THE LIFE OF A FOXHOUND.
[Illustration: THE MEET.]
THE
LIFE OF A
FOXHOUND.
BY
JOHN MILLS,
AUTHOR OF “THE OLD ENGLISH GENTLEMAN,” “THE LIFE OF A
RACEHORSE,” ETC.
THE FIFTH EDITION,
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY
JOHN LEECH.
[Illustration]
LONDON
PHILIP ALLAN & CO.
QUALITY COURT, CHANCERY LANE
First Edition 1848
Second Edition 1861
Third Edition 1892
Fourth Edition 1910
Fifth Edition 1921
Printed by WHITEHEAD BROS., WOLVERHAMPTON.
TO
HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS
THE PRINCE OF WALES
K.G., G.M.M.G., G.M.B.E., M.C., &c.
SIR,
That fox-hunting is an ancient and honourable pastime all will agree:
ancient in that the fox was held to be a beast of venery by our
Anglo-Saxon ancestors, honourable because it is a sport that has ever
been associated with those excellent qualities of manhood which are the
prerogative of our race. That it is a royal pastime is equally plain:
for hunting has been regarded, in all ages, as the chief sport of Kings
and Princes. Indeed it is due principally to the encouragement and
protection accorded to it by the Royal House of England that the noble
sport of fox-hunting is in so flourishing a condition to-day. And so
it is both fitting and proper, Sir, that this, the fifth edition of a
notable contribution to our sporting literature, should be dedicated to
you who uphold so admirably the traditions of British sport.
Your Royal Highness’s
humble, obedient servant,
THE EDITOR.
PREFACE.
Trimbush told his story--the story of his life--long ago, and a
generation of sportsmen having, probably, been succeeded by another
since then, the autobiography of that old and sagacious hound is
now presented to the notice of those who may have been denied the
opportunity of profiting either by his sage advice or experience.
It will be conceded that, whatever egotism taints his arguments,
Trimbush was “a shrewd philosopher, having a why for every wherefore.”
He spoke of men and foxes as he found them; and if occasionally
somewhat too severe upon the commissions and omissions of the former,
he was equally ready, at all times, to show his teeth to the latter.
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
THE MEET _Frontispiece_
“HEAD AND HANDS WILL BEAT HEELS” 66
A CURIOUS FINISH 76
“HOLD HAR-R-R-D!” 100
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER. PAGE.
I. 1
II. 16
III. 39
IV. 51
V. 67
VI. 79
VII. 91
VIII. 102
IX. 111
X. 121
XI. 139
XII. 147
XIII. 158
XIV. 172
XV. 182
XVI. 193
THE LIFE OF A FOXHOUND.
CHAPTER I.
I had the excellent fortune, begins Ringwood’s memoir, to be put at
walk at a farm-house, where I enjoyed the treatment observed to all the
animals under the care and protection of the farmer and his wife--that
of universal kindness. Sweet milk, meal, and broth were my provisions;
and I never was without a clean, dry, and warm bed. Basking in the sun,
playing with the shepherd’s dog, following the men at work, and in a
complete state of perfect freedom, my early puppyhood passed. I mention
these apparently trifling circumstances, because so much depends, as
will be shown hereafter, upon the way in which we are brought up. I was
one of a litter of five, consisting of three brothers and two sisters,
and each had been placed at a separate walk; so that, until we were
sent to the kennel to be drafted, we had not seen each other since the
day of separation.
Sorry as I was to leave my kind benefactors, still I felt no small
degree of pride as, on a bright, sunny, spring morning, I was led
into a court of the kennel, and met with greater admiration from the
huntsmen and whips than any other of the young entry therein assembled,
consisting of eleven couples and a half.
“Upon my word,” said the huntsman, looking at me carefully from head to
stern, “I don’t think that I ever saw such a beauty in my life. Such
deep quarters, straight legs, round feet, and broad back are not to be
met with every day, mind ye.”
“Look at them shoulders and elbows too,” rejoined the first whip.
“And what a muzzle!” returned the second.
“Bless’d if he ain’t perfect symmetry!” echoed the feeder, after a long
and silent gaze.
“I _do_ think he is,” added the huntsman, emphatically. “Or if he
isn’t, _I_ can’t see a bad point in him.”
“That shows what the walk will do,” said the feeder, an old grey-headed
man, pointing to four of our company. “Nobody would believe those were
of the same litter, didn’t they know it.”
But for this I should not have recognised my brothers and sisters, who
certainly bore a very different appearance from that given of me by the
huntsman. As we appeared strangers to each other, I at once made myself
known, and inquired after their health and treatment since we last met.
“Oh,” replied one of my brothers, snappishly, “I was sent to the
village ale-house, where I had to pick up my own living, and got more
kicks than good will. I was always in somebody’s way, try as I did to
keep out of it; and the consequence is, I can’t run a mile without
feeling as if my back’s broken. We don’t always die on the day we are
killed,” continued he.
“As for me,” said my other fraternal relative--a mangy,
out-of-the-elbow, shy-looking, down-cast hound--“I was tied up from one
month’s end to another at a butcher’s shop, with nothing to eat but
the offal from the slaughter-house. I never, scarcely, was let loose,
except to fight with one of the bull-dogs or terriers chained in the
yard with me; but as I was always over-matched when I fought, and got
well thrashed when I refused, the end was the same in either case. The
best part of a hound,” continued he, “as the best part of a horse, goes
in at the mouth; and as none, since I was a sucker, has gone into mine,
I suppose I must consider myself no better than I should be; and I
fear,” concluded he, with a sorrowful expression, “not so good.”
“Let me hope that my sisters were more fortunate,” said I.
“We were together in the same village,” replied one, “although at
different homes. I was at the saddler’s and my sister at the miller’s,
and both shared the common hardships of being continually worried by
a set of idle boys. Stoned, hallooed at, kettles tied to our tails,
and all kinds of tricks were played upon us. Whenever anything eatable
was missed or stolen, it was invariably laid to our charge; so that we
could not even put our heads into a doorway without having a stick or a
broom flung at us. Day after day this was our treatment, and although
we did not suffer from a scarcity of food, yet from being obliged to
shift for ourselves in getting beds where we could find them, sometimes
cold, sometimes wet, and no system being observed in either our meals
or lodgings, we were seldom without lameness or ill-health of one kind
or other.”
My sister was about giving the further details of their grievances,
when the second whip, a fine, young, athletic man, interrupted her
narration by observing that “he would draft all the litter but me.”
“No, no,” returned the feeder, shaking his head. “You’ll not find the
Squire do that: we must keep ’em for their blood.”
“Come,” added the huntsman, turning upon his heel, “they’re all in now,
and to-morrow will show what are to be entered. We’ve no voice in the
matter.”
“And don’t want to have,” rejoined the feeder, “with such a master as
the Squire is.”
Soon after my entry I was taken under the protection of an old hound
called Trimbush, and the favourite one in the pack. He had been hunted
six seasons, and, as may be supposed, was awake to every wrinkle.
“Hounds, like men,” said he, one day, as we stretched ourselves
together in the shade of a large chestnut-tree overhanging the court,
“should first learn their duties, and then perform them. Now, young-un,
I’ve taken a fancy to you,” continued he, giving me a playful flip
with the tip of his stern; “and if you follow my advice you will save
yourself many a stinging cut from our Whip’s double-thong. He hits
terribly hard, I assure ye.”
“Does he?” replied I, believing, in my innocence, that such a
good-tempered, laughing fellow would scarcely brush a fly from our
hackles.
“So you’ll say,” continued my friend, “when you’ve tasted it.”
“But I mean to avoid flogging,” I rejoined, “by obeying orders.”
“Pooh, pooh,” returned Trimbush, testily. “Intentions are good enough;
but a fig for orders when the blood’s up! I don’t always obey them
myself, old as I am. However, as you haven’t yet viewed a fox, it’s no
use my mentioning anything about the field. We shall begin cub-hunting
in a few weeks, and then you will get a little insight as to what you
are to do there. In the meantime I’ll cut some notches in your memory
regarding kennel discipline, and relate a few peculiarities concerning
your companions.”
“Thank you,” said I to the friendly offer.
“In the first place I should tell you,” began Trimbush, “that the best
step to take at the outset is to endeavour to become a favourite with
those in authority over you. This is easily acquired, by doing that
which you are told cheerfully, and without the trouble of compulsion
being exercised. For it’s one thing to disobey an order when hunting,
and quite another in the kennel. We all love our huntsman, Will Sykes;
but he is very strict, and never allows a fault to pass without a rate
or the thong being applied. When called, walk up to him with your
ears thrown back smilingly, and carry your stern high and proudly.
Will can’t bear a hound to look like a sneak. Don’t be quarrelsome at
feeding time, or indeed at any other; for although family differences
will occasionally arise over the meal and broth, never be among the
first to cause them. I am far from meaning by this that you are not to
maintain your rights; on the contrary, you, like everything that lives,
not only possess them, but are bound, in self-defence, to support them.
There is as much danger, if not more, in always giving way to the
domineering of tyrants as in acting the tyrant yourself; although,”
continued Trimbush, with a growl at the reminiscence, “the results
proved the same here not more than three seasons since.”
“How was that?” inquired I.
“Why,” replied he, “in all packs there is a master hound, who lords
it over the rest just as he pleases. Now it frequently happens that
this master becomes a regular bully, and so worries and torments his
companions, that there is no living in comfort with him. We had a
governor of this kind three years ago, and what do you think we did?”
“Can’t say,” rejoined I.
“Killed and ate him,” returned Trimbush, with no more concern than if
speaking of the death of a rabbit.
“Killed and ate him!” repeated I, horrified.
“Ay,” rejoined he, “marrow, bones, and all, with the exception of his
head.”[1]
[1] This took place some years since in Mr. Conyer’s kennel, at
Copthall, Essex.
“Dog eat dog!” I exclaimed, scarcely believing the statement to be true.
“It’s not an every-day occurrence,” coolly replied Trimbush; “but what
I’ve told ye is by no means a solitary instance, as you shall learn.
There was a shy, broken-spirited puppy entered the same season with me,
and whenever any of us began a bit of fun with him, he’d shriek and
howl ‘pen-an-ink’ just as if he was being murdered. This, of course,
led every one to take advantage, and the poor devil never had any peace
of mind or body. One day, however, when a few of us had pinned him in a
corner of the court, and were baiting him for sport, who should step in
but Ned Adams, the second whip. How he paid us off, to be sure! Not one
escaped but with every bone in his body aching fit to split.”
“But it served all of you right,” interrupted I.
“Perhaps it did,” rejoined Trimbush; “but we thought otherwise, and no
sooner had Ned turned his back than we commenced making a retaliation
upon the cur who had caused us such a drubbing. We had scarcely begun,
however, when Ned again made his unwelcome appearance, and flogged us
until every stroke from his double-thong seemed to soak right through
our bodies. Before the cock gave notice of the coming day,” continued
Trimbush, significantly, “Tricksy--for that was the name of the
hound--was disposed of so as to leave no trace behind.”
“Eaten!” I ejaculated.
“We didn’t leave,” replied my friend deliberately, and dropping his
words like peas from his jaws, “even his _head_.”
“But why was this done?” inquired I.
“The simplicity of infancy is truly refreshing!” observed Trimbush.
“There’s an adage, that a dead dog _may_ tell how he was killed,”
continued he; “but an _eaten_ one never can. Do you comprehend?”
“Perfectly,” responded I.
“From what I have said,” he resumed, “you must now be aware of the
policy of neither being overbearing to your fellows, nor too tame or
submissive to them. I am now master here, and this is the rule I both
teach and observe.”
“And a very good one too,” I remarked; “but don’t let me interrupt you.
Pray proceed.”
“You would find out in time,” resumed Trimbush, “but may as well profit
by my experience, and learn it at once, that most men who go with us
to the covert-side know little about hunting and less about hounds. So
long as their patience is not cramped with drawing blanks, and we go
the pace with heads up and sterns down, they are satisfied, and take
little further interest in us. Not one in fifty can tell even what
the points of a hound are; and as for understanding anything about
our habits and dispositions, they think that we are as much alike as
cherries upon the same stalk. So far, however, from that being the
case, we differ from each other in every respect as much as man to man
engaged in the same pursuit, and frequently inherit the peculiarities
of our fathers and mothers, as they do. You see that black-and-tan
hound basking in the sun?”
“Yes.”
“That’s Valentine. Now, his father, who was killed from a kick three
years ago, always trotted to and from kennel just under the huntsman’s
off stirrup, and Valentine does precisely the same. There’s Graceful, a
bitch in the next court--she invariably is the first home and the last
to covert, and her mother did the like before her.”
“That appears to be innate laziness,” I observed.
“No,” replied Trimbush. “So far from that being the case, there never
were better working hounds on earth.”
“Then how do you account for it?” inquired I.
“There are many things,” returned Trimbush, with the air of a
philosopher, “as clear to our vision as the sunshine at noon, and yet
their causes are hid in impenetrable darkness. I cannot,” continued he,
“tell why Graceful and Valentine should inherit the eccentricities of
their parents, but only see that they do so.”
“Are these the only two instances coming under your observation?” I
asked.
“By no means,” replied my companion. “I could recite a dozen others
of a similar nature, but I fear they might prove wearisome. You see
that badger-pied hound amusing himself by snapping at the flies buzzing
about him? Well, he is a nephew of mine, and makes it a rule, as his
father did, to carry home whatever part of the varmint that falls to
his share, and never eats it, unless there is a great chance of its
being dragged away from him, till he gets to the kennel door.”
“Perhaps he wishes to show everybody on the road that he had a hand in
the breaking up,” said I.
“I think vanity has something to do with it,” replied my friend; “but
if so, he inherits the pride from his sire, just as those peculiarities
I have named are inborn in others.”
“I suppose, if these habits descend from parent to child,” I observed,
“that vices are also inheritable.”
“Decidedly,” replied Trimbush, beginning to evince symptoms of
drowsiness. “Rioting, skirting, babbling, and all such-like faults, are
inheritable, and as much so as the defective points in symmetry.”
“It appears to me somewhat harsh, then,” rejoined I, “to punish us for
them.”
“That’s a matter,” added Trimbush, “I must leave to be decided between
you and Ned Adams;” and then turning upon his side he closed his eyes,
and a deep, low snore quickly proclaimed him to be in the land of
shadowy dreams.
I found kennel life at first very tedious, and soon began to pine for
the farm-house, liberty, and a romp with the shaggy old shepherd’s dog.
I became so home-sick at length, that had the opportunity offered, I
should have run away; but when taken for exercise, I was always coupled
with a companion, and no chance given of an escape from my thraldom.
Notwithstanding the kindness of the feeder, in offering me food twice,
and occasionally even three times a day, I got thinner and thinner,
and instead of the sleek and bright coat which I had upon leaving my
walk, my hackles now began to stare and to look little less rough than
a badger’s skin. Trimbush, too, essayed to relieve me from my load of
misery, and recounted many a tale of interest to wean me from gloomy
reflections; but it was all to no purpose. I could not forget the
pleasures of home.
“He’ll be right enough in a day or two,” said the huntsman to an
expression of regret from the feeder at my altered appearance. “Let
him go cub-hunting once, and he will not sulk another hour.”
“I believe ye,” rejoined the feeder. “There’s too good blood in him for
that, after he has winded a fox.”
“Well, then,” added the huntsman, “to-morrow at daylight we draw
Wiverton Gorse; and if it does not hold a litter, it will be the first
time since my servitude--a matter of twenty-five years and more.”