RIDING _AT_ STAG-HOUNDS.
I have purposely altered the preposition at the heading of this, because
it treats of a method so entirely different from that which I have tried
to describe in the preceding chapter. At the risk of rousing
animadversion from an experienced and scientific majority, I am prepared
to affirm that there is nearly as much intelligence and knowledge of the
animal required to hunt a deer as a fox, but in following the chase of
the larger and higher-scented quadruped there are no fixed rules to
guide a rider in his course, so that if he allows the hounds to get out
of sight he may gallop over any extent of country till dark, and never
hear tidings of them again. Therefore it has been said, one should ride
_to_ fox-hounds, but _at_ stag-hounds, meaning that with the latter,
skill and science are of little avail to retrieve a mistake.
Deer, both wild and tame, so long as they are fresh, seem perfectly
indifferent whether they run up wind or down, although when exhausted
they turn their heads to the cold air that serves to breathe new life
into their nostrils. Perhaps, if anything, they prefer to feel the
breeze blowing against their sides, but as to this there is no more
certainty than in their choice of ground. Other wild animals go to the
hill; deer will constantly leave it for the vale. I have seen them fly,
straight as an arrow, across a strongly enclosed country, and circle
like hares on an open down. Sometimes they will not run a yard till the
hounds are at their very haunches; sometimes, when closely pressed, they
become stupid with fear, or turn fiercely at bay. "Have we got a good
deer to-day?" is a question usually answered with the utmost confidence,
yet how often the result is disappointment and disgust. Nor is this the
case only in that phase of the sport which may be termed artificial. A
wild stag proudly carrying his "brow, bay, and tray" over Exmoor seems
no less capricious than an astonished hind, enlarged amongst the
brickfields of Hounslow, or the rich pastures that lie outstretched
below Harrow-on-the-Hill. One creature, familiar with every inch of its
native wastes, will often wander aimlessly in a circle before making its
point; the other, not knowing the least where it is bound, will as often
run perfectly straight for miles.
My own experience of "the calf," as it has been ignominiously termed, is
limited to three packs--Mr. Bissett's, who hunts the perfectly wild
animal over the moorlands of Somerset and North Devon; Baron
Rothschild's, in the Vale of Aylesbury; and Lord Wolverton's
blood-hounds, amongst the combes of Dorsetshire and "doubles" of the
Blackmoor Vale. With her Majesty's hounds I have not been out more than
three or four times in my life.
Let us take the noble chase of the West country first, as it is followed
in glorious autumn weather through the fairest scenes that ever haunted
a painter's dream; in Horner woods and Cloutsham Ball, over the grassy
slopes of Exmoor, and across the broad expanse of Brendon, spreading its
rich mantle of purple under skies of gold. We could dwell for pages on
the associations connected with such classical names as
Badgeworthy-water, New-Invention, Mountsey Gate, or wooded Glenthorne,
rearing its garlanded brows above the Severn sea. But we are now
concerned in the practical question, how to keep a place with Mr.
Bissett's six-and-twenty-inch hounds running a "warrantable deer" over
the finest scenting country in the world?
You may ride _at_ them as like a tailor as you please. The ups and
downs of a Devonshire _coombe_ will soon put you in your right place,
and you will be grateful for the most trifling hint that helps you to
spare your horse, and remain on any kind of terms with them, on ground
no less trying to his temper and intelligence than to his wind and
muscular powers.
Till you attempt to gallop alongside you will hardly believe how hard
the hounds are running. They neither carry such a head, nor dash so
eagerly, I might almost say _jealously_, for the scent as if they were
hunting their natural quarry, the fox. This difference I attribute to
the larger size, and consequently stronger odour, of a deer. Every hound
enjoying his full share, none are tempted to rob their comrades of the
mysterious pleasure, and we therefore miss the quick, sharp turns and
the _drive_ that we are accustomed to consider so characteristic of the
fox-hound. They string, too, in long-drawn line, because of the tall,
bushy heather, necessitating great size and power, through which they
must make their way; but, nevertheless, they keep swinging steadily on,
without a check or hover for many a mile of moorland, showing something
of that fierce indomitable perseverance attributed by Byron to the
wolf--
"With his long gallop that can tire
The hound's deep hate and hunter's fire."
If you had a second Eclipse under you, and rode him fairly with them,
yard for yard, you would stop him in less than twenty minutes!
Yet old practitioners, notably that prince of sportsmen the Rev. John
Russell, contrive to see runs of many hours' duration without so
entirely exhausting their horses but that they can travel some twenty
miles home across the moor. Such men as Mr. Granville Somerset, the late
Mr. Dene of Barnstaple, Mr. Bissett himself, though weighing twenty
stone, and a score of others--for in the West good sportsmen are the
rule, not the exception--go well from find to finish of these long,
exhausting chases, yet never trespass too far on the generosity and
endurance of the noble animal that carries them to the end. And why?
Because they take pains, use their heads sagaciously, their hands
skilfully, and their heels scarcely at all. To their experience I am
indebted for the following little hints which I have found serviceable
when embarked on those wide, trackless wastes, brown, endless,
undulating, and spacious as the sea.
There are happily no fences, and the chief obstructions to be defeated,
or rather _negotiated_, are the "combes"--a succession of valleys that
trend upward from the shallow streams to the heathery ridges, narrowing
as they ascend till lost in the level surface of the moor. Never go down
into these until your deer is sinking. So surely as you descend will you
have to climb the opposite rise; rather keep round them towards the top,
watching the hounds while they thread a thousand intricacies of rock,
heather, and scattered copse-wood, so as to meet them when they emerge,
which they will surely do on the upper level, for it is the nature of
their quarry to rise the hill aslant, and seek safety, when pressed, in
its speed across the flat.
A deer descends these declivities one after another as they come, but it
is for the refreshment of a bath in their waters below, and instinct
prompts it to return without delay to higher ground when thus
invigorated. Only if completely beaten and exhausted, does it become so
confused as to attempt scaling a rise in a direct line. The run is over
then, and you may turn your horse's head to the wind, for in a furlong
or two the game will falter and come down again amongst its pursuers to
stand at bay.
[Illustration: Page 208.]
Coast your "combes," therefore, judiciously, and spare your horse; so
shall you cross the heather in thorough enjoyment of the chase till it
leads you perhaps to the grassy swamps of Exmoor, the most plausible
line in the world, over which hounds run their hardest--and now look
out!
If Exmoor were in Leicestershire, it would be called a bog, and cursed
accordingly, but every country has its own peculiarities, and a North
Devon sportsman more especially, on a horse whose dam, or even grandam,
was bred on the moor, seems to flap his way across it with as much
confidence as a bittern or a curlew. Could I discover how he
accomplished this feat I would tell you, but I can only advise you to
ride his line and follow him yard for yard.
There are certain sound tracks and pathways, no doubt, in which a horse
does not sink more than fetlock deep, and Mr. Knight, the lord of the
soil, may be seen, on a large handsome thorough-bred hunter, careering
away as close to the pack as he used to ride in the Vale of Aylesbury,
but for a stranger so to presume would be madness, and if he did not
find himself bogged in half a minute, he would stop his horse in half a
mile.
Choose a pilot then, Mr. Granville Somerset we will say, or one of the
gentlemen I have already named, and stick to him religiously till the
welcome heather is brushing your stirrup-irons once more. On Brendon,
you may ride for yourself with perfect confidence in the face of all
beholders, bold and conspicuous as Dunkery Beacon, but on Exmoor you
need not be ashamed to play follow my leader. Only give him room enough
to fall!
As, although a full-grown or warrantable stag is quickly found, the
process of separating it from its companions, called "tufting," is a
long business, lasting for hours, you will be wise to take with you a
feed of corn and a rope halter, the latter of which greatly assists in
serving your horse with the former. You will find it also a good plan to
have your saddles previously well stuffed and repaired, lined with
smooth linen. The weather in August is very hot, and your horse will be
many hours under your weight, therefore it is well to guard against a
sore back. Jump off, too, whenever you have the chance; a hunter cannot
but find it a delightful relief to get rid of twelve or thirteen stone
bumping all day against his spine for a minute or two at a time. I have
remarked, however, with some astonishment that the heavier the rider the
more averse he seems to granting this indulgence, and am forced to
suppose his unwillingness to get down proceeds, as my friend Mr.
Grimston says, from a difficulty in getting up again! This gentleman,
however, who, notwithstanding his great weight, has always ridden
perfectly straight to hounds, over the stiffest of grass countries,
obstinately declines to leave the saddle at any time under less
provocation than a complete turn over by the strength of a gate or
stile.
To mention "the Honourable Robert" brings one by an irresistible
association of ideas into the wide pastures of that grassy paradise
which mortals call the Vale of Aylesbury. Here, under the excellent
management of Sir Nathaniel Rothschild, assisted by his brother Mr.
Leopold, the _carted_ deer is hunted on the most favourable terms, and a
sportsman must indeed be prejudiced who will not admit that "ten mile
points" over grass with one of the handsomest packs of hounds in the
world, are most enjoyable; the object of chase, when the fun is over,
returning to Mentmore, like a gentleman, in his own carriage,
notwithstanding.
Fred Cox is the picture of a huntsman. Mark Howcott, his whip, fears
nothing in the shape of a fence, and will close with a wicked stag, in
or out of water, as readily as a policeman collars a pickpocket! The
horses are superb, and so they ought to be, for the fences that divide
this grazing district into fields of eighty and a hundred acres grow to
the most formidable size and strength. Unless brilliantly mounted
neither masters nor servants could hold the commanding position through
a run that they always seem to desire.
In riding to these hounds, as to all others, it is advisable to avoid
the crowd. Many of the hedgerows are double, with a ditch on each side,
and to wait for your turn amongst a hundred horsemen, some too bold,
some too cautious, would entail such delay as must prove fatal with a
good scent. Happily, there are plenty of gates, and a deer preferring
timber to any other leap, usually selects this convenient mode of
transit. Should they be chained, look for a weak place in the fence,
which, being double, will admit of subdividing your leap by two, and
your chance of a fall by ten.
At first you may be somewhat puzzled on entering a field to find your
way out. I will suppose that in other countries you have been accustomed
to select the easiest place at once in the fence you are approaching,
and to make for it without delay, but across these large fields the
nature of an obstacle deceives your eye. The two contiguous hedges that
form one boundary render it very difficult to determine at a distance
where the easiest place _is_, so you will find it best to follow the
hounds, and take your chance. The deer, like your horse, is a large
quadruped, and, except under unusual circumstances, where one goes the
other can probably follow.
This, I fear, is a sad temptation to ride on the line of hounds. If you
give way to it, let the whole pack be at least two or three hundred
yards in front, and beware, even then, of tail hounds coming up to join
their comrades.
Be careful also, never to jump a fence in your stride, till you see the
pack well into the next field. A deer is very apt to drop lightly over a
wall or upright hedge just high enough to conceal it, and then turn
short at a right angle under this convenient screen. It would be painful
to realise your feelings, poised in air over eight or ten couple of
priceless hounds, with a chorus of remonstrances storming in the rear!
It is no use protesting you "Didn't touch them," you "Didn't mean it,"
you "Never knew they were there." Better ride doggedly on, over the
largest places you can find, and apologise humbly to everybody at the
first check.
When a fox goes down to water he means crossing, not so the deer. If at
all tired, or heated, it may stay there for an hour. On such occasions,
therefore, you can take a pull at your horse and your flask too if you
like, while you look for the best way to the other side. When induced to
leave it, however, the animal seems usually so refreshed by its bath, as
to travel a long distance, and on this, as on many other occasions in
stag-hunting, the run seems only beginning, when you and your horse
consider it ought to be nearly over.
Directly you observe a deer, that has hitherto gone straight, describing
a series of circles, you may think about going home.
It is tired at last, and will give you no more fun for a month. You
should offer assistance to the men, and, even if it be not accepted,
remain, as a matter of courtesy, to see your quarry properly taken, and
sent back to the paddock in its cart.
With all stag-hounds, the same rules would seem to apply. Never care to
view it, and above all, unless expressly requested to do so for a
reason, avoid the solecism of "riding the deer." On the mode in which
this sport is conducted depends the whole difference between a wild
exhilarating pastime and a tame uninteresting parade. Though prejudice
will not allow it is the _real_ thing, we cannot but admit the
excellence of the imitation, and a man must possess a more logical mind,
a less excitable temperament, than is usually allotted to sportsmen, who
can remember, while sailing along with hounds running hard over a flying
country, that he is only "trying to catch what he had already," and has
turned a handsome hairy-coated quadruped out of a box for the mere
purpose of putting it in again when the fun is over!
Follow every turn then, religiously, and with good intent. You came out
expressly to enjoy a gallop, do not allow yourself to be disappointed.
If nerve and horse are good enough, go into every field with them, but,
I intreat you, ride like a sportsman, and give the hounds plenty of
room.
This last injunction more especially applies to that handsome pack of
black-and-tans with which Lord Wolverton, during the last five or six
seasons, has shown extraordinary sport for the amusement of his
neighbours on the uplands of Dorset and in the green pastures that
enrich the valley of the Stour. These blood-hounds, for such they are,
and of the purest breed, stand seven or eight-and-twenty inches, with
limbs and frames proportioned to so gigantic a stature. Their heads are
magnificent, solemn sagacious eyes, pendent jowls, and flapping ears
that brush away the dew. Thanks to his Lordship's care in breeding, and
the freedom with which he has drafted, their feet are round and their
powerful legs symmetrically straight. A spirited and truly artistic
picture of these hounds in chase, sweeping like a whirlwind over the
downs, by Mr. Goddard, the well-known painter, hangs on Lord Wolverton's
staircase in London, and conveys to his guests, particularly after
dinner, so vivid an idea of their picturesque and even sporting
qualities as I cannot hope to represent with humble pen and ink.
One could almost fancy, standing opposite this masterpiece, that one
heard _the cry_. Full, sonorous, and musical, it is not extravagant to
compare these deep-mouthed notes with the peal of an organ in a
cathedral.
Yet they run a tremendous pace. Stride, courage, and _condition_ (the
last essential requiring constant care) enable them to sustain such
speed over the open as can make a good horse look foolish! While,
amongst enclosures, they charge the fences in line, like a squadron of
heavy dragoons.
Yet for all this fire and mettle in chase, they are sad cowards under
pressure from a crowd. A whip cracked hurriedly, a horse galloping in
their track, even an injudicious _rate_, will make the best of them shy
and sulky for half the day. Only by thorough knowledge of his
favourites, and patient deference to their prejudices, has Lord
Wolverton obtained their confidence, and it is wonderful to mark how his
perseverance is rewarded. While he hunts them they are perfectly handy,
and turn like a pack of harriers; but if an outsider attempts to "cap
them on," or otherwise interfere, they decline to acknowledge him from
the first; and should they be left to his guidance, are quite capable of
going straight home at once, with every mark of contempt.
In a run, however, their huntsman is seldom wanting. His lordship has an
extraordinary knack of _galloping_, getting across a field with
surprising quickness on every horse he rides, and is not to be turned by
the fence when he reaches it, so that his hounds are rarely placed in
the awkward position of a pack at fault with no one to look to for
assistance. He has acquired, too, considerable familiarity with the
habits of his game, and has a holy horror of going home without it, so
perseveres, when at a loss, through many a long hour of cold hunting,
slotting, scouring the country for information, and other drawbacks to
enjoyment of his chase. As he says himself, "The worst of a deer is, you
can't leave off when you like. Nobody will believe you if you swear it
went to ground!"
Part of the country in his immediate neighbourhood seems made for
stag-hunting. Large fields, easy slopes, light fences, and light land,
with here and there a hazel copse, bordering a stretch for three or four
miles of level turf, like Launceston Down, or Blandford race-course,
must needs tempt a deer to go straight no less than a horseman, but the
animal, as I have said, is unaccountably capricious, and if we could
search his lordship's diary I believe we should find his best runs have
taken place over a district differing in every respect from the above.
As soon as the leaves are fallen sufficiently to render the Blackmoor
Vale rideable, it is his greatest pleasure to take the blood-hounds down
to those deep, level, and strongly-enclosed pastures, over which,
notwithstanding the size and nature of the fences, he finds his deer
(usually hinds) run remarkably well, and make extraordinary points. Ten
miles, on the ordnance map, is no unusual distance, and is often
accomplished in little more than an hour. For men who enjoy _riding_ I
can conceive no better fun. Not an acre of plough is to be seen. The
enclosures, perhaps, are rather small, but this only necessitates more
jumping, and the fences may well satisfy the hungriest, or as an
Irishman would say, the _thirstiest_, of competitors! They are not,
however, _quite_ so formidable as they look. To accomplish two blind
ditches, with a bank between, and a hedge thereon, requires indeed
discretion in a horse, and cool determination in its rider, but where
these exist the large leap is divided easily by two, and a good man, who
_means going_, is not often to be _pounded_, even in the Blackmoor Vale.
Nothing is _quite_ perfect under the sun, not your own best hunter, nor
your wife's last baby, and the river Stour, winding through them in
every direction, somewhat detracts from the merit of these happiest of
hunting-grounds. A good friend to the deer, and a sad hindrance to its
pursuers, it has spoilt many a fine run; but even with this drawback
there are few districts in any part of England so naturally adapted to
the pleasures of the chase. The population is scanty, the countrymen are
enthusiasts, the farmers the best fellows on earth, the climate seems
unusually favourable; from the kindness and courtesy of Sir Richard
Glynn and Mr. Portman, who pursue the _legitimate_ sport over the same
locality, and his own personal popularity, the normal difficulties of
his undertaking are got over in favour of the noble master, and
everybody seems equally pleased to welcome the green plush coats and the
good grey horses in the midst of the black-and-tans.
If I were sure of a fine morning and a _safe mount_, I would ask for no
keener pleasure than an hour's gallop with Lord Wolverton's blood-hounds
over the Blackmoor Vale.