to the level of the steel trap and vulpicide’s
gun.”
Much of the charm of hunting consists in the style, grace, and neatness
in which it is done. Hunting must be a pleasure to the eye; it should
be picturesque and in harmony with nature. The woodland or valley
should echo back wild music, and the huntsman’s horn and the whip’s
halloo should delight the ear and warm the blood. A badly-assorted
pack, of all shapes and sizes, some of which carry a head, and others
with a strain of Southern blood, as line hunters, might give more sport
and kill more foxes than a better and handsomer pack of hounds. They
would, however, never give the same satisfaction to the huntsman with
a knowledge of the craft, or to those who appreciate the rules of the
game.
There is a supreme pleasure in watching a level pack of well-turned,
straight-legged hounds exhibiting their hunting powers and quality,
as they only can be exhibited under the command of a good huntsman.
Uniformity of pace is necessary, uniformity in size pleases the eye.
The power of instilling into fifteen or twenty-five couple that
cohesiveness that makes them seem possessed, as it were, with one soul,
combined with the ability to handle them, is an amazing example of
man’s capacity to subordinate animal nature to his own purposes. Colour
is a secondary consideration, a matter of fancy; and a good fox-hound,
like a good horse and a good candidate, cannot be a bad colour. Were I
an M.F.H., I should never spend my time and money in trying to make a
pack all badger-pied or Belvoir tan; provided they were well-assorted
in other respects, the very variety in their colours would please me.
The question of utility may, in some countries, influence the colour.
For instance, in a moorland district, where it is often impossible to
live with hounds, it will be found that a few light-coloured hounds
greatly minimise the risk of losing. On a dull day, if dark-coloured
hounds get away over a moor, they may be easily lost, for they are
extremely difficult to see on the heather.
To all lovers of hunting, if not to all hunting-men (and great is the
difference), the animal which alone makes the chase possible is an
interesting study from the moment he comes into the world. There is
something that appeals to our tenderer feelings when we contemplate
the very young, whether it be a little child or a puppy. No more cruel
beasts exist than those of the cat species, from the spotted pard to
the household tabby, yet few can resist the sensation of fondness for
the lion’s cub, or puss’s kittens. Their helplessness as well as the
beauty and jolly roundness of the little things go to our heart; and,
it may be, the pity that is akin to love affects us, when we think of
the battle of life that lies before these innocents. I confess to these
sentiments when I watch the little black, white, and tan whelps lying
beside the fond mother in the paddock by the kennels. How blissfully
ignorant these are of the immediate future before them, and of what
they have to go through before education fits them for their glorious
calling! In a few weeks they will be taken from the sheltering care of
the dam and sent to distant walks, their little sides red and sore
with the cruel branding-iron. Those which get through all the diseases
and disasters peculiar to puppyhood will enjoy the happy period of
freedom till the day arrives when they are brought in from their walks.
Then begins the hard discipline of life. Their ears are rounded, their
names have often to be relearned, they are made to submit to the
severe but necessary routine of the kennel. Then comes the time when
they learn, with rating and great expenditure of whip-cord, what “ware
hare,” “ware sheep,” “ware horse,” and much else besides means,--till
that supreme moment when their future is decided, and the awful
question is answered whether they are worthy to be entered with the
chosen few, or drafted with the condemned. Among the hounds that are
drafted, some will be put down as useless; others may be put aside,
for failing only by the standard of height, colour, or type, and yet
may be of the greatest value to other packs. At the present day the
leading breeders of hounds pay most minute attention to symmetry, and
cast every dog or bitch that is not straight or that does not come up
to a very high standard. Many cultivate a type showing immense bone;
but though a hound has legs as straight as an arrow, feet as round as a
cat’s, and bone like a lion, he is useless if he has not the quality to
go the pace, a nose to hunt with, and a voice that proclaims the true
gospel. There is no doubt that to obtain wearing and working qualities,
with uniformity of type, the safest line to follow in breeding hounds
for hunting is the middle size. Such hounds will be big enough to go
through dirt, and not too big to draw and run in cover. Were I an
M.F.H., ambitious to distinguish myself at the Peterborough Show, I
confess I should be puzzled to know how to do it, for the hounds that
go to Peterborough are the selected few from thousands that go to walk.
It probably is within the mark to say that, over an average of years,
a Master who sends out sixty to eighty couple of puppies considers
that he is fortunate if, out of this number, there are ten couple that
come up to the standard at which he aims. Out of these he can only
hope now and again to find a couple whose merit is so evenly balanced
as to give a chance of success in the show-ring; and when in a lucky
year he thinks he has the prize in view, there may be the misfortune
of just missing the individual taste of the judges in such a matter as
condition. Some judges will condemn hounds for being too fat, others
for being too light. It may appear as absurd to favour a fat hound as
it would be to back a fat horse out of training against a properly
trained one. Yet it must be admitted that there are good judges, who
like to see hounds fat,--why, I will not venture to say, for, with all
respect to superior authority, it has always appeared to me that fat is
out of place where hard work is required. It is a pitiable sight, when
cub-hunting on a hot morning in August or September, to see a lot of
panting suet-puddings hanging about outside the covert; it is equally
ugly to watch a lot of gorged dogs or bitches refusing to break up a
fox. Besides, after a few days of this sort of work, the fat laid on
with such an expenditure of time and attention has melted away, and
you have a pack even lighter in condition than the one which has been
kept in hard flesh, carefully exercised, and made fit and keen to go
straight to work.
The proper career of a fox-hound, from his birth to his death, might
be described thus: I would have him bred from parents in the prime of
life, that have themselves not only all the chief points of fox-hound
symmetry and substance, but the tried qualities of pace, nose, and
tongue; and sent to a farm walk where a hound is loved and cared for,
where new milk is liberally given to the little lodger, and liberty to
play, gallop and hunt at his own sweet will is allowed. We all know
what mischief the fox-hound puppy, like the human puppy, is capable
of; and many of us have had expensive, if entertaining, experiences
of his youthful manners. We have seen our turkey hens, our peacocks,
or our poultry the victims of his sporting proclivities. We have seen
our tablecloths, curtains, and doormats worried and tattered in a
manner prophetic of the style in which the miscreant, when he grows
into a hound, will treat poor Reynard; we have wrung our hands while
he drew the flower-garden; and yet, while we have soundly rated him,
we have laughed over these domestic tragedies. I love to see a wild
puppy; I like to see him with a leveret in his mouth after he has
tow-rowed through the pheasant covert; for I know that all his hunting
and worrying instincts can be controlled when he is finally enlisted
in the ranks, but can never be put into him unless they are there to
begin with. Were my pup treated as I would have him treated, he should
neither be rounded nor branded. The former is all but useless, while
the tattooing of the inside of the ear with the initial letter of the
pack and the litter number, is a more humane and simpler, as well as a
more complete and lasting mark than that made with the branding-iron.
When my pup arrives, I would wish to be quite clear about his name, so
that he may not have to relearn it when he goes back to the kennels.
This summer I saw a pup walked by a neighbour of mine, who answered
while at walk to the name of “Ree-Torrick,” and when he was “sent in”
had, no doubt, to discover, through much rating, that his name was
“Rhetoric.” On the other hand, I knew a pup called “Vagrant,” which was
always called after he was entered “Vagerrant”; so, after all, we may
agree with Peter Beckford’s huntsman, who evidently considered that as
long as a hound answered to his name, it made no difference what he
was called, for being asked the name of a young hound, he said it was
“Lyman.” “Lyman?” said his master. “Why, James, what does Lyman mean?”
“Lord, sir!” replied James; “what does anything mean?”
But now my pup has grown into a young hound, and has, with the
help of a good constitution, a warm lodging, and a generous diet,
withstood the distemper. Then the day comes when he must leave the
shelter of his home, and the caressing care of those who have watched
over his puppyhood, and go to school. As with the schoolboy, so with
young Wrangler; he will find compensation in the company of his many
companions for the routine and monotony of kennel life.
Wrangler enters the kennels, receiving very much the same treatment,
and being as thoroughly inspected, as any “new boy” ever was. For a
time his stern droops, and he feels lost and cowed; but after standing
a certain amount of rough play, he shows his mettle, asserts himself,
and holds his own amongst the new arrivals. The strange, prisonlike
impression of his new quarters wears off; he begins to appreciate the
cleanliness and order that guarantee all that is necessary for health
and comfort; but many a time he hears his name, and often he feels the
whip, before his wild nature is brought to bend to the discipline of
the kennel. The summer months are at last over; Wrangler has learned
to go in couples; then to pass through the sheep without thinking of
mutton; and though in his heart he dearly loves the scent of a hare,
he has had the lesson “ware hare” writ so distinctly on his back that
there is no fear of his forgetting it. And now our hero makes his début
as a fox-hound, and is blooded. The very first day he is out, curiosity
and desire to see what is doing tempt him into the covert. He is all
excitement as the old hounds speak, he follows hard, and quickly learns
to stoop to the new scent. The season slips by, and Wrangler has taken
his place in the van. He has learned to love a scent, and he is keen
in the struggle to find and proclaim it, and when the primrose and
“stinking violets” announce that hunting days are over, he can show a
few goodly scars around his youthful nose. But see him the next season,
as the horses go kennel fadge to the meet, slipping along with both
ends up; look at his waving stern and impatient eye during the vexing
delay before a move is made; mark him as he races to the covert and
bustles through the whins; hark, as with his full and musical voice
he gives the delightful news that a fox is found; watch him as he
flies to the view-halloo, tops the fence, shoots right and left like a
sky-rocket, till he has the line, and then bless him as he races away
with his head up and stern down. “Yonder he goes,” but the pack need
never a word. The loud cry sinks to that modified chorus that proclaims
that it is real business, and there is Wrangler driving ahead in the
first bunch. Over the grass they race, through and over the fence in
the fallow, down the furrow Wrangler leads them, throwing now and again
a full, confident note. Away they stream, and if in the excitement of
the hot pursuit he flashes over the scent for a moment, one swift fling
and he has it again. The field is growing thinner as the miles of grass
and plough are covered, and the best pack in England would begin to
tail! But the game is over. They run from scent to view, Wrangler’s
bristles are up, and you
may swear it’s who-hoop,
For he’ll dash at his fox like a hawk in her stoop,
And he carries the head marching home to his soup.
And many and oftentimes will Wrangler make a run, till he, too, has,
like every dog, had his day. The Master’s heart is steeled, he gives
the order (who knows with what regret?), and another hound takes his
place with the flying black, white, and tan!
IV
HARE-HUNTING
[Illustration: MR. TOM HILL AND UNDERGRADUATE. Scene in a Cambridge
Stable Yard. From a sketch by C. M. Newton.]
IV
“By inclination I never was a hare-hunter; I followed this
diversion more for air and exercise than for amusement, and
if I could have persuaded myself to ride on the turnpike road
to the three-mile stone and back again, I should have thought
I had no need of a pack of harriers.”
PETER BECKFORD.
I OWE too many pleasant hours to hunting hares to damn the sport with
faint praise, but, kind reader, if you notice a want of enthusiasm
in the following chapter, pray do not ascribe it so much to my
sympathy with the quotation that heads this article, as to my desire
to pose as an impartial critic. Silence, care, and science are the
qualities that a hare-hunter should pride himself on; youth and
high spirits, eagerness and impetuosity are the life and soul of
fox-hunting--dangerous qualities in the chase of the timid little hare.
I have had many a day with beagles and harriers--many a happy one; and
yet in fairness I must make the confession that the days I enjoyed best
were those when they got on to a fox. Ah! I fear if I made a clean
breast of it, I should have to tell of days when my brother (who had a
fine little cry of beagles) and I used to get up before daybreak, mount
our horses, and hie off to the moors by ourselves, out of the ear of
the sleeping world, to give a belated marauder a jolly good dusting
before he made his distant and unstopped earth; and, more rarely
perhaps, the eternal craving for “a run” was so great that a man with a
bag shook “something” out of it in a lonely spot. Dear me! I could tell
some tales. I have in my mind’s eye a day when my brother, with another
more famous master of harriers (now, like some others, an M.F.H.), and
myself were beaten by the little hounds as they raced away over the
moors after an extraordinarily fine-smelling fox; but I must check
myself, or my style will degenerate into that of a fox-hunter’s.
After all, I have a conviction that many a green-coated gentleman
has a sneaking sympathy with my sins and want of orthodoxy. If these
lines meet the eye of any hare-hunter, whose indignation and contempt
is becoming too strong for words at the levity with which I speak of
his sport, let him keep cool and take comfort, for have not I, as
prescribed by the ancient rules of the Cleveland Hunt Club, laid my
right hand on the hunting-horn and solemnly declared myself to be “no
enemy to fox-hunting and harriers.” Let me answer such an one that I,
like him, regard the man who is so innocent of sport that he declares
the triumph over the timid hare to be poor, as an ignorant simpleton;
and if any one with superior airs were to hazard such a statement to
me, my reply would be “All right, my boy! you try your hand on an old
buck hare on a cold scenting day in February, on horseback, if you
like; or, if that is too easy, get off and hunt them on foot, be up
to them, see them from start to finish, and tell me how you got on and
what you think of it.”
Personally, were I to criticise hare-hunting, I should say that too
much of the chief diversion is the monopoly of the huntsmen--certainly
the days I have thoroughly enjoyed have been those when I carried
the horn myself. Again, with fast harriers or 20-inch fox-hounds,
you must ride, but then you would do better with fox-hounds. If you
went on foot, nature must have been lavish in her gifts if you have
the physical power, courage, and endurance to enable you to keep near
enough to see the beautiful detail of harrier work; and, finally,
when you have killed your hare, it is rather a miserable-looking
trophy that is yours. You may ornament your smoking-room with your
hares’ heads, but you alone will feel that they are appropriate mural
decorations; for your friends a few lop-eared rabbits would be more
interesting.
I notice that all authorities on this subject dwell on the fact that
hare-hunting is an ancient sport; that old writers describe with great
ingenuity and veracity all the qualities and ways of this clever
little beast. Some of these descriptions are most quaint, for example,
the following:--“There are four kind of Hares: some live in the
Mountains, some in the Fields, some in the Marshes, some everywhere,
without any place of abode. They of the Mountains are most swift, they
of the Fields less nimble, they of the Marshes most slow, and the
wandering Hares are most dangerous to follow.” The habits noted by
the naturalist-sportsmen of this period are as wonderful, and bespeak
as much observation, with almost as excellent results, as those given
by certain writers on natural history of our own day; for instance,
we are told of the hare: “Her ears lead her the way in her chase, for
with one of them she hearkeneth to the cry of the dogs, and the other
she stretches forth like a sail to hasten her course.”... “Tho’ their
sight be dim, yet have they _visum indefessum_.”... “When they watch
they shut their Eyes, when they sleep they open them.”... In these good
old times they used the correct terms for all the proceedings of the
chase, and for every habit and description of each and several kind
of beast they had the appropriate language. The hare was a beast of
“venery,” and her meat “venison”; whilst, for dislodging a hart, you
used the word “unharbour,” for a buck “rouse”; you “start” a hare,
“rear” the boar, and “unkennel” the fox. When once the hare is on foot,
if she takes the open field, she “soreth”; when she winds about, she
“doubleth”; she “pricketh” on the road, and you “trace” her in the
snow. Hounds “hunt change,” “hunt counter,” “draw amiss,” “hunt the
foil”; when first they find, they “challenge.” If they are assisted
by a relay of hounds, it is called a “vaunt-lay”; if the hare tries a
place and gives it up, it is called a “blemish.” When hounds kill, and
the hare or any part is given to them, it is the “reward.” The hare
was always reckoned among the beasts of chase, and sometimes as the
“king of beasts”; her order amongst beasts of venery came third or
first, according to the fancy of the period, but always far ahead of
the fox, which was vermin. Here is one list of the “Beasts of venery.”
“Hart, hinde, hare, wild boar, wolf. Beasts for hunting: ye hare, hart,
wolf, wild boar. Beasts for the chase: ye buck, ye doe, fox, marten,
roe. Beasts which afford greate dysporte: badger, wild cat, otter.”