THE HUNT.
[Illustration]
The genuine Englishman loves a hunt, loves sport, above everything
else; I do not mean only those who can afford to ride and shoot, but
every Englishman born and bred in the country.
One day the masons were engaged on my house, on the top of a scaffold,
the carpenters were occupied within laying a floor, some painters
were employed on doors and windows, the gardener was putting into a
bed some roses; in the back-yard a youth was chopping up wood; in the
stable-yard the coachman was washing the body of the carriage, and
in the stable itself the groom was currycombing a horse. Suddenly
from the hillside opposite, mantled with oak, came the sound of the
hounds in cry, and then the call of the horn. Down from the scaffold
came the masons, head over heels, at the risk of their necks; out
through the windows shot the carpenters and painters, throwing aside
hammers, nails, paint-pot and brushes; down went the roses in the
garden; from behind the house leaped the wood-chopper; the coach was
left half-washed, and the horse half-currycombed; and over the lawn
and through the grounds, regardless of everything, went a wild excited
throng of masons, carpenters, woodcutter, coachman, stable-boy,
gardener, my own sons, then my own self, having dropped pen, and,
forgotten on the terrace was left only the baby--a male, erect in its
perambulator, with arms extended, screaming to follow the rout and go
after the hounds. Let agitators come and storm and denounce in the
midst of our people; they cannot rouse them to fury against the gentry,
because they and the gentry run after the hounds together, enjoy a
hunt together, and are the best of friends in the field. No, the great
socialistic revolution will not take place till the hunt is abolished.
That is the great solvent of all prejudices, that the great festival
that binds all in one common bond of sympathy.
[Illustration: The Hunt Passing.]
This season there has appeared at our meets an old man of seventy-five,
who was for many years a butler to a rector, a quiet, studious man,
who died a few years ago. After the death of his master the butler
retired on his savings, and built himself a house. Then--this winter he
appeared on a cob at the meet of the foxhounds. "Sir," said he to the
Master, "now the ambition of my life is satisfied. Since I was a boy I
have wished, and all my days have worked, that I might have a cob on
which I could hunt."
Alas! the old fellow found himself so stiff after the first hunt, that
at the next meet of the harriers he appeared on foot. He had walked
four miles to it; and _he ran with the hounds_, and was in at the
death. After the hunt he walked home hot and happy, and elastic in step.
The farmers naturally like a hunt, as it affords them, apart from the
sport, an occasion of showing off and selling their horses. The workmen
like a hunt, especially after the hare, for it forms a break in their
work. They have their half day's sport, and their masters pay wage just
the same as if they had been at work.
The hare hunt naturally lends itself to footers, as the hare runs in a
circle, and not straight with the wind in his tail like reynard. Here
and there is to be found a cantankerous farmer who objects to having
his hedges broken down and his land trampled by the hunters, but he is
looked on with distrust and dislike by all in every class, and spoken
of as a curmudgeon. Of course, also, there are to be found men who trap
and kill foxes, but I verily believe those men's consciences sting them
far more on this account than if they had committed a fraud or become
drunk. And--by the way, that reminds me of a story.
There came a Hungarian nobleman, whom we will call the Baron Hounymhum,
to England. His Christian name was Arpad. He came to England, having
a title, but having nothing else; he came, in fact, to seek there his
fortune. Belonging to a good family, he was well supplied with letters
of introduction, and he was received into society. On more than one
occasion he donned his uniform, and had reason to believe that the
uniform as well as his handsome face was much admired by the ladies,
and envied by the men. Among the acquaintances he made was the Hon.
Cecil Blank, through whom he was introduced to one of the first clubs
in Piccadilly. He also got acquainted with Lord Ashwater. This nobleman
was fond of collecting around him notabilities of all kinds, literary,
scientific, and political. He himself was in his politics an advanced
Liberal.
The Baron Arpad found, to his astonishment, soon after his arrival in
town, that a rumour had got about that he had been implicated in an
attempt to assassinate his most gracious sovereign Franz Joseph, King
of Hungary and Bohemia, and Emperor of Austria. The idea was absolutely
baseless. The fact that he was received at the embassy ought to have
shut men's mouths, but no--he was credited with having contrived an
infernal machine for the destruction of his beloved sovereign.
He found, to his amazement, that this rumour did him good. He became an
_interesting_ foreigner; hitherto he had been _only_ a foreigner. Quite
an eager feeling manifested itself among persons of rank and position
for having him at their parties; not only so, but he was solicited by
magazine editors to write for them articles on the Anarchist party in
Hungary and Austria.
Scarce had this odious rumour died away, before he became the victim of
another, equally false and equally detestable. A distant cousin, the
Baron Adorian Hounymhum, ran away with the Princess Nornenstein, the
mother of three sweet little children. The elopement caused a great
sensation at Vienna, as the princess was much esteemed by her Majesty
the Empress. Prince Nornenstein pursued the fugitives, overtook them in
Belgium, fought a duel with the baron, and was shot through the heart.
Well, the report got about that it was Baron Arpad who had run away
with the princess, ruined her home, deprived her sweet children of
father and mother, and shot the aggrieved husband. It was in vain
for him to protest, he was credited with these infamies--and rose in
popular estimation. The Duchess of Belgravia at once invited him to her
dances. The ladies now courted his society, as before the gentlemen had
courted it, when they held him to be a would-be regicide. These two
rumours, crediting him with crimes of which he was incapable, did a
great deal towards pushing him in society.
Among the many acquaintances the Baron made in town was Mr.
Wildbrough, a country squire, M.F.H., a man of wealth, and an M.P. for
his county. He had but one daughter, who would be his heiress, and who
did not seem insensible to the good looks of the Baron. Now, thought
the Hungarian, his opportunity had arrived. The position of landed
proprietor in England was in prospect. Moreover, Mr. Wildbrough had
invited the Baron to come to Wildbrough Hall in October to see the
first meet of the foxhounds.
At the time appointed the Baron arrived, and was cordially received
by the squire; Mrs. Wildbrough was gracious, but not gushing; Mary
Wildbrough was manifestly pleased to see him--the tell-tale blood
assured him of that.
A large party was assembled at the hall for the first meet of the
season. The masters of other packs in the county were present. The meet
was picturesque, the run excellent. The Baron was in at the death, and
received the brush, which he at once presented to Mary Wildbrough. He
had ridden beside her, and he felt that his prospects were brightening.
He proposed to make the offer that evening at the dance after dinner,
when, at Mary's particular request, he was to appear in his Magyar
Hussar uniform, in which, as he well knew, he would be irresistible.
The Baron took in Mary to dinner, and had an agreeable chat with her,
which was only interrupted by Sir Harry Treadwin, a sporting baronet,
who said across the table to him, "Baron, I suppose that you have foxes
in Hungary?"
"Oh, yes," answered he, "_I have shot as many as five or six in a day_."
The Baron spoke loud, so as to be heard by all. He was quite unprepared
for the consequences. Sir Harry stared at him as at a ghost, with eyes
and nostrils and mouth distended. A dead silence fell on the whole
company. The host's red face changed colour, and became as collared
brawn. The master of another pack became purple as a plum. Mrs.
Wildbrough fanned herself vigorously. Mary became white as a lily and
trembled, whilst tears welled up in her beautiful eyes. The lady of the
house bowed to the lady whom the squire had taken in, and in silence
all rose, and the ladies without a word left the room.
The gentlemen remained; conversation slowly unthawed. The Baron turned
to the gentleman nearest him, and spoke about matters of general
interest. He answered shortly, almost rudely, and turned to converse
with his neighbour on the other side. Then the Baron addressed Sir
Harry, but he seemed deaf, he stared icily, but made no reply. It was
a relief to an intolerable restraint when the gentlemen joined the
ladies.
The Baron knew that with his handsome face and gorgeous uniform he
could command as many partners in the dance as he desired; but what
was his chagrin to find that his anticipations were disappointed. One
young lady was engaged, another did not dance the mazurka, a third had
forgotten the lancers, a fourth was tired, and a fifth indisposed.
After a while he seized his chance, and caught Mary Wildbrough in the
conservatory,--she was crying.
"Miss Wildbrough," said he, "are you ill? What ails you?"
"Oh, Baron!" Then she burst into an uncontrollable flood of tears. "I
am so--so unhappy! Five or six foxes! Oh, Baron Hounymhum!"
Next day he left. His host would not shake hands with him when he
departed. On reaching town he felt dull, and sauntered to the club, but
no one would speak to him there. Next day he received this letter from
the secretary--
"The secretary of the ---- Club regrets to be obliged to inform the
Baron Hounymhum that he can no longer be considered the guest of the
Club."
After that London society was sealed to him. It was nothing that he had
been thought guilty of an attempt to assassinate his sovereign, nothing
that he was thought to have eloped with a married woman, wrecked her
home and shot her husband, but that he should have shot foxes was The
Unpardonable Sin.
We have a peculiar institution in the county of Devon--a week of
hare-hunting on Dartmoor after hare-hunting has ceased everywhere else.
Dartmoor is a high elevated region totally treeless, with peaks covered
with granite, having brawling streams that foam down the valleys
between. One main road crosses this vast desolate region, as far as Two
Bridges, where is an inn, The Saracen's Head, and there it divides,
and runs for many miles more over moor to Moreton Hampstead on one
side, and to Ashburton on the other. In the fork of this Y stands an
eminently picturesque rugged tor, crested by and strewn with granite,
called Bellever. About Easter--anyhow, after hare-hunting has ceased
elsewhere--the country-side gathers at Bellever for a week, and nothing
can be conceived more changed than the scene at this time from the
usual solitude and stillness. The tor is covered with horses, traps,
carriages, footers; and if the spring sun be shining, nothing can well
be more picturesque.
Whatever may be said or sung to the contrary, hunting on Dartmoor is
dangerous work. There are no hedges there, only walls, and these walls
are set up round what are locally termed "takes," or enclosures, and
are made of the granite stones found lying about in the take; they
are not put together with mortar, but are loosely built up one stone
on another, and the wind blows through the interstices. More nasty
accidents would happen over these walls, were it not that the moor
turf is spongy and boggy, so that when a man is thrown he is lightly
received.
Concerning this Bellever week there exists a song--
"Bellever week is the bravest week
Of fifty-two in the year.
'Tis one to tweak a teetotaller's beak,
And to make a Methody swear.
We leave our troubles and toils behind,
Forget if we've got gray hair--
A parcel of boys, all frolic and noise,
Bidding begone dull care.
Bellever week is the bravest, &c.
There's never a run so brimming with fun,
Nor a pastime that may compare,
For master or horse, o'er heather and gorse,
As hunting a Dartmoor hare.
Though sure of a stogg to the girths in a bog,
Or a turn up of heels at a wall,
Yet never a jot of damage was got
By a flounder there, or a fall.
Bellever week, &c.
There's nowhere a puss deserving a cuss
For running as on the moor.
In Bellever week the harriers speak
As they never spoke before.
The Saracen's Head is full as an egg,
And every farm and cot.
The jolliest set together are met
In the out and out jolliest spot.
Bellever week, &c.
Nowhere else does a joke such laughter provoke,
Or a tale so hearty a roar,
Or a song that is sung with stentorian lung,
More certain of an _encore_!
When Bellever week returns again,
My wife--let her storm and sneer;
If not tucked into bed with a stone at my head,
By Ginger!--I _will_ be there.
Bellever week, &c."
How full life is of coincidences! We are always encountering and
wondering at them. To some the coincidences that we know to be true
seem incredible. Here is one.
The master of a very notable pack of foxhounds died. He had been master
for something like thirty years; his father was master before him, and
his son is master after him. A man of intense love of the sport. In
the dining-room hang the portraits of three generations, all in pink.
He died and was buried amidst universal sorrow. Of course the pack
did not go out that week. The first meet after the funeral was at a
distance of very many miles. The fox was started, and ran, straight as
an arrow, towards the residence of the late master, ran through the
park, pursued by the hounds, ran across the garden to the churchyard,
ran to the vault, and took refuge against the iron door that closed
it, and concealed the coffin of the dead M.F.H. And there, against his
vault door, the fox was killed, and the yelping, bounding, barking pack
careered within a few feet of his coffin.
This story I believe to be perfectly true. It was a coincidence, and a
singular one.
Till the end of the seventeenth century fox-hunting can scarcely be
said to have existed as a sport in England, the stag, the buck, and
the hare taking the precedence with our forefathers as objects of the
chase, which in a still earlier period had included the wolf and
the boar. And yet I have over my hall fireplace, in the carved oak
chimney-piece, a representation of a fox-hunt that certainly belongs
to the reign of Elizabeth. The hunters are armed with pitchforks, or
something much like them; one is holding back a greyhound by a leash;
another is winding a horn. There are ten dogs in the pack, long-eared
beagles or dachshunds, it is hard to say what. The fox has eaten one
goose all but the head and wings, and has killed a second, and is
taking refuge in a pinery among the pine-apples.
Our deer-parks about the great mansions are the remnants of deer-parks
or chases that were originally found about the manor-houses in most
places. They were not always very extensive, very often were only small
paddocks where the deer were kept; and one was let run occasionally for
a grand chase. These old paddocks with the ruined walls about them,
or without, when they were surrounded by palings, that have long ago
rotted away, still go by the name of the Chase, and so remind us of the
sports of our forefathers.
James I. was an enthusiastic sportsman. Although in his various kennels
he had little short of two hundred couple of hounds, and the cost of
their maintenance was a serious draught upon his privy purse, yet he
never seemed satisfied that he had enough, so long as he heard of any
good hound in the possession of a subject. Among the State Papers is an
amusing letter relative to a piece of ill-luck that befell a favourite
dog. "The king is at Tibbalds, and the queen gone or going to him.
At this last meeting, being at Tibbalds, which was about a fortnight
since, the queen, shooting at a deer with her crossbow, mistook her
mark, and killed Jewell, the king's most special and principal hound,
at which he stormed exceeding awhile, swearing many and great oaths.
None would undertake to break unto him the news, so they were fain to
send Archie the fool on the errand. But after he knew who did it, he
was soon pacified, and with much kindness wished her not to be troubled
with it, for he should love her never the worse, and the next day sent
her a _jewell_ worth £2000, 'as a legacy from his dead dog.' Love and
kindness increase daily between them, and it is thought they were never
on better terms."
Our early hunting songs all concern the stag. One of the very
"ancientest ditties" we have is, _The Hunt is upp_--
"The hunt is up, the hunt is up,
And it is well-nigh day;
And Harry our king is gone hunting,
To bring his deer to bay."
A very pretty song it is of the reign of bluff Hal, but the earliest
song relating to a fox that I know is that of _To-morrow the Fox will
come to Town_, of the same period, and in that there is no mention of
reynard as an object of sport. His thievish qualities are recorded,
that is all.
"To-morrow the fox will come to town,
Keep, keep, keep, keep!
To-morrow the fox will come to town,
O keep you all well there.
I must desire you neighbours all,
To hallo the fox out of the hall,
And cry as loud as you can call,
Whoop, whoop, whoop, whoop!
And cry as loud as you can call,
O keep you all well there."
In the porch of Lewanick church, in Cornwall, the piece of freestone
that supports the seat on which the gaffers sat before and after
church is sculptured with a hare-hunt. The date is about the fifteenth
century. In the popular mind the hare-hunt, for the reason already
given, that it allows of better sport for the footers, is a favourite
subject of song rather than the fox-hunt, the delights of which are
sung by huntsmen more than by the peasants. It is curious how the
reminiscence of famous runs lingers on among the people. There is
a great song that used to be sung at all hunting dinners in Devon
relative to the achievements of one Arscott of Tetcott, who is supposed
still to hunt the country in spirit with a ghostly pack--
"When the tempest is howling his horn you may hear,
And the bay of his hounds in their headlong career;
For Arscott of Tetcott loves hunting so well,
That he breaks for the pastime from heaven--or hell."
[Illustration: Fox-hunt, from Hall Chimney-piece, Lew Trenchard.]