"When at the close of the departing year
Is heard that joyful sound, the huntsman's cheer,
And wily Reynard with the morning air
Scents from afar the foe, and leaves his lair."
I quite agree with the distinguished foreign nobleman who declared that
"Nothing was too good to go foxing in;" and with the immortal Jorrocks
of Handley Cross fame, I exclaim, "'Unting, my beloved readers, is the
image of war with only ten per cent. of its dangers."
Ever since I was an unbreeched urchin, and my only steed a rough
Shetland pony, across whose bare back my infantine legs could scarcely
stride, I have looked forward to a day's hunting with the keenest
relish. The preliminary sport of cub-hunting--with its early-dawn
meets: bad scent, consequent upon fallen leaves and decayed vegetable
matter; riotous young hounds, which can scarcely be brought to hunt
upon any terms; timid, nervous young foxes, who hardly dare poke their
sharp noses out of covert--only serves to give a greater zest as it
were to the opening day. One or two woodland runs, just sufficient to
breathe the well-trained hunter or take the exuberant spirits (the
accompaniments of high feeding and no work) from the young one, after a
stripling Reynard, who as yet has no line of country of his own, and
hardly dares to venture far from the place of his birth, ending with a
kill just to blood the young hounds, only makes the longing for the
first day of the season more intense.
Not one of her Majesty's subjects throughout her vast dominions--so
vast indeed are they that, as the song tells us, "the sun never sets on
them"--not one, I say, of her Majesty's lieges looked forward more
anxiously than I did to the first day of the hunting season of 18--,
for why should I be too explicit about dates, or let all the world know
that I am so ancient as to remember anything so long buried in the
past? I had just returned to old England with a year's leave from my
regiment, then in India. I was possessed of capital health and spirits,
was only just six-and-twenty years of age, had five hundred pounds at
my bankers, and two as good nags in my stable as ever a man laid his
leg across. "Hunting for ever!" I cried, as I strolled into Seamemup
and Bastemwell's, the unrivalled breechesmakers' establishment in the
Strand, to order a few pair of those most necessary adjuncts to the
sporting man's wardrobe previous to leaving town. "Hunting for ever!"
and of all the packs in England, commend me to my old acquaintance,
those friends of my boyhood, the Easyallshire Muggers. I am not sure
but that, strictly speaking, the term "mugger" ought only be applied to
those packs of hounds which are used for that peculiar pastime which,
to again quote the immortal Jorrocks, "is only fit for cripples, and
them as keeps donkeys," viz., harriers.
Be that as it may, the pack I now speak of were, though called muggers,
_bonâ fide_ foxhounds, and as such, only used in the "doing to death"
of that wily animal.
The country which had as it were given birth to this distinguished pack
presented to the hunting man very much the same features as do most
parts of England. There were the same number of ditches and dingles to
be got over somehow, the same gates which would and would not be
opened, the same fences, stiles, and heavers to be cleared, the same
woodland parts to be hunted, from which it was next to impossible to
get a fox away, and to which every one said he would never come again;
but for all that no one ever kept his word, for there were just the
very same number of sportsmen to be seen at the very next meet held in
the district; thus proving that foxhunting, even under difficulties, is
still a most fascinating diversion; and there were the same snug-lying
gorse coverts, from which a run was sure to be obtained over a flat
well-enclosed country, which gave both man and horse as much as ever
their united efforts could accomplish, to be there or thereabouts at
the finish. Nor were the meets of the Easyallshire Muggers, advertised
in _The Field_, dissimilar in any respect to those of other packs
of hounds, for there were an equal number of cross roads, turnpike
gates, public houses, gibbets, woods, sign-posts, and milestones, as
elsewhere. Well, to enjoy a season's sport with this so distinguished
hunt was my intention; and no sooner had I completed the requisite
arrangements with regard to my hunting toggery, which a residence of
some half dozen years in India had rendered necessary, than I took up
my abode in the little town of Surlyford, at the comfortable hotel
rejoicing in the mythological sign of the Silent Woman, a fabulous
personage surely, to be classed with Swans with Two Necks, Green Men,
and other creatures who never had any existence. The first meet of the
Easyallshire Muggers was settled, so said the county paper, to take
place at the fourth milestone on the Surlyford road. Thither I
repaired, fully equipped in all the splendour of a new pink, immaculate
cords, brown-tinted tops, my blue birds'-eye scarf, neatly folded and
fastened with a pin bearing a most appropriate device, viz., a real
fox's tooth. In my impatience to be up and doing on this our opening
day, I arrived at the trysting-place, from whence I was to woo my
favourite pastime, some half hour or more before the master and his
pack were due. I had, therefore, ample leisure to receive the greetings
of my numerous old friends and acquaintances, as they came up from all
parts, and in all directions, on all sorts and all sizes of nags, and
at all kinds of paces, to the place of meeting. First to arrive on that
useful steed yclept "Shanks's pony," slouching along, clad in rusty
velveteen, baggy brown cord breeches and gaiters, billycock, as he
termed his wideawake hat, on head, a stout ashen stick, cut from a
neighbouring coppice, in hand, and ten to one a quantity of wires in
his pockets, was handsome, dark-eyed, good-for-nothing, scampish,
dishonest Gipsy Jim--the sometime gamekeeper, when he could get any to
employ him, but oftener the poaching, drinking, thieving vagabond of
the neighbourhood. A broad grin of recognition, and a touch of the hat
on the part of the Gipsy one, and an exclamation on mine of "Bless me,
Jim! not hanged yet?" placed us once again on the old familiar footing
of "I will tell you all I know about foxes" (and who could afford
better information than one whose habits and disposition partook more
of the vermin than the man?), "providing you give me a shilling to
drink your health." Gipsy Jim and I had hardly interchanged these
civilities, when, trotting along on a stout, handsome, six-year-old, in
capital condition, though, if anything, a little too fat (not a bad
fault, however, at the beginning of the season), came farmer Thresher,
of Beanstead, a florid, yellow-haired, red-whiskered, jovial,
hard-riding, independent agriculturist, who, on the strength of having
been at school in years gone by with some of the neighbouring squires,
myself amongst the number, called us all freely by our surnames,
forgetting to prefix the accustomed Mister, and thus giving great
umbrage to some and causing them always to pointedly address him as "Mr
Thresher." Our mutual salutations had hardly come to an end when we
were joined by half a dozen more sturdy yeomen, able and willing to go,
let the pace be ever so severe, and all of them contributing their five
pounds yearly to the support of the Easyallshire Muggers, "spite of
wheat, sir, at fourteen shillings a bag."
Young Boaster next turns up, a swaggering blade from a neighbouring
hunt, who is always abusing the Easyallshire hounds, and bragging of
his own prowess, which consists of riding extraordinary distances to
far-off meets, and doing nothing when he gets there, save telling
wonderful and fabulous stories of what he had done last time he was
out, and what he intended to do then. He is succeeded by Dr Bolus, "the
sporting Doctor," as he is called, who must be making a very handsome
fortune in his profession, if his knowledge of medicine is anything
like his judgment in horseflesh, his skill in the pigskin, or his
acquaintance with the line of a fox. After Bolus, on a three-legged
screw, a wonder to every one how it is kept at all on its
understandings, comes Aloes, the veterinary surgeon, a pleasant-spoken,
florid, little old man, skilful in his business, ever agreeing, with
his "That I would, sir," and one whom I would much prefer to attend me
when sick than many a professor of the healing art among men. The
majesty of the law is upheld next by Mr Sheepskin, the attorney, a
gentlemanly man, a lightweight, and one who rides, when need be, as
hard as if not harder than any one. Nor is the Church absent (for we
have not a few clerical subscribers to the Easyallshire Muggers), but
is well represented in the person of the Rev. Mr Flatman, a
good-looking, well-built, foxy-whiskered divine, whose handling of the
ribbons on the coach-box, and seat on horseback, would entitle him to a
deanery at the very least, could the Broad-Church party but come into
power. His small country parish, however, does not suffer by the
fondness of its rector for the sports of the field; having a
hard-working and most exemplary curate, he is still a painstaking and
estimable parish priest, and much preferred, I doubt not, by all his
parishioners to any more busy and interfering divine of either of the
other two schools of divinity. I myself am by no means the sole member
of the military profession present, for we are here of all ranks, from
the just-joined subaltern to the gallant colonel of the county militia,
a stout fine-looking veteran, none of your feather-bed soldiers, and
one who, spite of his weight, is an exceedingly difficult man to beat
across country. "Mammon," as it is the fashion nowadays to call that
useful article, money, is seen approaching in the person of the
Surlyford banker, who, wisely flinging business to the winds at least
twice in the week, gets astride a good-looking, nearly thoroughbred
nag, and finds accepting bullfinches, negotiating ditches, and
discounting gates, stiles, &c., a much more healthy and more pleasant,
if not more profitable, occupation than everlastingly grubbing after
filthy lucre.
The Master now makes his appearance, tall and upright, knowing
thoroughly the duties of his office, and if not quite so bold and
determined a rider as in years gone by, still making up for want of
nerve in knowledge of the country, and for lack of dash in careful
riding and judicious nicking-in. Suffice it to say, that at the finish,
his absence is never observed, though how he came to be there is better
known to the second-rank horsemen than to the flyers. The huntsman and
whip are much the same as those worthies are everywhere; but the
hounds, how to describe them I know not.
The Easyallshire Muggers set all rules regarding the make, size, and
symmetry of foxhounds at defiance. They show almost better sport, and
kill more foxes, than any pack in the kingdom; and yet they are as
uneven as a ploughed field, and as many shapes and sizes as a charity
school. I can only say, "handsome is as handsome does;" and if my
canine friends are not pleasant to the eye of the connoisseur--if they
come not up to the standard of Beckford Somerville, and other writers
who have described a perfect foxhound, still they work beautifully--which
to my mind is far preferable to looking beautiful--and will run and kill
foxes with any hounds in England. The huntsman and whip, though not so
well mounted (economy is the order of the day with the Easyallshire
Muggers) as we would wish to see them, yet manage somehow to get across
the country, and to be with their hounds; though for the matter of that,
such is the sagacity of the Easyallshire pack, they can very frequently
do quite as well without the assistance of their ruler and guide as with
it. The Easyallshire Hunt, as the name implies, is an easy-going sort of
concern, in which every man, gentle and simple, has a finger in the pie;
every subscriber imagining that he has a perfect right, on the strength
of his subscription, to hunt, whip-in, or otherwise direct the movements
of the hounds whenever opportunity occurs. But for-rard! for-rard on! or
I shall be at the fourth milestone on the Surlyford road all day, instead
of drawing that inviting piece of gorse covert which lies so pleasant
and warm, with its southern aspect on yonder bank. A guinea to a
gooseberry, a fox lies there!
Joe, the huntsman, now trots along through the somewhat bare and brown
pasture fields towards the covert; the pack, eager and keen for the
fray, clustering round the heels of his horse. A few moments only
elapse, and the sea of gorse is alive with hounds poking here, there,
and everywhere, seeking the lair of sly Reynard. Old experience having
taught me that Gipsy Jim's knowledge of the fox and his habits (for
being half-brother to the varmint in his nature, how can it fail to be
otherwise?) would serve me in good stead, I station myself near to him
in order to have a good view of "Mr Reynolds," as Jim calls the cunning
animal, when he breaks covert. Nor am I wrong in my conjecture; for
after a few pleasant notes from old Bellman, who hits upon the place
where Master Fox crossed a ride early this morning, and a "hark to
Bellman" from Joe the huntsman, out jumps, almost into Jim's arms, as
fine a fox as ever wore a brush. Master Reynard looks somewhat
astonished at being brought so suddenly face to face with a two-legged
monster, and seems half inclined to turn back again to his
hiding-place; but, perhaps judging from Jim's varmint look that no
danger might be apprehended from that quarter, and being warned by the
deep notes of old Bellman that his late quarters were untenable, he
throws back his head as if to sniff the pleasant morning breeze, and
giving his brush a gentle wave of defiance, boldly takes to the open,
and starts across the field which surrounds the covert at a good
rattling pace. Gipsy Jim grins from ear to ear with delight, showing
his white regular teeth, at the same time holding up his hand as a
warning to me to keep silence for a few seconds, so as not to spoil
sport by getting the fox headed back. The moment, however, Master
Reynard is safely through the neighbouring hedge, Jim's tremendous
view-halloa makes the whole country ring again. This is the signal for
every bumpkin and footman to shout and halloa with might and main, thus
making the necessary confusion of the find worse confounded still.
"Hold your noisy tongues," shout the Master, huntsman, whip, and all
the horsemen; but "Hold your noisy tongues" they cry in vain. "Tallyho!
tallyho! tallyho!" yell the footmen, totally regardless of all
expostulation. But crafty Jim, knowing the idiosyncrasy of the yokels,
has made all safe by his silence, until the red-coated rascal is well
away. "Hark! halloa!" "Hark! halloa!" roar the field. "Tootle, tootle!"
goes Joe's horn, reëchoed by an asthmatical effort in the same
direction, on the part of the worthy master, who blows as if his horn
was full of dirt. The hounds, however, are accustomed to the sound,
feeble as it is, and all rush to the spot where Master, huntsman, and
Gipsy Jim are all cheering them exactly at the place where foxy broke
away. What a burst of music now strikes upon the ear, far superior to
the delights of any concert it has ever been my lot to be present at,
as the hounds acknowledge with joy the rapture they feel at the strong
scent left behind by him they had so unceremoniously disturbed from his
comfortable lodgings! But the scent is too good for us to dwell here
for description, and away they go at a killing pace, which, if it lasts
long enough, will get to the bottom of many a gallant steed there
present. And now comes the rush of horsemen amidst the cries of "Hold
hard! don't spoil your sport!" of the master, and the "'Old 'ard!" of
the huntsman, who has an eye to tips, and therefore restrains his wrath
in some measure. But the Easyallshireans are not to be kept back by any
such remonstrances and expostulations as these, and those who mean to
be with the hounds throughout the run, hustle along to get a forward
place; whilst the knowing and cunning ones, with the Master at their
head, turn short round, and make for a line of gates which lie
invitingly open, right in the direction which the fox has taken. I get
a good start, and being well mounted, sail away, and am soon alongside
of Joe the huntsman, whose horse, though a screw, and not very high in
condition, is obliged to go, being compelled thereto by its rider. A
stiff-looking fence, which I charge at the same moment as Joe, who
takes away at least a perch of fencing, and thus lets many a muff
through, lands us into the next field, and affords a fair view of the
hounds streaming away a little distance before us. But why should I
describe the run? The _Field_, weekly, gives much more graphic
descriptions of such things than I am able to write; let me, therefore,
confine my narrative to what befell my individual self.
A rattling burst of twenty minutes rendered the field, as may be well
imagined, very select, and it would in all probability have become
still more so, had not a fortunate check given horses and men a few
moments' breathing time, thus enabling the cunning riders to get up to
the hounds. "Away we go again, and I will be there at the finish," I
exclaimed, as pressing my cap firmly on my head, and shutting my eyes,
I ride at a tremendous bullfinch, the thick boughs and sharp thorns of
which scratch my face all over and nearly decapitate me as I burst
through it. But, as in the case of the renowned John Gilpin, it is--
"Ah, luckless speech and bootless boast,
For which I paid full dear."
Another ten minutes' best pace and the fox is evidently sinking before
us; but, alas! it was not to be my lot to see the gallant animal run
into and pulled down in the open, after as fine a run as was ever seen.
Trim-kept hedges, well-hung, stout, and newly-painted white gates, had
shown me that for the last few moments, he had entered the domain of
some proprietor, whose estate certainly presented the very pink of
neatness. Little indeed did I dream that there would exist in the very
heart of Easyallshire one so benighted as to object to the inroads made
upon him by that renowned pack, the Muggers. But I reckoned without my
host, or rather, as the sequel will show, with my host; for as, in my
endeavours to save my now somewhat exhausted horse, I rode at what
appeared an easy place in a very high fence, bounded on the off-side
with a stiff post and rail, an irate elderly gentleman, gesticulating,
shouting, and waving an umbrella in his hand, suddenly rose up as it
were from the very bowels of the earth, just as my steed was preparing
to make his spring, thus causing the spirited animal to rear up, and,
overbalancing himself, to fall heavily to the ground with me under him.
When I next recovered consciousness and opened my eyes, I was being
borne along on a hurdle, by the author of my misfortunes--a
gray-haired, piebald-whiskered, stout, little, red-faced old
gentleman--and two of his satellites, whom I rightly conjectured to be
the coachman and gardener; but the pain of my broken leg made me
relapse into unconsciousness, nor did the few wits I by nature possess
return to me again until I was laid on a bed, and a medical
practitioner of the neighbourhood was busy at work setting my fractured
limb. To make a long story short, I remained under the roof of Major
Pipeclay--for that was the name of the irascible little gentleman whose
hatred of hunting, hounds, and horses had caused my suffering--until my
wounded limb was well again, the worthy old major doing all in his
power to make amends for the catastrophe his absurd violence had
brought about.
At the expiration of six weeks I was able to move about on crutches; at
the termination of twice that period, I was well again, and had,
moreover, fallen irretrievably in love with the bright eyes and pretty
face of Belinda Pipeclay, one of the major's handsome daughters.
Thinking, in my ignorance of the fair sex, that the child of so
irascible a papa--having been in her juvenile days well tutored under
the Solomonian code of "sparing the rod, and spoiling the child"--must
therefore, of necessity, make a submissive and obedient wife, I
proposed, was accepted, obtained the major's consent, and became a
Benedict.
Dear reader, I am really ashamed to confess the truth: I have been
severely henpecked ever since. Whether Belinda possesses the same
antipathy to hounds, horses, and hunting men as her progenitor, I
cannot possibly tell; for returning to India soon after my marriage, I
had no opportunity of there testing her feelings in that respect. Now
the increasing number of mouths in our nursery compels a decreasing
ratio of animals in my stable, and I am reduced to one old
broken-winded cripple, which I call "the Machiner." He takes Mrs
Sabretache and myself to the market town on a Saturday, and mamma,
papa, and the little Sabretaches to church on the following day.