It is by no means certain that foxhunting has any more enemies now than
in earlier times. The great danger seems to be from the lukewarmness or
injudicious action of its friends. Probably Mr. Charles Brook, of the
Holderness, pointed to the real danger when he complained of the want of
knowledge of hunting in those who follow the sport. For this there is a
real reason, in that hunting people nowadays have so many other
occupations and amusements. Hunting is only one of them. People hunt in
greater numbers, but they do not see so much of the sport itself as we
did in the days when we lived more in the country, hunted from home, and
took the good and the bad days as they came. In very popular hunts there
are fewer good days, for the simple reason that unless hounds can go
fast enough to keep out of the way of the field, it is not easy to see a
hunt when there is a crowd.
Second horses, though, a great addition to one’s pleasure, have this
disadvantage, that if we have to make one horse go through the day we
shall be more likely to succeed if we know what hounds are doing, so as
to gain all we can by the turns in our favour. Thus it is obvious that a
knowledge of hunting keeps us out of mischief and enables us to do less
damage. But every now and then we read attacks on hunting which are
obviously based on sentimental ignorance.
The latest subject is the treatment of hounds by the hunt servants. Now
I have had, and have still, a great many friends among a class of men
who are notable for their good qualities, their ability, and their
integrity. Of course, young men are sometimes a little too rough with
hounds, but the most successful huntsmen, and whippers-in, too, are
those who have the gift of attaching hounds to them. I think we may take
it as an established fact that hounds never do their best for a man who
cannot win their affections. It is too funny to read of hounds escaping
from kennel and dying miserably in a ditch because they were afraid to
return. 1 wonder if people have any idea of the value of a well-bred
foxhound. Perhaps they think because they are numerous, therefore they
are cheap, and, like Beckford’s auctioneer, think a pack would be dear
at a shilling a head. Some kind friend has been sending me curiosities
of literature in the way of hunting correspondence; two I think are
worthy of being remembered. One of the writers, wishing to say that at a
particular juncture of a hunt the field refreshed themselves, wrote that
a considerable number took St. Paul’s advice to Timothy, evidently not
holding with the temperance lecturer who accounted for this by saying he
supposed it was meant for outward application only. The other reported
that a well-known pack ran a stag to _earth_.
When sport has been so good and the weather so bad, if we say that a
particular pack has had sport, we do not mean to suggest that others
have not, but only that it has come under our notice. Yet, when the
weather is such that frosts make hunting uncertain, I do think the
Belvoir have a little the best of it, so few are the days in the season
when they cannot hunt in some part or other of their wide territory.
On a cold morning they met at Landyke Lane, on Friday, February 23rd.
Scent was at first only moderate, but as the hours went on matters
improved, and the day ended with a brilliant Belvoir burst from Hose
Thorns. Hounds seemed to be catching their fox all the way to Clawson
Thorns, the pace and drive growing greater as the field bustled along on
the track of the flying hounds. It was almost twenty minutes from the
start to the time when the fox escaped, owing to the number of fresh
lines in the covert. Mrs. Clayton Swan’s horse slipped on the greasy
turf and she had a nasty fall. Ash Wednesday is no longer a hunting day
with the Belvoir, but in any case the ground was impossible for riding
in the Midlands. Thursday was possible enough, but a most unpleasant
day, and the pack I hunted with did little, and I confess to coming home
early, fairly driven off by weather. In the Belvoir country things
improved as the day wore on. The smallest field of the season, and a
riding one, found themselves with a stout fox and a racing pack in front
of them. It is a hilly country, and the fences held the field in check
so that hounds could run without interference. The fox went straight
into Freeby Wood. Ben Capell, taking a leaf out of the late Sir Charles
Slingsby’s book, held the pack right round the wood. Then an advantage
was gained and the pace became hotter than ever as the end drew near.
Not so fast, but even better as a hunt, was the run of Wednesday, March
7th! The Belvoir met at Sproxton, and went on to draw Lord Dysart’s
coverts at Buckminster. These proved to be blank, but—Coston covert is
only just outside—a fine clean fox, springing up, was driven across to
Buckminster. With their fox running up wind, hounds drove right on to
Gunby Gorse, which, it is needless to say, is in the Cottesmore.
When they came away it was clear that they had changed, for whereas the
original fox had a full brush, the new quarry was a bobtailed one, but
in time this one was changed for a well-known out-lier that has hitherto
defied Thatcher, and which, by accident or design, choosing a line over
some plough, defeated Capell also.
A curious day was March 3rd, when the Cottesmore met at Somerby Hall.
The events threw some light on the habits of foxes in a much-hunted
country. The hounds spoke in the first covert, but it was clear the fox
had taken the hint and left some time before. A second fox from another
covert slipped away unseen as hounds were thrown in, and his line, too,
failed; lastly, a third fox was discovered in the tree in Stapleford
Park; which has become quite a sure find. This causes one’s interest in
the curious limitations of a fox’s mind. The two mentioned first were
perhaps scared by the clatter of horses’ hoofs, and, it may be, the
hoots of a motor-car, which must, one would suppose, in the Shires be
quite a familiar sign of a coming meet. At all events, they were sharp
enough to take a hint and make themselves scarce, but the tree-haunting
fox or foxes of Stapleford have not yet found out that their enemies
know of their hiding-place, and come straight for it.
What some people say was the fastest gallop of the season took place
with the Quorn on March 5th, from Grimstone Gorse to Sleaford. The pace,
the country covered, and the going were all good, yet there were, in
fact, only four or five men really in it. The rest of the large field
were practically out of it. It seems as if John Isaac, who is to have a
well-deserved testimonial, was having good fortune in his last season.
The Pytchley Wednesdays since Christmas have been unusually good,
although, when one casts one’s mind back on them, it does not seem that
any day rises above the level of good sport. Two points, however, we
notice, that the bitch pack was worked well, and that, in conjunction
with their huntsman, they made the best of whatever scent there is. So,
Wednesday after Wednesday, the Pytchley followers have had a glorious
day of sport to look back to, in the cream of their country. Another
huntsman who retires at the end of the season, George Shepherd, has
shown very good sport lately, his best run probably being from Sleaford,
on Thursday, March 8th. Lord Charles Bentinck has been out to study the
country, the run of the foxes, and to make acquaintance with the members
of the Blankney Hunt. To return to Sleaford, the fox was lying out, but,
once afoot, returned to Sleaford Wood. For an hour and a half, always at
a fair pace, this gallant fox held on, and, with hounds close to his
brush, found an impregnable refuge at last. Fortunately the line was not
straight; had it been so, few indeed would have seen it.
Imagine Lincolnshire riding deep in this part of the country, where
hairy fences and such ditches as they know how to dig hereabouts,
abound. As it was, with the aid of a little luck and a great deal of
perseverance, a fair number reached the end. It was a very enjoyable
sort of hunt, an interesting bit of hound-work, and the huntsman
intervened just at the critical moment with a most timely and
well-judged cast.
If we are to search for a characteristic of this season it might almost
be found in the readiness of foxes to take to the water. I should be
afraid to say how many times foxes have swum across flooded rivers
during the late hunting season. The River Nene, in the Northamptonshire
country of the Fitzwilliam, has been crossed several times. The last fox
that braved its swollen waters was one of three found at Lilford on
March 10th. After running the fox right round the park, scent on the
grass proved too good, and he boldly swam the River Nene at Wadenhoe.
The object of this manœuvre was successful, since, as once before, he
gained so much that eventually he ran his pursuers out of the scent. The
Fitzwilliam country is just now the best hunted country in England. It
is probably the only country in England that could or would supply foxes
and sport to four packs of hounds. First, there is the historic Milton
pack, then Mr. Fernies’ is given some woodland days; Lord Exeter, with
the help of occasional days in the Belvoir country, finds work for his
pack there; and for a fortnight Lord Fitzwilliam took his hounds (bitch
pack) to Milton, and hunted on alternate days with his cousin’s pack.
Lord Fitzwilliam’s have also had a good month, in spite of rough
weather.
On March 1st they manifested their remarkable power of holding to their
hunted fox in a strong woodland country. The fixture was at
Blatherwycke, Mr. Stafford O’Brien’s place on the borders of the
Woodland Pytchley and the Fitzwilliam countries. Finding in Hostage
Wood, they hunted partly over the open, and a rough country it is
hereabouts, and partly in the big coverts. There has been no such
woodland hunting as this anywhere, hounds stuck resolutely to their fox
with a most inspiring chorus—the Fitzwilliam are famous for their
music—for an hour and a quarter, and rolled the fox over at last. Nor
was this all. A second fox was roused. He slipped away some distance
ahead of hounds, but they drove along to such purpose for twenty
minutes, making the best of the scent, that by the time the fox had
reached the wide woodlands known as the Bedford Purlieus they were close
to his brush. A half-beaten fox in a most carefully preserved wood—these
coverts belong to Lord Fitzwilliam—has several chances in his favour,
and at least one other fox was afoot, but once more hounds held to the
hunted one and proved themselves, as indeed they have done all this
season, a most killing pack.
On Ash Wednesday the Old Berkeley West had rather a remarkable day’s
hunting. They met at Hartwell. The bag for the day was one fox killed
from Kimblewick after an hour’s good hunting; one badger hunted to
ground in the open, and another one killed.
I think, however, that the run of the Warwickshire on February 22nd,
from Shuckburgh, will remain as the best gallop of the month, and
perhaps, all things considered, the greatest foxhunt of the season. The
run was divided in three portions. The first an eager scurry of three
miles or so over grass pastures and flying fences. Then came a period of
hunting with a check of some length. Horses had to gallop for part of
the time, but it was possible to choose one’s places in the fences.
Lastly, there was a very stiff bit of country, with hounds running into
their fox all the way.
We expect to hear of hunt changes in April, and there are plenty in
prospect, but it shows the vitality of foxhunting that the countries
which are vacant fill up so readily. On the courteous principle of
ladies first, we may note that Mrs. Burrell has arranged to hunt the
part of Northumberland held by the late Sir J. Miller two days a week at
her own expense. This has been heartily accepted by the hunting folk of
that section of the old N.B.H. country. The Cambridgeshire, an old
county pack with a long record of sport, have a new master in Mr.
Crossman. Colonel Sprot takes Captain Gilmour’s place with the Fife. He
has promised so far as the circumstances of the country permit, to hunt
three days a week. That charming bit of Irish-like hunting ground in the
far west, known as the Four Burrow, though it makes no change—Mr. J.
Williams has been Master for twenty-eight years—is to increase its
hunting days from two to three a week. This is the direct consequence of
the way foxes are preserved, and is worth noting, because in Cornwall
the trapping which has formed so formidable a difficulty in some west
country hunts has not here done any material damage.