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LADIES IN THE FIELD
Sketches of Sport
EDITED BY
THE LADY GREVILLE
NEW YORK
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
1894
PREFACE.
It is scarcely necessary nowadays to offer an apology for sport, with
its entrancing excitement, its infinite variety of joys and interests.
Women cheerfully share with men, hardships, toil and endurance, climb
mountains, sail on the seas, face wind and rain and the chill gusts of
winter, as unconcernedly as they once followed their quiet occupations
by their firesides. The feverish life of cities too, with its
enervating pleasures, is forgotten and neglected for the witchery of
legitimate sport, which need not be slaughter or cruelty. Women who
prefer exercise and liberty, who revel in the cool sea breeze, and love
to feel the fresh mountain air fanning their cheeks, who are afraid
neither of a little fatigue nor of a little exertion, are the better,
the truer, and the healthier, and can yet remain essentially feminine
in their thoughts and manners. They may even by their presence refine
the coarser ways of men, and contribute to the gradual disuse of bad
language in the hunting field, and to the adoption of a habit of
courtesy and kindness. The duties of the wife of the M. F. H. fully bear
out this view.
When women prove bright and cheerful companions, they add to the man's
enjoyment and to the enlarging of their own practical interests. When,
in addition, they endeavour to love Nature in her serenest and grandest
moods, to snatch from her mighty bosom some secrets of her being, to
study sympathetically the habits of birds, beasts and flowers, and to
practise patience, skill, ingenuity and self-reliance, they have learnt
valuable lessons of life.
Lastly, in the words of a true lover of art: "The sportsman who walked
through the turnip fields, thinking of nothing but his dog and his gun,
has been drinking in the love of beauty at every pore of his
invigorated frame, as, from each new tint of autumn, from every misty
September morning, from each variety of fleeting cloud, each flash of
light from distant spire or stream, the unnoticed influence stole over
him like a breeze, bringing health from pleasant places, and made him
capable of clearer thoughts and happier emotions."
VIOLET GREVILLE.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
RIDING IN IRELAND AND INDIA. 1
_By the Lady Greville._
HUNTING IN THE SHIRES. 29
HORSES AND THEIR RIDERS. 61
_By The Duchess of Newcastle._
THE WIFE OF THE M. F. H. 71
_By Mrs Chaworth Musters._
FOX-HUNTING. 89
TEAM AND TANDEM DRIVING. 105
_By Miss Rosie Anstruther Thomson._
TIGERS I HAVE SHOT. 143
_By Mrs C. Martelli._
RIFLE-SHOOTING. 157
_By Miss Leale._
DEER-STALKING AND DEER-DRIVING. 173
_By Diane Chasseresse._
COVERT SHOOTING. 197
_By Lady Boynton._
A KANGAROO HUNT. 233
_By Mrs Jenkins._
CYCLING. 245
_By Mrs E. R. Pennell._
PUNTING. 267
_By Miss Sybil Salaman._
LADIES IN THE FIELD.
RIDING IN IRELAND AND INDIA.
BY THE LADY GREVILLE.
Of all the exercises indulged in by men and women, riding is perhaps
the most productive of harmless pleasure. The healthful, exhilarating
feeling caused by rapid motion through the air, and the sense of power
conveyed by the easy gallop of a good horse, tends greatly to moral and
physical well-being and satisfaction. Riding improves the temper, the
spirits and the appetite; black shadows and morbid fancies disappear
from the mental horizon, and wretched indeed must he be who can
preserve a gloomy or discontented frame of mind during a fine run in a
grass country, or even in a sharp, brisk gallop over turfy downs. Such
being the case, no wonder that the numbers of horsemen increase every
day, and that the hunting field, from the select company of a few
country squires and hard-riding young men, has developed into an unruly
mob of people, who ride over the hounds, crush together in the
gateways, and follow like a flock of sheep through the gaps and over
the fences, negotiated by more skilful or courageous sportsmen. Women,
too, have rushed in where their mothers feared to tread. Little girls
on ponies may be seen holding their own nobly out hunting, while Hyde
Park, during the season, is filled with fair, fresh-looking girls in
straw hats, covert coats and shirts, driving away the cobwebs of
dissipation and the deleterious effects of hot rooms by a mild canter
in the early morning. Unfortunately, though a woman never looks better
than on horseback, _when she knows how to ride_, the specimens one
often encounters riding crookedly, all one side, to the inevitable
detriment of the horse's back, bumping on the saddle like a sack of
potatoes, or holding on with convulsive effort to the horse's mouth,
are sufficient to create a holy horror in the minds of reasonable
spectators. Park-riding is not difficult compared with cross-country
riding, yet how seldom do you see it perfect? To begin with, a certain
amount of horsemanship is absolutely necessary. There must be art, and
the grace that conceals art; there must be self-possession, quiet, and
a thorough knowledge of the horse you are riding. Take, for instance, a
fresh young hunter into the park for the first time. He shies at the
homely perambulator, starts at the sound of cantering hoofs, is
terrified by a water-cart, maddened by the strains of the regimental
band, or the firing of the guards at their matutinal drill, and finally
attempts to bolt or turn round as other horses, careering along, meet
and pass him in a straggling gallop. If he backs, rears, kicks, shies
and stops short, or wheels round suddenly, with ears thrown back, his
rider need not be surprised. Horses cantering in every direction
disturb, distress and puzzle him. On which side are the hounds? he
wonders. Why does not his rider extend him? Where are the fences, and
when will the fun begin? These, no doubt, are some of the thoughts that
pass through a well-bred hunter's mind, for that horses _do_ reason
in their own peculiar fashion I am convinced, and that they fully
recognise the touch and voice of the master, no one can doubt who has
noticed the difference in the behaviour of a hunter when ridden by
different persons. If the park rider wishes for a pleasant conveyance I
should strongly recommend a hack, neither a polo pony nor a cob. But
where, oh where, are perfect hacks to be found? They should be
handsome, well-bred, not quite thorough-bred, about 15·3, with fine
shoulders, good action, and, above all, perfect mouth and manners. No
Irish horse has manners, as a rule, until he comes to England, or has
the slightest idea of bending and holding himself, owing to the fact of
his being usually broken and ridden in a snaffle bridle. This practice
has its uses, notably in that it makes the horses bold fencers, and
teaches them not to be afraid of facing the bit, but it is not
conducive to the development of a park hack, which should be able to
canter round a sixpence. I remember in my young days seeing Mr
Mackenzie Greaves and Lord Cardigan riding in the park, the latter
mounted on a beautiful chestnut horse, which cantered at the slowest
and easiest of paces, the real proverbial arm-chair, with a beautifully
arched neck, champing proudly at the bit, yet really guided as by a
silken thread. _That_ was a perfect hack, and would probably fetch
now-a-days four or five hundred guineas. No lady ought to ride (if she
wishes to look well) on anything else. Men may bestride polo ponies, or
clatter lumberingly along on chargers, or exercise steeple-chase horses
with their heads in the air, yawing at a snaffle; but, if a woman wants
to show off her figure and her seat she should have a perfect hack, not
too small, with a good forehand, nice action, and, above all, a good
walker, one that neither fidgets nor shuffles nor breaks into a trot.
Bitting is, as a rule, not sufficiently considered. In the park, a
light, double bridle, or what they call in Ireland a Ward bit, is the
best, and no martingale should be required. People often wonder why a
horse does not carry his head in the right place. Generally, unless the
horse is unfortunately shaped, this is the fault of the bit, sometimes
it is too severe, or too narrow, which frets and irritates the horse's
mouth. A horse with a very tender mouth will stand only the lightest of
bits, and is what they call a snaffle bridle horse, not always the
pleasantest of mouths, at least out hunting; for I cannot think that a
lady can really ever hold a horse well together over a deep country,
intersected by stiff fences, with a snaffle, especially if he is a big
horse with somewhat rolling action. It has been said by a great
authority on riding that no horse's mouth is good enough for a snaffle,
and no man's hands good enough for a curb. I remember the late Lord
Wilton, one of the finest cross-country riders, telling me to be sure
never to ride my horse on the curb over a fence. But, as I suppose
there is no absolute perfection in horse or man, each rider must, to a
certain extent, judge for himself, and ride different horses in
different ways. But you may be sure of this, that the bitting of grooms
is generally too severe, and the hands of a man who rides all his
horses in martingales, snaffles, and complicated arrangements of bit
and bridle, are sure to be wrong. The matter practically resolves
itself into hands. They, after all, are the chief essentials in riding.
The "Butcher" on horseback who tugs at his horse's head as if it were a
bedpost, who loses his temper, who digs in the spurs incessantly, and
generally has a fight with his horse over every fence, invariably
possesses bad hands as well as a bad temper. I believe the reason that
women who ride hard generally get fewer falls than men, is to be
accounted for by the fact that they leave their horse's head alone, do
not interfere with and bully him, and are generally on good terms with
their mounts. For this reason I disapprove strongly of women riding
with spurs, and think that in most cases _men_ would be better without
them. I had a personal experience of this once, when I one day lent a
very clever hunter, who had carried me perfectly, to the huntsman. He
rode her with spurs, she went unkindly all day and refused several
fences, a thing I had never known her do before. Many men are too
fond of looking upon horses as machines, ignoring their wishes and
peculiarities, whereas the true horseman is in thorough sympathy with
the animal he bestrides, and contrives by some occult influence to
inspire him with confidence and affection. A horse, bold as a lion with
his master on his back, may very often refuse with a timid, nervous or
weak rider. One man, like the late George Whyte Melville, can get the
rawest of four-year-olds brilliantly over a country, while another
finds difficulty even with an experienced hunter.
I believe thoroughly in kindness and gentleness in stable management. I
would dismiss at once a groom or helper who hit, or swore at, or
knocked about a horse. Horses are very nervous creatures, and keenly
susceptible to affection. I had once a beautiful chestnut hunter, quite
thorough-bred, and a perfect picture, with a small, beautifully-shaped
head, and large, gentle eye. He had evidently been fearfully
ill-treated, for, if anyone came near him he would shrink into the
corner of his box, tremble violently, and put his ears back from sheer
nervousness. After a bit, seeing he was kindly treated, he learnt to
follow me like a dog. Another mare, who came with the reputation of
a vicious animal, and was supposed to bite all those who approached
her, used, after a time, to eat nicely from my hand, much to the
astonishment of her late master, who saw me go freely into her box. No
man can be a really good rider who is not fond of horses, and does not
care to study their peculiarities and tempers, and govern them rather
by kind determination than by sheer ill-treatment.
A lady rider should look to her bit before she starts, see that the
curb chain is not too tight, and the bit in the proper position. She
should visit her horse daily, and feed him in the stable till he knows
her voice as well as one of mine did who, on hearing it, would rise up
on his hind legs and try to turn himself round in his stall whinnying
with pleasure. And, above all, she should study her saddle. Sore backs
are the terrible curse of a hunting stable, and are generally produced
by bad riding, hanging on to the stirrup, instead of rising when
trotting, from the body, and sitting crooked on a badly-fitting saddle.
The woman's seat should be a perfectly straight one. She should look,
as she sits, exactly between the horse's ears, and, with the third
pommel to give her assistance, she ought to maintain a perfect balance.
Every lady's saddle should be made for her, as some women take longer
saddles than others. The stuffing should be constantly seen to, and,
while the girths are loosed, the saddle itself never taken off till the
horse's back is cool. If it is a well-made saddle and does not come
down too low on the withers, a horse should very rarely have a bad
back. I have always preferred a saddle of which the seat was flat and
in old days used to have mine stuffed a good deal at the back so as to
prevent the feeling of riding uphill. Messrs Wilkinson & Champion now
make saddles on that principle, on which one can sit most comfortably.
Numnahs I do not care for, or if they are used they should only be a
thin leather panel, well oiled, and kept soft and pliable.
No lady should hunt till she can ride, by which I mean, till she can
manage all sorts of horses, easy and difficult to ride, till she knows
how to gallop, how to jump, and is capable of looking after herself.
Half the accidents in the hunting field occur from women, who can
scarcely ride, being put upon a hunter, and, while still perfectly
inexperienced, told to ride to hounds. They may have plenty of courage
but no knowledge. Whyte Melville depicts pluck as "a moral quality, the
result of education, natural self-respect and certain high aspirations
of the intellect;" and nerve "as a gift of nature, dependent on the
health, the circulation and the liver. As memory to imagination in the
student, so is nerve to pluck in the horseman." Women are remarkable
for nerve, men for pluck. Women who ride are generally young and
healthy. Youth is bold and inconscient of its danger. Yet few men or
women have the cool courage of Jim Mason, who was seen galloping down a
steep hill in Leicestershire, the reins on his horse's neck, his knife
in his mouth, mending the lash of his whip. In fact, a good deal of the
hard riding one sees is often due to what is called "jumping powder,"
or the imbibing of liqueurs and spirits. For hard riding, it should
never be forgotten, is essentially not good riding. The fine old
sportsman, ripened by experience, who, while quietly weighing the
chances against him, and perfectly aware of the risks he runs, is yet
ready to face them boldly, with all the resources of a cool head and a
wide knowledge, is on the high road to being a hero. These calm,
unassuming, courageous men are those who make their mark on the field
of battle, and to whom the great Duke of Wellington referred when he
spoke of the hunting field being the best school of cavalry in the
world.
Most of us want to fly before we can walk. This vaulting ambition
accounts for the contemptible spectacles that occasionally meet our
sight. A city man, who has had half-a-dozen riding lessons, an enriched
tradesman, or an unsportmanlike foreigner, must needs start a stud of
hunters. We all remember the immortal adventures of Jorrocks and Soapy
Sponge, but how often do we see scenes quite as ludicrous as any
depicted in Sartees' delightful volumes. Because everyone he knows goes
across country, the novice believes fondly that he can do the same. He
forgets that the real sportsman has ridden from earliest childhood; has
taken his falls cheerfully off a pony; and learned how to ride without
stirrups, often clinging on only bareback; has watched, while still a
little chap in knickerbockers or white frocks, holding tight to the
obliging nurse's hand, some of the mysteries of the stable; has seen
the horses groomed and shod, physicked or saddled, with the keen
curiosity and interest of childhood, and has grown up, as it were in
the atmosphere of the stable. Every English boy, the son of a country
gentleman, loves the scent of the hay, not perhaps poetically in the
hay field, but practically in the manger. He knows the difference in
the quality of oats, and the price of straw, the pedigree of the colts,
and the performances of the mares, long before he has mastered the
intricacies of Euclid, or the diction of Homer. To ride is to him as
natural as to walk, and he acquires a seat and hands as unconsciously
as the foals learn to trot and jump after their mother; and
consequently, as riding is an art eminently necessary to be acquired in
youth, everything is in his favour, when in after life the poor and
plucky subaltern pits himself on his fifty-guinea screw against the
city magnate riding his four-hundred-guinea hunter. Fortunately this is
so, for riding, while entrancing to its votaries, is also an expensive
amusement; yet so long as a man has a penny in his pocket that he can
legitimately dispose of for amusement, so long would one wish him to
spend it thus, for the moral qualities necessary to make a good rider
are precisely those which have given England her superiority in the
rank of nations. The Irish with their ardent and enthusiastic natures,
are essentially lovers of horses; and an Irish hunter is without
exception the cleverest in the world. He has generally a light mouth,
always a leg to spare, and the nimbleness of a deer in leaping.
_Apropos_ of the latter quality, I remember the answer of an Irishman
who was selling a horse, when asked if he could jump,--
"Is't lep, ye mane, yer honour? Well there never was a leper the likes
of him!"
"Does he feed well?"
"Feed, yer honour? He'd fatten on a bowling alley!"
Hunting in Ireland, while rougher and more unconventional, is certainly
safer than in England. The fences are big, but you do not as a rule
ride so fast at them, and are therefore not so likely to get a bad
fall; in addition, there is rarely if ever any timber to jump. But
against that, there are a great many stone walls, and nasty big black
ditches, called drains, which are boggy and unfathomable, and the banks
of which are rotten; and there is no road riding possible, and few
gates, while lanes are rare and far between. Nevertheless, I believe it
is the best hunting country for ladies. It has no big hairy fences to
scratch your face and tear your habit, and no ox-rails; the country is
grass and beautiful going; you can ride a horse a stone lighter than in
England, and on a good bold horse you can go pretty nearly straight.
The vexed question of habits appears now to be one of the most serious
matters, in consequence of the many accidents that have happened to
ladies. When I began riding, we wore habits that tore if they caught,
and, consequently, no one was ever hung up or dragged. The strong
melton cloth of the present day does not give at all, and therefore is
a source of great danger if the habit catches on the pommel. None of
the so-called safety habits up to the present seem to be absolutely
satisfactory, nor any of the dodges of elastic or safety stirrups. Mr
Scott, Jr., of South Molton Street, has invented the latest safety
skirt, but this is in reality no habit at all, only an apron, and
therefore can scarcely be called a skirt. One great security is to have
no hem to the habit. Another is, to be a good rider (for the bad riders
always fall on the off side, which is the reason their habit catches on
the crutch). The third is to have a habit made of tearable material;
and this, I believe, is the only solution of the question, unless
ladies decide definitely to adopt a man's dress. Meanwhile, I would
impress upon all women the great danger of hunting, unless they are
fully capable of managing their horses, choosing their own place at a
fence, omitting to ride over their pilot, or to gallop wildly with a
loose rein, charging every obstacle in front of them, and finally,
unless they have some experience in the art of horsemanship.
Military men possess great advantages in the hunting field. To begin
with, they are taught to ride, and probably have passed some years in
India, where the exercise is commonly preferred to walking. Ladies of
all ages and figures ride there, and, no doubt, in so doing, preserve
their health and their looks. There is a peculiar charm in Indian
riding. It is indulged in in the early morning, when the body is
rested, the nerves strong, and the air brisk and fresh; or at eventide,
when the heat of the day is over, and a canter in the cool breeze seems
peculiarly acceptable. How delightful are those early morning rides,
when, after partaking of the refreshing cup of tea or coffee, your
"syce" or groom brings the pawing steed to your door, and once in the
saddle, you wander for miles, with nothing to impede your progress but
an occasional low mud wall, or bank and ditch, which your horse takes
in his stride, or a thorny "nullah," up and down whose steep sides you
scramble. There is something fascinating in the sense of space and
liberty, the feeling that you can gallop at your own sweet will across
a wide plain, pulled up by no fear of trespassing, no gates nor fences
nor unclosed pastures with carefully guarded sheep and cattle, no
flowery cottage gardens; the wide expanse of cloudless sky above you,
the golden plain with its sandy monotony stretched out in front, broken
only by occasional clumps of mango trees, or tilled spaces, where the
crops grow, intersected by small ditches, cut for the purposes of
irrigation--free as a bird, you lay the reins on your horse's neck, and
go till he or you are tired. Or in northern India, on a real cold,
nipping morning before sunrise, you gather at the accustomed
trysting-place and hear the welcome sound of the hounds' voices. A
scratch pack, they are, perhaps, even a "Bobbery" pack, as the name
goes in India; but the old excitement is on you, the rush for a start,
and the sense of triumphant exhilaration, as the hounds settle to their
work, and the wretched little jackal, or better still, the wolf, takes
his unchecked course over the sandy hillocks and the short grass. A
twenty-minutes' run covers the horses with lather, and sets your pulses
tingling. Presently the sun is high in the horizon, and its rays are
beginning to make themselves felt. A few friendly good-byes, some
parting words of mutual congratulation, and you turn to ride gently
home, with a feeling of self-righteousness in your heart, as you greet
the lazy sister, or wife, or brother, who stands in the verandah
looking for your coming. A bath--that inestimable Indian luxury--a
lingering toilette, and so to breakfast. And what a breakfast, with a
lovely appetite to eat it. Fish, beefsteaks, cutlets, the most savoury
and delicate of curries, fruit and coffee, ought to satisfy a Sybarite.
After which a cigarette on a lounge in the verandah may be indulged in.
By this time the day is only just begun, and you are free to fill the
remaining hours with work or the claims of society.
Most lovers of horseflesh, seizing their sun-hats from the peg, sally
out into the "compound" (a kind of grass enclosure with a few mango or
tamarisk trees planted in the middle, the low roofs of the stables and
the native servants' dwellings forming a background to it), and talk
that cheery rambling talk all true sportsmen delight in.
The horses, some in their stalls, some picketed outside under the
trees, are munching large bundles of fresh green lucern (a kind of
vetch, and a substitute for grass); while the ebon grooms, seated on
their haunches on the ground, hold bits and bridles between their toes,
and rub away at them with praiseworthy energy. On one side are the polo
and harness ponies, the match pair which the lady shows you with pride;
on the other, the pony unbroken and savage, just bought at a fair while
beyond are two or three "whalers," fine sixteen-hand upstanding horses,
all pronounced excellent fencers and first-rate pig-stickers. The grey
yonder, a compact, neat-looking animal, resembling an Irish hunter, was
out this morning. Like most Australian horses, he is a great
buck-jumper, and going to covert his master has some trouble in keeping
a steady seat, but when settled down into his gallop, no mud wall is
too high, no ditch too broad, and no day too long for him. Many are the
prize spears he has won on hardly-contested pig-sticking expeditions.
Then on Sunday, the day voted to sport in India, merry paper chases
fill an idle hour or two just before sunset. Any old screw,
country-bred pony or short-shouldered Arab may be brought out on these
occasions. The hard ground resounds with a noise like the distant roll
of thunder, as the line of horsemen clatter along, raising a cloud of
dust behind them. Falls abound, for the pace is good, and the leader of
the chase well mounted.
The sugar canes rattle crisply like peas on a drum, as you push your
way quickly through the tall grass crops, which, forced violently
asunder by your horse's progress, fall together again, and leave no
trace of your passage. Down a soft, sandy lane, you canter, while your
horse sinks in up to his fetlocks, past a dirty little native village,
swarming with black children, where women in picturesque attitudes lean
and chatter by the shady well; then over a rough, stony plain,
intersected by cracks and crevices in the hard gaping earth, where you
must pick your way carefully, and hold your horse together lest he
break his leg and your neck, for (drawback of all in India) the ground
is dreadfully hard, and falls do hurt. At last the chase is over, and
your wearied beast stands with legs apart and nostrils heaving, trying
to get his wind. The sun has gone down in the sudden fashion peculiar
to tropical climes. Gloaming there is none, but a lovely starlight, and
the clear rays of the moon to guide you safely on your way home. Ruddy
lights shine out from the native huts, sundry fires shed a wild lustre,
the faint, sickly odour of tobacco and opium fills the air, and the
weird beating of a tom-tom is heard in the distance.
For those to whom such a wild hot scramble, or the long free gallop
over the plains does not appeal, there is the pleasant ride along the
mall under the flowering acacia trees, where friends meet you at every
step, and your easily-cantering Arab, with flowing mane and tail, is in
harmony with the picturesque Oriental scene. Everyone rides in India,
for in many places it is the only means of transit. In Assam and
Central India, where roads are bad, or non-existent, and the railroads
are many miles away, it is absolutely necessary for the tea-planter to
reach his plantations on horseback, riding long distances over rough
ground; while the commissioner or civilian making his judicial rounds,
or the sportsman in search of big game, rides his twelve or fourteen
miles a day, camping out in the jungle at night. The lowest subaltern
owns a pony or two, and rides to and from his military duties, and the
pony may be seen led up and down in front of the mess house, or
standing playfully flicking the flies off with his tail, while the
faithful syce, his lean brown limbs trained to exceeding fineness by
the long distances he runs, squats meekly on the dusty ground, and
calls his charge by all sorts of endearing names, which the animal
seems perfectly to understand. Hand-rubbing, or what is vulgarly called
"elbow grease," is much practised in India, and a groom attentive to
his duties takes a pride in polishing a horse's coat till it is smooth
and glistening as satin. Notwithstanding this personal care, however,
Indian horses, especially country-breds, are not famed for the
sweetness of their tempers, and generally disagreeably resent their
masters' attempt to mount. This has accordingly to be done in the most
agile manner. Animals may be seen kicking, biting, plunging and even
flying at one another like savage dogs, with teeth exposed, lips drawn
back, nostrils heaving and eyes flashing. Yet few people would exchange
the wild, daring horsemanship of India with its pig-sticking and its
wild game hunting, necessitating the utmost degree of nerve and
determination, for the flat and unprofitable constitutional in Rotten
Row, the country ride along a road, or even the delights of fox-hunting
in England.
Riding men, who love the sport for its own value, are usually
sunny-tempered, kindly at heart, and generously disposed. Women, who
ride, are easy to please and unaffected; in fact, what many men
describe as "a good sort." In conclusion, my advice to girls is, to
take a riding man for a husband, and to follow themselves as far as
possible all out-door pursuits and amusements. Their moral qualities
will not suffer from it, while their physique will gain considerably,
for bright eyes, a clear complexion, and a slim figure are beauties
never to be despised.
VIOLET GREVILLE.
HUNTING IN THE SHIRES.
"There are emotions deeply seated in the joy of exercise, when the body
is brought into play, and masses move in concert, of which the subject
is but half conscious.
"Music and dance, and the delirium of battle or _the chase_ acts thus
upon spontaneous natures.
"The mystery of rhythm and associated energy and blood-tingling in
sympathy is here. It lies at the root of man's most tyrannous
instinctive impulses."
Considering that J. Addington Symonds was a permanent invalid, exiled
to Davos by his health, he shows in this paragraph extraordinary
understanding.
Fox-hunting is not merely an idle amusement; it is an outlet for man's
natural instincts; a healthy way of making him active, and training his
character. Whether it exercises his mental faculties in a like degree
is another question. I do not think a man can be very stupid who rides
well to hounds. The qualifying remark that "he is so perfectly mounted"
rather adds to his credit than otherwise, for, with unlimited means,
and the best possible intention it is difficult in these days of
competition to get together a stud of hunters of the right stamp.
People vary considerably in their notions of the right stamp; but most
men and women who know anything about horses look out for quality, good
bone, loose elbows, active shoulders, strong back, clean hocks, and a
head put on the right way; whether in a horse over sixteen-hands or a
pony. A judge of horse flesh will never be mistaken about these
qualifications, either in the meanest-looking cab horse or a rough
brute in a farmyard.
Hunting people of long experience will tell us they have had one horse
in their lives. One that suited their temperament, that they took
greater liberties with, that gave them fewer falls, and showed them
more sport than all the others. Whyte Melville says, "Forty minutes
over an enclosed country establishes the partnership of man and beast
in relation of confidence." The combination of pluck, decision and
persuasion in a man, and nervous susceptibility in a horse, begets
intimacy and mutual affection which many married couples might envy.
One horse may make a man's reputation, and pleasantly raise the average
of an unequal, even shady, lot in his sale at Tattersall's.
I had a brown horse that did a great deal for me. He was nearly
thorough-bred; by Lydon, dam by Pollard, 15·3, with beautiful limbs and
freedom. He had poor ribs, rather a fractious mouth, and the courage of
an army. I hunted him for six seasons; in Cheshire, Yorkshire,
Lincolnshire, Wiltshire, Gloucestershire, Bedfordshire, Leicestershire,
Buckinghamshire, and Northamptonshire, and he never gave me a fall.
I once fell off him. After an enormous jump over an average fence,
prompted by a feeling of power and capacity, he gave a sort of skip on
landing, and on this provocation I "cut a voluntary," to use a sporting
phrase. He died of lockjaw, to my unceasing regret. I remember in 1885
being mounted on an extraordinary hunter. I had not gone ten strides
before I knew I could not hold him. My patron, on receiving this
information, said, "What does it matter! hounds are running--you surely
don't want to stop?" "Oh, no!" I replied, "but I cannot guide him."
"That doesn't matter--they are running straight," so, stimulated by
this obvious common sense, I went on in the delirium of the chase, till
I had jumped so close to an innocent man that my habit skirt carried
off his spur, and, in avoiding a collision at a ford, I jumped the
widest brook I have ever seen jumped; and after that I got a pull at
him. He could not put a foot wrong, and was perfectly unconscious of my
wish to influence him.
I began hunting with the inestimable advantage of possessing no horses
of my own. For four years I rode hired horses, and had many uncouth
falls, but I never hurt myself or my horse. There is freemasonry among
"hirelings," I think: they know how to protect themselves and their
riders. They jump without being bold; they are stale without being
tired; and they live to be very old; by which, I presume, they are
treated better than one would suppose. The first horse I ever possessed
of my own cost £100, and was called Pickwell, after a manor house in
Leicestershire. He was 15·2, with a swivel neck. For the benefit of
people who do not understand this expression, I will say he could
almost put his head upon my lap. He was a very poor "doer," and,
towards the end of the season, assumed the proportions of a tea-leaf,
and had to be sold. He could not do a whole day even when only hunted
three days a fortnight. He was an airy performer, and I was sorry to
part with him. I hunted him with the Grafton, the Bicester, and Selby
Lownides. Parts of the Grafton country are as fine as Leicestershire,
without having quite its scope or freedom. It is a very sporting
country, with fine woodlands and good wild foxes. When I hunted there
we had, in Frank Beers, as good a huntsman as you could wish to see.
In a paper of this length any criticism of the various merits of
hunting countries would be impossible. In a rough way this is how I
should appraise them. The Cottesmore for hounds. The Burton for foxes.
The Holdernesse for horses. The Pytchley for riders, and the Quorn for
the field.
This needs some explanation.
The Cottesmore is the most beautiful hound country in England. It is
wild and undisturbed: all grass, and carrying a good scent. No huntsman
can interfere with his hounds, and no field over-ride them, for the
simple reason that they cannot reach them easily. The drawbacks of this
from a horseman's point of view are as obvious as the advantages to a
houndman's. The country is very hilly in parts, and a good deal divided
by unjumpable "bottoms," which the experienced do not meddle with, and
which are only worth risking if you get away on good terms with the
pack, "while they stream across the first field with a dash that brings
the mettle to your heart and the blood to your brain," and your
instinct tells you that you are in for a good thing! You gain nothing
by chancing one of these bottoms in an average hunting run. The
scientific subscriber who knows every inch of the country will be in
front of you, and you are fortunate if you get your horse out before
dark. Brookesby thus describes the Cottesmore:--"A wide-spread region,
scarcely inhabited; ground that carries a scent in all weathers;
woodlands which breed a travelling race; and mile upon mile of
untracked grass, where a fox will meet nothing more terrifying than a
bullock."
If hounds really race over the hilly part of the Cottesmore, no horse
or rider can follow them straight. He must use his head and eyes, not
merely test his pluck and quickness.
He need never lose sight of the pack if he is clever, and he will see a
vision of grass landscape stretching away below him, and all around
him, that will not fade with the magic of the moment.
There are people who predict the abolition of fox-hunting in England.
These think themselves the penetrating observers of life; they are
really the ignorant spectators, who take more trouble to avoid barbed
wire than to prevent it being put up; people who join in the groan of
the times, without energy or insight. Prophecies of this kind should
have no value, unless it be to make hunting people more consciously
careful. Since there are larger subscriptions than ever, and more
people hunt, we can only trust that compensation will be given
liberally, but not lavishly, and upon principles of good sense and
justice. I have thus digressed merely to say that if such a day should
arrive, hunting is likely to survive longer in the Cottesmore than in
most countries.
The Burton (Lincolnshire) presents a striking contrast to the
Cottesmore. It is as flat as Holland, and you must be on the back of
hounds if you wish to see them work. Most of the country is ploughed,
and, by a time-honoured custom which brought both credit and money to
the Lincolnshire farmers, many of the fields are double ploughed. This
latter, to ride over, is only a little better than steam plough. As the
price of wheat in England has fallen by 30 per cent. the farmers are
ruined, and they are laying down more grass every year. The
characteristic fence of the county is a wide drain set a little away
from the hedge and cut very deep. The upstanding fences, although lower
than those in the shires, are pretty high if you look at the depth of
the ground from which you take off.
The gorse covers are splendidly thick and overgrown and take a long
time to draw; a good many of the fashionable packs, I know, would
hesitate to expose themselves to such rough work as drawing Toff Newton
or Torrington gorse. The foxes are more like Scotch foxes, large and
grey. They are wild, and take some killing, sometimes running for two
hours. There are not enough inhabitants to head them or cheer the
discouraged huntsman by occasional information.
In Cheshire I saw five foxes killed on one day, but a huntsman in
Lincolnshire will be lucky if he kills two in a week.
I hunted two winters with the Burton hounds, and I am sure the largest
field I ever saw was twenty people. The master, huntsman and two whips
included. Hunting in a big country with a small field and wild foxes is
the best way of learning to be independent. If, as was my experience,
you have a hard-riding huntsman, who gets down early in the run; one
whip who takes the wrong turn out of cover, and the other who hangs
back after a refractory couple of hounds, a few poorly-mounted farmers
and unlucky gentlemen, you can realise with moderate difficulty the
possibility of the proud position of being alone with hounds; although
this distinction may be capable of the same explanation as was the
position of the Scotch boy who, when boasting of being second in his
class, was compelled to admit that it consisted of "Me and a lassie."
I said the Holdernesse for horses, and I certainly never saw a better
mounted field or a finer lot of riding farmers--all of them sportsmen
and gentlemen. They ask long prices for their young horses, if they
will sell them to you at all, but the chances are they have already
promised them to some London dealer. Yorkshire horses are, perhaps,
after Irish, the most famous. They are mostly thorough-bred, and can
gallop and stay. I shall never forget a horse I held for a young farmer
which would not allow him to mount. I can see it now. A long,
loose-limbed bay, with a small, keen, bony face, and an eye that looked
through you. I have a great weakness for a horse's face, and think in a
general way it shows as much character as a man's. His back was perhaps
a trifle too long, but his girth was deep, and he moved like an
athlete. He was as wild as a hawk, and could hardly keep still for love
of life, dancing at every shadow, and springing feet into the air when
anyone passed too near him. He was beautifully ridden and humoured and
ultimately settled into the discouraging trot known as "hounds pace." I
asked his owner what he wanted for him, and how old he was. The man
said that he was rising six, that he wanted £300, and had often refused
£250. We had a long talk, as we trotted down the road to draw the next
cover, about horses in general and his bay in particular. I fancy his
feats lost nothing by being repeated, but I shall not relate them, as
what they gained by tradition they would lose by print.
The Holdernesse is a light plough country, and, like Lincolnshire, its
common fence is a deep drain, into which your horse can absolutely
disappear. I saw eight men down in one, all at the same time, and a
young thorough-bred horse in a deep drain is about the worst company in
the world.
There is not a finer country to ride over in England than the Pytchley.
Unfortunately, too many people agree with us, which is a slight
objection to hunting there.
They have wonderful sport, a first-rate huntsman and a rich community.
Lord Spencer is the keenest of masters and best of sportsmen. Whyte
Melville says of him in his riding recollections: "The present Lord
Spencer, of whom it is enough to say he hunts one pack of his own in
Northamptonshire, and is always in the same field with them, never
seems to have a horse pull, or, until it is tired, even lean on his
hand." I should like to have been praised by Whyte Melville. He is one
of the few novelists whose heroes are gentlemen, who can describe
English society and a straight forty minutes over countries that we
recognise.
The Pytchley is not cut up by railroads, like the Quorn. There is not
nearly so much timber as there is in Leicestershire, but it is as big
if not bigger.
In old days, Lord Spencer told me, they said, "You may, perhaps, go
through the Pytchley, but you must get over the Quorn."
If anything will teach one to gallop, it is riding for a bridle gate in
the company of three or four hundred people, none of them morbidly
civil.
You must get there, and get there soon, as it is the only visible means
of securing a start, or getting into the next field. Sometimes one's
horse has a sensitive habit of backing when he is pressed, which allows
everyone to pass you. In any case, you will have a horse's head under
each arm; a spur against your instep; a kicker with a red tape in his
tail pressed towards your favourite mare, with the doubtful consolation
of being told, when the iron of his hoof has rattled against her
fore-leg that "it was too near to have hurt her." Your hat will be
knocked off by an enthusiast pointing to the line the fox is taking,
and your eye will dimly perceive the pack swaying over the ridge and
furrow, like swallows crossing the sea, two fields ahead of you. If you
harden your heart and jump the generally gigantic fence at the side of
the gate, you expose yourself to the ridicule of the whole field; for
it is on these occasions that your favourite is pretty sure to fall on
her head.
No one is responsible for the manners of a field which is largely made
up of "specials" from Rugby, Leamington and Banbury. A Northamptonshire
hunting-man is as nice a fellow as there is in England, and outside his
own country has the finest manners; but the struggle for existence in
the field with hard-riding casuals has hardened his heart and
embittered his speech.
Every field has its own character; an indescribable "something" which
one feels without being able to define. There is a friendliness and
distinction about the Melton field peculiarly its own. The Quorn
Fridays are joined by Mr Fernie's field, the Cottesmore, Belvoir and
others, and is in consequence very large. Tom Firr, the huntsman--and a
man who can very nearly catch a fox himself--is less moved by a large
crowd than anyone I ever saw, unless, perhaps, it be his hounds who
"come up through a crowd of horses, and stick to the line of their fox,
or fling gallantly forward to recover it, without a thought of personal
danger, or the slightest misgiving; that not one man in ten is master
of the two pair of hoofs beneath him, carrying death in every shoe."
A friend of mine--a cricketer--said that he did not know which country
he preferred hunting in--Leicestershire or Northamptonshire--but there
was the same difference between them as playing at Lords and playing at
the Oval.
Melton Mowbray is about three hours and a half from London. By leaving
London at 7·30 you can hunt with the Pytchley at an eleven o'clock
meet. You must get up earlier to hunt with the Quorn. I doubt if many
people would risk leaving London between five and six in a climate like
ours, where you cannot be quite sure that between five and eleven heavy
snow may not have fallen, or that the damp in one county is not hard
black frost in the next.
Some say that Melton is not what it was. Perhaps this is because there
are no poets left to sing of it. Bromley Davenport, Whyte Melville and
others have left us. Perhaps the red town has spread, and the old
fox-hunters who grumble have grown older. Of course the old days were
better when they found themselves leading "The cream of the cream in
the shire of the shires." These days do not come twice. A man is
fortunate to have had them once, and be able to say with the poet and
philosopher,--
Be fair or foul, or rain or shine,
The joys I have possessed in spite of fate are mine.
Not Heaven itself upon the Past has power.
What has been _has_ been, and I have had my hour.
It is no small consideration to a Meltonian that he can hunt six days a
week, and never leave his house at an undue hour.
The Duke of Beaufort told me that the three best huntsmen living were
Tom Firr, old Mr Watson (of the Carlow hounds), and Lord Worcester, and
he is pretty sure to be right on any sporting matter. Whatever people
may think of the last two named, Tom Firr's reputation is as firmly
established as was Fred Archer's in another line.
From criticising the countries, I should like to pass on to the riders,
both men and women, that I have seen and admired; but, not being a
journalist, I could not commit this indiscretion. I shall content
myself, and perhaps not offend anyone, by writing a few general
observations on women's riding.
No woman can claim to be first-rate over a country, unless she can take
her own line. Most women have pluck, and would follow their pioneer
were he to attempt jumping an arm of the sea; but place them alone in
an awkward enclosure, they will not know how to get out of it. They
need not of necessity take a new place in every fence, but if a gap is
away from the line they imagine to be the right one, it is irritating
to see them pull out to follow one particular person. They don't
diminish the danger by surrendering their intelligence, if they are
well mounted and conscious of what they are doing. A good rider chances
nothing, but must of necessity risk a good deal.
I do not think women are good judges of pace, and although they are
seldom afraid of jumping, they hardly ever gallop. Men will say it is
because they sit on one side and have not the power to make a horse
gallop. This is obviously true in the case of many horses, but there
are some who, roused by the nervous force in their riders, will gallop
without being squeezed, and who want nothing more than to be held
together and left alone.
There is a great deal of nonsense talked about "lifting" and
"recovering" a horse. More horses have recovered themselves by being
left alone in moments of difficulty than by all the theories ever
propounded. When a horse pecks with a man he is thrown forward; a
woman, if she is sitting properly and not hanging her toe in a short
stirrup, is, if anything, thrown back, and, from the security of her
seat, is able to recover her horse with more natural advantage than a
man. A woman's seat is strong, but never balanced; a horse refusing
suddenly to the left may upset her balance without moving her in her
seat. When a horse bucks, from the very fact that to keep on, she must
sit tight, it is so tiring that the chances are she will be bucked off
sooner than a man. If she gets the least out of her saddle she cannot,
by reason of the pommels, get back, whereas a horse may play cup and
ball with a man for a long time without missing him.
There are two classes of hunters that a woman should not be mounted on;
the two that Whyte Melville says want coercion.