DISCRETION.
It has been called the better part of valour, and doubtless, when
wanting, the latter is as likely to sustain irretrievable reverses as a
ship without a rudder, or a horse without a bridle. The two should
always travel together; but it appears to me that we meet the cautious
brother most frequently on our journey through life.
In the chase, however, they seem to share their presence impartially
enough. Valour is very much to the front at the covert side, and shows
again with great certainty after dinner; but discretion becomes
paramount and almost ubiquitous when the hounds run, being called on
indeed to act for us in every field. Sometimes, particularly when
countries are blind early in November, we abandon ourselves so entirely
to its guidance as little by little to lose all our self-reliance, till
at last we feel comfortable nowhere but in the high road; and most of
us, I dare say, can recall occasions on which we have been so utterly
discomfited by an early disappointment (in plain English a fence we were
afraid to jump) as to give in without an effort, although the slightest
dash of valour at the right moment would have carried us triumphantly
out of defeat.
Never mind. Like a French friend of mine, who expresses his
disinclination to our _chasse au renard_ by protesting, "_Monsieur, je
ne cherche pas mes emotions a me casser le cou_," when we are avowedly
in pursuit of pleasure we ought to take it exactly as suits us best.
There are two ends of the string in every run with hounds. Wisdom
pervades each of these, but eschews the various gradations between. In
front rides valour with discretion; in rear, discretion without valour;
and in the middle a tumultuous throng, amongst whom neither quality is
to be recognised. With too little of the one to fly, not enough of the
other to creep, they waver at the fences, hurry at the gaps, get in each
other's way at the gates, and altogether make exceedingly slow progress
compared to their efforts and their excitement.
Valour without discretion, I had almost forgotten to observe, was down
and under his horse at the first difficulty.
We will let the apex of the pyramid alone for the present, taking the
safest and broadest end of the hunt first.
If, then, you have achieved so bad a start that it is impossible to make
up your lee-way, or if you are on a hack with neither power nor
intention to ride in the front rank, be sure you cannot take matters too
coolly should you wish to command the line of chase and see as much as
possible of the fun.
I am supposing the hounds have found a good fox that knows more than
one parish, and are running him with a holding scent. However favourable
your start, and fate is sure to arrange a good one for a man too badly
mounted to avail himself of it, let nothing induce you to keep near the
pack. At a mile off you can survey and anticipate their general
direction, at a quarter that distance you must ride every turn. Do not
be disordered by the brilliancy of the pace should their fox go straight
up wind. If he does not sink it within five minutes he means reaching a
drain, and another five will bring the "who-whoop!" that marks him to
ground. This is an unfailing deduction, but happily the most discreet of
us are apt to forget it. Time after time we are so fooled by the
excitement of our gallop that even experience does not make us wise, and
we enjoy the scurry, exclaiming, "What a pity!" when it is over, as if
we had never been out hunting before. It would be useless to distress
your hack for so short a spin, rather keep wide of the line, if
possible, on high ground, and calculate by the wind, the coverts, and
the general aspect of the country, where a fox is most likely to make
his point.
I have known good runs in the Shires seen fairly, from end to end, by a
lady in a wagonette.
When business really begins, men are apt to express in various ways
their intention of taking part. Some use their eyes, some their heels,
and some their flasks. Do you trust your brains, they will stand you in
better stead than spurs, or spectacles, or even brandy diluted with
curacoa. Keep your attention fixed on the chase, watch the pack as long
as you can, and when those white specks have vanished into space, depend
on your own skill in woodcraft and knowledge of country to bring you up
with them again. Above all, while they are actually in motion, distrust
the bobbing hats and spots of scarlet that you mark in a distant cluster
behind the hedge. What are they but the field? and the field, if it is
_really_ a run, are pretty sure to be _out of it_.
The first flight you will find very difficult to keep in view. At the
most it consists of six or seven horsemen riding fifty or a hundred
yards apart, and even its followers become so scattered and detached
that in anything like an undulating country they are completely hidden
from observation. If you _do_ catch a glimpse of them, how slow they
seem to travel! and yet, when you nick in presently, heaving flanks, red
faces, and excited voices will tell a very different tale.
Trotting soberly along, then, with ears and eyes wide open, carefully
keeping down wind, not only because the hounds are sure to bend in that
direction, but also that you can thus hear before you see them, and take
measures accordingly, you will have ridden very few miles before you are
gladdened by the cheerful music of the pack, or more probably a twang
from the horn. The scent is rarely so good as to admit of hounds running
for thirty or forty minutes without a check; indeed, on most days they
are likely to be at fault more than once during the lapse of half an
hour, when the huntsman's science will be required to cast them, and, in
some cases, to assist them in losing their fox. Now is your time to
press on with the still undefeated hack. If you are wise you will not
leave the lanes to which I give you the credit of having stuck
religiously from the start. At least, do not think of entering a field
unless the track of an obvious bridle-road leads safely into the next.
A man who never jumps at all can by no possibility be "pounded," whereas
the easiest and safest of gaps into an inclosure may mean a bullfinch
with two ditches at the other end.
Perhaps you will find yourself ahead of every one as the hounds spread,
and stoop and dash forward with a whimper that makes the sweetest of
music in your ears. Perhaps, as they swarm across the very lane in which
you are standing, discretion may calmly open the gate for valour, who
curses him in his heart, wondering what business he has to be there at
all.
There is jealousy even in the hunting-field, though we prefer to call it
keenness, emulation, a fancy for riding our own line, and I fear that
with most of us, in spite of the kindly sympathies and joyous expansion
of the chase, "_ego et praeterea nihil_" is the unit about which our
aspirations chiefly revolve.
"What is the use?" I once heard a plaintive voice lamenting behind a
blackthorn, while the hounds were baying over a drain at the finish of a
clipping thirty minutes on the grass. "I've spoilt my hat, I've torn my
coat, I've lamed my horse, I've had two falls, I went first, I'll take
my oath, from end to end, and there's that d--d fellow on the
coffee-coloured pony gets here before me after all!"
There are times, no doubt, when valour must needs yield the palm to
discretion.
Let us see how this last respectable quality serves us at the other and
nobler extremity of the hunt, for it is there, after all, that our
ambition points, and our wishes chiefly tend.
"Are you a hard rider?" asked an inquiring lady of Mr. Jorrocks.
"The hardest in England," answered that facetious worthy, adding to
himself, "I may say that, for I never goes off the 'ard road if I can
help it."
Now instead of following so cautious an example, let us rather cast
overboard a superfluity of discretion, that would debar us the post of
honour we are fain to occupy, retaining only such a leavening of its
virtue as will steer us safely between the two extremes. While the
hounds are racing before us, with a good scent, in an open country, let
our gallant hunter be freely urged by valour to the front, while at the
same time, discretion holds him hard by the head, lest a too
inconsiderate daring should endanger his rider's neck.
If a man has the luck to be on a good timber-jumper, now is the time to
take advantage freely of its confidential resources. If not pulled
about, and interfered with, a hunter that understands his business leaps
this kind of fence, so long as he is fresh, with ease to himself and
security to his rider. He sees exactly what he has to do, and need not
rise an inch higher, nor fling himself an inch farther than is
absolutely necessary, whereas a hedge induces him to make such exertions
as may cover the uncertainty it conceals. But, on the other hand, the
binder will usually bear tampering with, which the bar will _not_,
therefore _if_ your own courage and your horse's skill tempt you to
negotiate rails, stiles, or even a gate--and this last is _very_ good
form--sound discretion warns you to select the first ten or fifteen
minutes of a run for such exhibitions, but to avoid them religiously,
when the deep ground and the pace have begun to tell.
Assheton Smith himself, though he scouted the idea of ever turning from
anything, had in so far the instinct of self-preservation, that when he
thought his horse likely to fall over such an obstacle, he put him at it
somewhat _a-slant_, so that the animal should get at least one fore-leg
clear, and tumble on to its side, when this accomplished rider was
pretty sure to rise unhurt with the reins in his hand.
Now this diagonal style of jumping, judiciously practised, is not
without its advantages at less dangerous fences than the uncompromising
bit of timber that turns us over. It necessarily increases the width of
a bank, affording the horse more room for foothold, as it decreases the
height and strength of the growers, by taking them the way they lie, and
may, on occasion, save a good hunter from a broken back, the penalty for
dropping both hind legs simultaneously and perpendicularly into some
steep cut ditch he has failed to cover in his stride.
Discretion, you observe, should accompany the hardest riders, and is not
to be laid aside even in the confusion and excitement of a fall.
This must prove a frequent casualty with every man, however
well-mounted, if the hounds show sport and he means to be with them
while they run. It seems a paradox, but the oftener you are down, the
less likely you are to be hurt. Practice soon teaches you to preserve
presence of mind, or, as I may be allowed to call it, discretion, and
when you know exactly where your horse is, you can get away from him
before he crushes you with the weight of his body. A foot or a hand
thrust out at the happy moment, is enough to "fend you off," and your
own person seldom comes to the ground with such force as to do you any
harm, if there is plenty of dirt. In the absence of that essential to
sport, hunters are not distressed, and therefore do not often fall.
If, however, you have undertaken to temper the rashness of a young one
with your own discretion, you must expect occasional reverses; but even
thus, there are many chances in your favour, not the least of which is
your pupil's elasticity. Lithe and agile, he will make such gallant
efforts to save himself as usually obviate the worst consequences of his
mistake. The worn-out, the under-bred, or the distressed horse comes
down like a lump of lead, and neither valour nor discretion are much
help to us then.
From the pace at which hounds cross a country, there is unfortunately
no time to practise that most discreet manoeuvre called "leading
over," when the fence is of so formidable a nature as to threaten
certain discomfiture, yet I have seen a few tall, powerful, active men,
spring off and on their horses with such rapidity as to perform this
feat successfully in all the hurry of a burst. The late Colonel Wyndham,
who, when he commanded the Greys, in which regiment he served at
Waterloo, was said by George the Fourth to be the handsomest man in the
army, possessed with a giant's stature the pliant agility of a
harlequin. A finer rider never got into a saddle. Weighing nineteen
stone, I have seen him in a burst across Leicestershire, go for twenty
minutes with the best of the light-weights, occasionally relieving his
horse by throwing himself off, leaping a fence alongside of it, and
vaulting on again, without checking the animal sufficiently to break its
stride.
The lamented Lord Mayo too, whose tall stalwart frame was in keeping
with those intellectual powers that India still recalls in melancholy
pride, was accustomed, on occasion, thus to surmount an obstacle, no
less successfully among the bullfinches of Northamptonshire than the
banks and ditches of Kildare. Perhaps the best rider of his family, and
it is a bold assertion, for when five or six of the brothers are out
hunting, there will always be that number of tall heavy men, answering
to the name of Bourke in the same field with the hounds, Lord Mayo, or
rather Lord Naas (for the best of his sporting career closed with his
succession to the earldom), was no less distinguished for his daring
horsemanship, than his tact in managing a country, and his skill in
hunting a pack of hounds. That he showed less forethought in risking a
valuable life than in conducting the government of an empire, we must
attribute to his personal courage and keen delight in the chase, but
that he humorously deplored the scarcity of discretion amongst its
votaries, the following anecdote, as I had it from himself, sufficiently
attests.
While he hunted his own hounds in Kildare, his most constant attendant,
though on foot, was a nondescript character, such as is called "a tight
boy" in Ireland, and nowhere else, belonging to a class that never seem
to do a day's work, nor to eat a plentiful meal, but are always
pleasant, obliging, idle, hungry, thirsty, and supremely happy. Running
ten miles on foot to covert, Mick, as he was called, would never leave
the hounds till they reached their kennels at night. Thus, plodding home
one evening by his lordship's horse, after an unusually long and
fatiguing run, the rider could not help expostulating with the walker on
such a perverse misapplication of strength, energy, and perseverance.
"Why, look at the work you have been doing," said his lordship; "with a
quarter of the labour you might have earned three or four shillings at
least. What a fool you must be, Mick, to neglect your business, and lose
half your potatoes, that you may come out with my hounds!"
Mick reflected a moment, and looked up, "Ah! me lard," replied he, with
such a glance of fun as twinkles nowhere but in the Irish blue of an
Irish eye, "it's truth your lardship's spakin' this night; _'av there
was no fools, there'd be sorra few fox-hunters!_"
Let us return to the question of Discretion, and how we are to combine
it with an amusement that makes fools of us all.
While valour, then, bids us take our fences as they come, discretion
teaches us that each should be accomplished in the manner most suitable
to its peculiar requirements. When a bank offers foothold, and we see
the possibility of dividing a large leap by two, we should pull back to
a trot, and give our horse a hint that he will do well to spring on and
off the obstacle in accordance with a motion of our hand. If, on the
contrary, his effort must be made at a black and forbidding bullfinch,
with the chance of a wide ditch, or even a tough ashen rail, beyond, it
is wise, should we mean having it at all, to catch hold of the bridle
and increase our pace, for the last two or three strides, with such
energy as shall shoot us through the thorns like a harlequin through a
trap-door, leaving the orifice to close up behind, with no more traces
of our transit than are left by a bird!
[Illustration: Page 138.]
Perhaps we find an easy place under a tree, with an overhanging
branch, and sidle daintily up to it, bending the body and lowering the
head as we creep through, to the admiration of an indiscreet friend on a
rash horse who spoils a good hat and utters an evil execration while
trying to follow our example. Or it may be, rejoicing to find ourselves
on arable land, that actually rides light, and yet carries a scent,
"Solid and tall,
The rasping wall"
challenges us a quarter of a mile off to face it or go home, for it
offers neither gate nor gap, and seems to meet the sky-line on either
side. I do not know whether others are open to the same deception, but
to my own eye, a wall appears more, and a hedge less, than its real
height at a certain distance off. The former, however, is a most
satisfactory leap when skilfully accomplished, and not half so arduous
as it looks.
"Have it!" says Valour. "Yes, but very slow," replies Discretion. And,
sure enough, we calm the free generous horse into a trot, causing him to
put his very nose over the obstacle before taking off; when bucking into
the air, like a deer, he leaves it behind him with little more effort
than a girl puts to her skipping-rope. The height an experienced
wall-jumper will clear seems scarcely credible. A fence of this
description, which measurement proves to be fully six feet, was jumped
by the well-known Colonel Miles three or four years ago in the Badminton
country without displacing a stone, and although the rider's consummate
horsemanship afforded every chance of success, great credit is due to
the good hunter that could make such an effort with so heavy a man on
its back.
The knack of wall-jumping, however, is soon learned even by the most
inexperienced animals, and I may here observe that I have often been
surprised at the discretion shown by young horses, when ridden close to
hounds, in negotiating fences requiring sagacity and common sense. I am
aware that my opinion is singular, and I only give it as the result,
perhaps exceptional, of my own limited experience; but I must admit that
I have been carried by a pupil, on his first day, over awkward places,
up and down banks, in and out of ravines, or under trees, with a
docility and circumspection I have looked for from the veterans in vain.
Perhaps the old horse knows me as well as I know him, and thinks also
that he knows best. I am bound to say he never fails me when I trust
him, but he likes his head let alone, and insists on having it all his
own way. When his blood is really up, and the hero of a hundred fights
considers it worth while to put forth his strength, I am persuaded he is
even bolder than his junior.
Not only at the fences, however, do we require discretion. There is a
right way and a wrong of traversing every acre of ground that lies
between them. On the grass, we must avoid crossing high ridge-and-furrow
in a direct line; rather let us take it obliquely, or, if the field be
not too large, go all the way round by the headland. For an unaccustomed
horse there is nothing so trying as those up-and-down efforts, that
resemble the lurches of a boat in a heavy sea. A very true-shaped animal
will learn to glide smoothly over them after a season or two, but these
inequalities of surface must always be a tax on wind and muscular powers
at best. The easiest goer in ridge-and-furrow that we have yet seen is a
fox. Surely no other quadruped has nature gifted with so much strength
and symmetry in so small a compass.
Amongst the ploughs, though the fences are happily easier, forethought
and consideration are even more required for ground. After much rain, do
not enter a turnip-field if you can help it, the large, frequent roots
loosen the soil, and your horse will go in up to his hocks; young wheat
also it is well to avoid, if only for reasons purely selfish; but on the
fallows, when you find a _wet_ furrow, lying the right way, put on
steam, splash boldly ahead, and never leave it so long as it serves you
in your line. The same may be said of a foot-path, even though its
guidance should entail the jumping of half-a-dozen stiles. Sound
foothold reduces the size of any leap, and while you are travelling
easily above the ground, the rest of the chase, fox and hounds too, as
well as horses, though in a less degree, are labouring through the mire.
When your course is intersected by narrow water-cuts, for purposes of
irrigation, by covered drains, or deep, grass-grown cart-ruts, it will
be well to traverse them obliquely, so that, if they catch the stride of
his gallop, your horse may only get one foot in at a time. He will then
right himself with a flounder, whereas, if held by both legs, either
before or behind, the result is a rattling fall, very dangerous to his
back in the one case, and to your own neck in the other.
Valour of course insists that a hunter should do what he is bid, but
there are some situations in which the beast's discretion pleads
reasonably enough for some forbearance from its master. If a good horse,
thoroughly experienced in the exigencies of the sport, that you have
ridden a season or two, and flatter yourself you understand,
persistently refuses a fence, depend upon it there is sufficient reason.
The animal may be lame from an injury just received, may have displaced
a joint, broken a tendon, or even ruptured an artery. Perhaps it is so
blown as to feel it must fall in the effort you require. At any rate do
not persevere. Horses have been killed, and men also, through a
sentiment of sheer obstinacy that would not be denied, and humanity
should at least think shame to be out-done in discretion by the brute. A
horse is a wise creature enough, or he could never carry us pleasantly
to hounds. An old friend of mine used to say: "People talk about size
and shape, shoulders, quarters, blood, bone, and muscle, but for my
part, give me a hunter with brains. He has to take care of the biggest
fool of the two, and think for both!"
Discretion, then, is one of the most valuable qualities for an animal
charged with such heavy responsibilities, that bears us happy and
triumphant during the day, and brings us safe home at night. Who would
grudge a journey across St. George's Channel to find this desirable
quality in its highest perfection at Ballinasloe or Cahirmee? for indeed
it is not too much to say that whatever we may think of her natives, the
most discreet and sagacious of our hunters come over from the Emerald
Isle.