SKETCHES OF HUNTING WITH FOX-HOUNDS AND HARRIERS.
The Fitzwilliam.--Brocklesby.--A day on the Wolds.--Brighton
harriers.--Prince Albert's harriers.
The following descriptions of my own sport with fox-hounds and harriers
will give the uninitiated some idea of the average adventures of a
hunting-day:--
A DAY WITH THE LATE EARL FITZWILLIAM'S HOUNDS.[176-*]
"LOO IN, LITTLE DEARIES. LOO IN."
How eagerly forward they rush;
In a moment how widely they spread;
Have at him there, Hotspur. Hush, hush!
'Tis a find, or I'll forfeit my head.
Now fast flies the fox, and still faster
The hounds from the cover are freed,
The horn to the mouth of the master,
The spur to the flank of his steed.
With Chorister, Concord, and Chorus,
Now Chantress commences her song;
Now Bellman goes jingling before us,
And Sinbad is sailing along.
The Fitzwilliam pack was established by the grandfather of the present
Earl between seventy and eighty years ago; they hunt four days a week
over a north-east strip of Northamptonshire and Huntingdonshire--a wide,
wild, thinly-populated district, with some fine woodlands; country that
was almost all grass, until deep draining turned some cold clay pastures
into arable. It holds a rare scent, and the woodland country can be
hunted, when a hot sun does not bake the ground too hard, up to the
first week in May, when, in most other countries, horns are silenced.
The country is wide enough, with foxes enough, to bear hunting six days
a week. "Bless your heart, sir," said an old farmer, "there be foxes as
tall as donkeys, as fat as pigs, in these woods, that go and die of old
age."
The Fitzwilliam are supposed to be the biggest-boned hounds now bred,
and exquisitely handsome. If they have a fault, they are, for want of
work, or excess of numbers, rather too full of flesh; so that at the end
of the year, when the days grow warm, they seem to tire and tail in a
long run.
Many of the pasture fences are big enough to keep out a bullock; the
ditches wide and full of water; bulfinches are to be met with, stiff
rails, gates not always unlocked; so, although a Pytchley flyer is not
indispensable, on a going day, nothing less than a hunter can get along.
Tom Sebright, as a huntsman and breeder of hounds, has been a celebrity
ever since he hunted the Quorn, under Squire Osbaldeston, six-and-thirty
years ago. Sebright looks the huntsman, and the huntsman of an
hereditary pack, to perfection; rather under than over the middle
height; stout without being unwieldy; with a fine, full, intelligent,
and fresh-complexioned oval countenance; keen gray eyes; and the decided
nose of a Cromwellian Ironside. A fringe of white hair below his cap,
and a broad bald forehead, when he lifts his cap to cheer his hounds,
tell the tale of Time on this accomplished veteran of the chase.
"The field," with the Fitzwilliam, is more aristocratic than
fashionable; it includes a few peers and their friends from neighbouring
noble mansions, a good many squires, now and then undergraduates from
Cambridge, a very few strangers by rail, and a great many first-class
yeoman farmers and graziers. Thus it is equally unlike the fashionable
"cut-me-down" multitude to be met at coverside in the "Shires" _par
excellence_, and the scarlet mob who rush, and race, and lark from and
back to Leamington and Cheltenham. For seeing a good deal of sport in a
short time, the Fitzwilliam is certainly the best, within a hundred
miles of London. You have a first-rate pack, first-rate huntsman, a good
scenting country, plenty of foxes, fair fences to ride over, and though
last not least, very courteous reception, if you know how to ride and
when to hold your tongue and your horse.
My fortunate day with the Fitzwilliam was in their open pasture,
Huntingdon country. My head-quarters were at the celebrated "Haycock,"
which is known, or ought to be known, to every wandering fox-hunter,
standing as it does in the middle of the Fitzwilliam Hunt, within reach
of some of the best meets of the Pytchley and the Warwickshire, and not
out of reach of the Cottesmore and Belvoir. It is much more like a
Lincolnshire Wolds farmhouse than an inn. The guests are regular
_habitues_; you find yourself in a sort of fox-hunting clubhouse, in a
large, snug dining-room; not the least like Albert Smith's favourite
aversion, a coffee-room; you have a first-rate English dinner,
undeniable wine, real cream with your tea, in a word, all the comforts
and most of the luxuries of town and country life combined. If needful,
Tom Percival will provide you with a flyer for every day in the week,
and you will be sure to meet with one or two guests, able and willing,
ready to canter with you to cover, explain the chart of the country,
and, if you are in the first year of boots and breeches, show you as
Squire Warburton sings, how "To sit down in your saddle and put his head
straight."
The meet, within four miles of the inn, was in a park by the side of a
small firwood plantation. Punctual to a minute, up trotted Sebright on a
compact, well-bred chestnut in blooming condition, the whips equally
well mounted on thoroughbreds, all dressed in ample scarlet coats and
dark cord breeches--a style of dress in much better taste than the
tight, short dandified costume of the fashionable hunt, where the
huntsman can scarcely be distinguished from the "swell."
Of the Earl's family there were present a son and daughter, and three
grandsons, beautiful boys, in Lincoln green loose jackets, brown cord
breeches, black boots, and caps; of these, the youngest, a fair, rosy
child of about eight or nine years old, on a thorough-bred chestnut
pony, was all day the admiration of the field; he dashed along full of
genuine enthusiasm, stopping at nothing practicable.
Amongst others present was a tall, lithe, white-haired,
white-moustached, dignified old gentleman, in scarlet and velvet cap,
riding forward on a magnificent gray horse, who realised completely the
poetical idea of a nobleman. This was the Marquess of H----, known well
forty years ago in fashionable circles, when George IV. was Prince, now
popular and much esteemed as a country gentleman and improving landlord.
There was also Mr. H----, an M.P., celebrated, before he settled into
place and "ceased his hum," as a hunter of bishops--a handsome, dark
man, in leathers and patent Napoleons; with his wife on a fine bay
horse, who rode boldly throughout the day.
In strange countries I usually pick out a leader in some well-knowing
farmer; but this day I made a grand mistake, by selecting for my guide a
slim, quiet-looking, young fellow, in a black hat and coat, white cords,
and boots, on a young chestnut--never dreaming that my quiet man was
Alec ----, a farmer truly, but also a provincial celebrity as a
steeplechaser.
The day was mild, cloudy, with a gentle wind. We drew several covers
blank, and found a fox, about one o'clock, in a small spinney, from
which he bolted at the first summons. A beautiful picture it was to see
gallant old Sebright get his hounds away, the ladies racing down a
convenient green lane, and the little Fitzwilliam, in Lincoln green,
charging a double flight of hurdles. In half-an-hour's strong running I
had good reason to rejoice that Percival had, with due respect for the
fourth estate, put me on an unmistakable hunter. Our line took us over
big undulating fields (almost hills), with, on the flats or valleys, a
large share of willow-bordered ditches (they would call them brooks in
some counties), with thick undeniable hedges between the pollards. At
the beginning of the run, my black-coated friend led me--much as a dog
in a string leads a blind man--at a great pace, into a farm-yard, thus
artfully cutting off a great angle, over a most respectable stone wall
into a home paddock, over a stile into a deep lane, and then up a bank
as steep as a gothic roof, and almost as long; into a fifty-acre
pasture, where, racing at best pace, we got close to the hounds just
before they checked, between a broad unjumpable drain and a willow
bed--two fine resources for a cunning fox. There I thought it well,
having so far escaped grief, to look out for a leader who was less of a
bruiser, while I took breath. In the meantime Sebright, well up, hit our
friend off with a short cast forward, and after five minutes' slow
hunting, we began to race again over a flat country of grass, with a few
big ploughed fields, fences easier, ladies and ponies well up again.
After brushing through two small coverts without hanging, we came out on
a series of very large level grass fields, where I could see the gray
horse of the marquis, and the black hat of my first leader sailing in
front; a couple of stiff hedges and ditches were got over comfortably;
the third was a regular bulfinch, six or seven feet high, with a gate so
far away to the right that to make for it was to lose too much time, as
the hounds were running breast high. Ten yards ahead of me was Mr. Frank
G----, on a Stormer colt, evidently with no notion of turning; so I
hardened my heart, felt my bay nag full of going, and kept my eye on Mr.
Frank, who made for the only practicable place beside an oak-tree with
low branches, and, stooping his head, popped through a place where the
hedge showed daylight, with his hand over his eyes, in the neatest
possible style. Without hesitating a moment I followed, rather too fast
and too much afraid of the tree, and pulled too much into the hedge. In
an instant I found myself torn out of the saddle, balanced on a
blackthorn bough (fortunately I wore leathers), and deposited on the
right side of the hedge on my back; whence I rose just in time to see
Bay Middleton disappear over the next fence. So there I was alone in a
big grass field, with strong notions that I should have to walk an
unknown number of miles home. Judge of my delight as I paced slowly
along--running was of no use--at seeing Frank G---- returning with my
truant in hand. Such an action in the middle of a run deserves a Humane
Society's medal. To struggle breathless into my seat; to go off at
score, to find a lucky string of open gates, to come upon the hounds at
a check, was my good fortune. But our fox was doomed--in another quarter
of an hour at a hand gallop we hunted him into a shrubbery, across a
home field into an ornamental clump of laurels, back again to the
plantation, where a couple and a half of leading hounds pulled him down,
and he was brought out by the first whip dead and almost stiff, without
a mark--regularly run down by an hour and twenty minutes with two very
short checks. Had the latter part of the run been as fast as the first,
there would have been very few of us there to see the finish.
ON THE LINCOLNSHIRE WOLDS.
I started to meet Lord Yarborough's hounds, from the house of a friend,
on a capital Wold pony for cover hack. It used to be said, before
non-riding masters of hounds had broadcasted bridle-gates over the Quorn
country, that a Leicestershire hack was a pretty good hunter for other
counties. We may say the same of a Lincolnshire Wolds pony--his master,
farming not less than three hundred and more likely fifteen hundred
acres, has no time to lose in crawling about on a punchy half-bred
cart-horse, like a smock-frocked tenant--the farm must be visited before
hunting, and the market-towns lie too far off for five miles an hour
jog-trot to suit. It is the Wold fashion to ride farming at a pretty
good pace, and take the fences in a fly where the gate stands at the
wrong corner of the field. Broad strips of turf fringe the road,
offering every excuse for a gallop, and our guide continually turned
through a gate or over a hurdle, and through half a dozen fields, to
save two sides of an angle. These fields contrast strangely with the
ancient counties--large, and square, and clean, with little ground lost
in hedgerows. The great cop banks of Essex, Devon, and Cheshire are
almost unknown--villages you scarcely see, farmhouses rarely from the
roadside, for they mostly stand well back in the midst of their acres.
Gradually creeping up the Wold--passing through, here vast
turnip-fields, fed over by armies of long-woolled Lincoln sheep; there,
stubble yielding before from a dozen to a score of pair-horse ploughs,
silent witnesses of the scale of Lincolnshire farming--at length we see
descending and winding along a bridle-road before us, the pied pack and
the gleam of the huntsman's scarlet. Around, from every point of the
compass the "field" come ambling, trotting, cantering, galloping, on
hacks, on hunters, through gates or over fences, practising their
Yorkshire four-year-olds. There are squires of every degree,
Lincolnshire M.P.'s, parsons in black, in number beyond average;
tenant-farmers, in quantity and quality such as no other county we have
ever seen can boast, velvet-capped and scarlet-coated, many with the
Brocklesby hunt button, mounted on first-class hunters, whom it was a
pleasure to see them handle; and these were not young bloods, outrunning
the constable, astonishing their landlords and alarming their fathers;
but amongst the ruck were respectable grandfathers who had begun hunting
on ponies when Stubbs was painting great-grandfather Smith, and who had
as a matter of course brought up their sons to follow the line in which
they had been cheered on by Arthur Young's Lord Yarborough. There they
were, of all ages, from the white-haired veteran who could tell you when
every field had been inclosed, to the little petticoated orphan boy on a
pony, "whose father's farm had been put in trust for him by the good
Earl."
Of the ordinary mob that crowd fox-hound meets from great cities and
fashionable watering-places, there were none. The swell who comes out to
show his clothes and his horse; the nondescript, who may be a fast
Life-Guardsman or a fishmonger; the lot of horse-dealers; and, above
all, those _blase_ gentlemen who, bored with everything, openly express
their preference for a carted deer or red-herring drag, if a straight
running fox is not found in a quarter of an hour after the hounds are
thrown into cover. The men who ride on the Lincolnshire Wolds are all
sportsmen, who know the whole country as well as their own gardens, and
are not unfrequently personally acquainted with the peculiar appearance
and habits of each fox on foot. Altogether they are as formidable
critics as any professional huntsman would care to encounter.
There is another pleasant thing. In consequence, perhaps, of the rarity,
strangers are not snubbed as in some counties; and you have no
difficulty in getting information to any extent on subjects agricultural
and fox-hunting (even without that excellent passport which I enjoyed of
a hunter from the stables of the noble Master of the Hounds), and may be
pretty sure of more than one hospitable and really-meant invitation in
the course of the return ride when the sport is ended.
But time is up, and away we trot--leaving the woods of Limber for the
present--to one of the regular Wolds, artificial coverts, a square of
gorse of several acres, surrounded by a turf bank and ditch, and outside
again by fields of the ancient turf of the moorlands. In go the hounds
at a word, without a straggler; and while they make the gorse alive with
their lashing sterns, there is no fear of our being left behind for want
of seeing which way they go, for there is neither plantation nor hedge,
nor hill of any account to screen us. And there is no fear either of the
fox being stupidly headed, for the field all know their business, and
are fully agreed, as old friends should be, on the probable line.
A very faint Tally-away, and cap held up, by a fresh complexioned,
iron-gray, bullet-headed old gentleman, of sixteen stone, mounted on a
four-year-old, brought the pack out in a minute from the far end of the
covert, and we were soon going, holding hard, over a newly-ploughed
field, looking out sharp for the next open gate; but it is at the wrong
corner, and by the time we have reached the middle of fifty acres, a
young farmer in scarlet, sitting upright as a dart, showed the way over
a new rail in the middle of a six-foot quickset. Our nag,
"Leicestershire," needs no spurring, but takes it pleasantly, with a
hop, skip, and jump; and by the time we had settled into the pace on the
other side, the senior on the four-year-old was alongside, crying, "Push
along, sir; push along, or they'll run clean away from you. The fences
are all fair on the line we're going." And so they were--hedges thick,
but jumpable enough, yet needing a hunter nevertheless, especially as
the big fields warmed up the pace amazingly; and, as the majority of the
farmers out were riding young ones destined for finished hunters in the
pasture counties, there was above an average of resolution in the style
of going at the fences. The ground almost all plough, naturally drained
by chalk sub-subsoil, fortunately rode light; but presently we passed
the edge of the Wolds, held on through some thin plantations over the
demesne grass of a squire's house, then on a bit of unreclaimed heath,
where a flock of sheep brought us to a few minutes' check. With the help
of a veteran of the hunt, who had been riding well up, a cast forward
set us agoing again, and brought us, still running hard, away from the
Wolds to low ground of new inclosures, all grass, fenced in by ditch and
new double undeniable rails. As we had a good view of the style of
country from a distance, we thought it wisest, as a stranger, on a
strange horse, with personally a special distaste to double fences, to
pull gently, and let half-a-dozen young fellows on half-made,
heavy-weight four or five years old, go first. The results of this
prudent and unplucky step were most satisfactory; while two or three,
with a skill we admired, without venturing to imitate, went the "in and
out" clever, the rest, some down and some blundering well over, smashed
at least one rail out of every two, and let the "stranger" through
comfortably at a fair flying jump. After three or four of these
tremendous fields, each about the size of Mr. Mechi's farm, a shepherd
riding after his flock on a pony opened a gate just as the hounds, after
throwing up their heads for a minute, turned to the right, and began to
run back to the Wolds at a slower rate than we started, for the fox was
no doubt blown by the pace; and so up what are called hills there (they
would scarcely be felt in Devonshire or Surrey), we followed at a hand
gallop right up to the plantations of Brocklesby Park, and for a good
hour the hounds worked him round and round the woods, while we kept as
near them as we could, racing along green rides as magnificent in their
broad spread verdures and overhanging evergreen walls of holly and
laurel as any Watteau ever painted. The Lincolnshire gentry and
yeomanry, scarlet coated and velvet capped, on their great blood horses
sweeping down one of the grand evergreen avenues of Brocklesby Park, say
toward the Pelham Pillar, is a capital untried subject, in colour,
contrast, and living interest, for an artist who can paint men as well
as horses.
At length when every dodge had been tried, Master Reynard made a bolt in
despair. We raced him down a line of fields of very pretty fencing to a
small lake, where wild ducks squatted up, and there ran into him, after
a fair although not a very fast day's sport: a more honest hunting, yet
courageous dashing pack we never rode to. The scarcity of villages, the
general sparseness of the population, the few roads, and those almost
all turf-bordered, and on a level with the fields, the great size of the
enclosures, the prevalence of light arable land, the nuisance of flocks
of sheep, and yet a good scenting country, are the special features of
the Wolds. When you leave them and descend, there is a country of water,
drains, and deep ditches, that require a real water-jumper. Two points
specially strike a stranger--the complete hereditary air of the pack,
and the attendants, so different from the piebald, new-varnished
appearance of fashionable subscription packs. Smith, the huntsman, is
fourth in descent of a line of Brocklesby huntsmen; Robinson, the head
groom, had just completed his half century of service at Brocklesby; and
Barnetby, who rode Lord Yarborough's second horse, was many years in the
same capacity with the first Earl. But, after all, the Brocklesby
tenants--the Nainbys, the Brookes, the Skipwiths, and other Woldsmen,
names "whom to mention would take up too much room," as the "Eton
Grammar" says--tenants who, from generation to generation, have lived,
and flourished, and hunted under the Pelham family--a spirited,
intelligent, hospitable race of men--these alone are worth travelling
from Land's End to see, to hear, to dine with; to learn from their
sayings and doings what a wise, liberal, resident landlord--a lover of
field sports, a promoter of improved agriculture--can do in the course
of generations toward "breeding" a first-class tenantry, and feeding
thousands of townsfolk from acres that a hundred years ago only fed
rabbits. We should recommend those M.P.'s who think fox-hunting folly,
to leave their books and debates for a day's hunting on the Wolds. We
think it will be hard to obtain such happy results from the mere
pen-and-ink regulations of chamber legislators and haters of field
sports. Three generations of the Pelhams turned thousands of acres of
waste in heaths and Wolds into rich farm-land; the fourth did his part
by giving the same district railways and seaport communication. When we
find learned mole-eyed pedants sneering at fox-hunters, we may call the
Brocklesby kennels and the Pelham Pillar as witnesses on the side of the
common sense of English field sports. It was hunting that settled the
Pelhams in a remote country and led them to colonise a waste.
There is one excellent custom at the hunting-dinners at Brocklesby Park
which we may mention, without being guilty of intrusion on private
hospitality. At a certain hour the stud-groom enters and says, "My Lord,
the horses are bedded up;" then the whole party rise, make a procession
through the stables, and return to coffee in the drawing-room. This
custom was introduced by the first Lord Yarborough some half-century
ago, in order to break through the habit of late sitting over wine that
then was too prevalent.
HARRIERS--ON THE BRIGHTON DOWNS.
Long before hunting sounds are to be heard, except the early morning
cub-hunters routing woodlands, and the autumn stag-hunters of Exmoor,
harrier packs are hard at work racing down and up the steep hillside and
along the chalky valleys of Brighton Downs, preparing old sportsmen for
the more earnest work of November--training young ones into the meaning
of pace, the habit of riding fast down, and the art of climbing quickly,
yet not too quickly, up hill--giving constitutional gallops to wheezy
aldermen, or enterprizing adults fresh from the riding-school--affording
fun for fast young ladies and pleasant sights for a crowd of foot-folks
and fly-loads, halting on the brows of the steep combs, content with the
living panorama.
The Downs and the sea are the redeeming features of Brighton, considered
as a place of change and recreation for the over-worked of London.
Without these advantages one might quite as well migrate from the City
to Regent Street, varying the exercise by a stroll along the Serpentine.
To a man who needs rest there is something at first sight truly
frightful in the townish gregariousness of Brighton proper, with its
pretentious common-place architecture, and its ceaseless bustle and
rolling of wheels. But then comes into view first the sea, stretching
away into infinite silence and solitude, dotted over on sunny days with
pleasure-boats; and next, perpetually dashing along the league of
sea-borded highway, group after group of gay riding-parties of all ages
and both sexes--Spanish hats, feathers, and riding-habits--_amazones_,
according to the French classic title, in the majority. First comes Papa
Briggs, with all his progeny, down to the little bare-legged imitation
Highlander on a shaggy Shetland pony; then a riding-master in
mustachios, boots, and breeches, with a dozen pupils in divers stages of
timidity and full-blown temerity; and then again loving pairs in the
process of courtship or the ecstasies of the honeymoon, pacing or racing
along, indifferent to the interest and admiration that such pairs always
excite. Besides the groups there are single figures, military and civil,
on prancing thorough-bred hacks and solid weight-carrying cobs,
contrasted with a great army of hard-worked animals, at half-a-crown an
hour which compose the bulk of the Brighton cavalry, for horse-hiring
at Brighton is the rule, private possession the exception; nowhere else,
except, perhaps, at Oxford, is the custom so universal, and nowhere do
such odd, strange people venture to exhibit themselves "a-horseback." As
Dublin is said to be the car-drivingest, so is Brighton the
horse-ridingest city in creation; and it is this most healthy, mental
and physical exercise, with the summer-sea yacht excursions, which
constitute the difference and establishes the superiority of this marine
offshoot of London over any foreign bathing-place. Under French auspices
we should have had something infinitely more magnificent, gay, gilded,
and luxurious in architecture, in shops, in restaurants, cafes,
theatres, and ball-rooms; but pleasure-boat sails would have been
utterly unknown, and the horse-exercise confined to a few daring
cavaliers and theatrical ladies.
It is doubtless the open Downs that originally gave the visitors of
Brighton (when it was Brighthelmstone, the little village patronised by
the Prince, by "the Burney," and Mrs. Thrale) the habit of
constitutional canters to a degree unknown in other pleasure towns; and
the traditional custom has been preserved in the face of miles of brick
and stucco. With horses in legions, and Downs at hand, a pack of hounds
follows naturally; hares of a rare stout breed are plentiful; and the
tradesmen have been acute enough to discover that a plentiful and varied
supply of hunting facilities is one of the most safe, certain, and
profitable attractions they can provide. Cheltenham and Bath has each
its stag-hounds; Brighton does better, less expensively, and pleases
more people, with two packs of harriers, hunting four days (and, by
recent arrangements, a pack of fox-hounds filling up the other two days)
of the week; so that now it may be considered about the best place in
the country for making sure of a daily constitutional gallop from
October to March at short notice, and with no particular attention to
costume and a very moderate stud, or no stud at all.
With these and a few other floating notions of air, exercise, and change
of scene in my head--having decided that, however tempting to the
caricaturist, the amusement of hundreds was not to be despised--I took
my place at eight o'clock, at London-bridge station, in a railway
carriage--the best of hacks for a long distance--on a bright October
morning, with no other change from ordinary road-riding costume than one
of Callow's long-lashed, instead of a straight-cutting, whips, so saving
all the impediments of baggage. By ten o'clock I was wondering what the
"sad sea waves" were saying to the strange costumes in which it pleases
the fair denizens of Brighton to deck themselves. My horse, a little,
wiry, well-bred chestnut, had been secured beforehand at a dealer's,
well known in the Surrey country.
The meet was the race-course, a good three miles from the Parade. The
Brighton meets are stereotyped. The Race-course, Telscombe Tye, the
Devil's Dyke, and Thunders Barrow are repeated weekly. But of the way
along the green-topped chalk cliffs, beside the far-spreading sea, or up
and down the moorland hills and valleys, who can ever weary? Who can
weary of hill and dale and the eternal sea?
To those accustomed to an inclosed country there is something extremely
curious in mile after mile of open undulating downs lost in the distant
horizon. My day was bright. About eleven o'clock the horsemen and
_amazones_ arrived in rapidly-succeeding parties, and gathered on the
high ground. Pleasure visitors, out for the first time--distinguished
by their correct costume and unmistakably hired animals--caps and white
breeches, spotless tops and shining Napoleons--were mounted on hacks
battered about the legs, and rather rough in the coat, though hard and
full of go; but trousers were the prevailing order of the day. Medical
men were evident, in correct white ties, on neat ponies and superior
cobs; military in mufti, on pulling steeplechasers; some farmers in
leggings on good young nags for sale, and good old ones for use. London
lawyers in heather mixture shooting-suits and Park hacks; lots of little
boys and girls on ponies--white or cream-coloured being the favourites;
at least one master of far distant fox-hounds pack, on a blood-colt,
master and horse alike new to the country and to the sport.
Riding-masters, with their lady pupils tittupping about on the live
rocking-horses that form the essential stock of every riding-master's
establishment, with one or two papas of the pupils--"worthy" aldermen,
or authorities of the Stock Exchange, expensively mounted, gravely
looking on, with an expression of doubt as to whether they ought to have
been there or not; and then a crowd of the nondescripts, bankers and
brewers trying to look like squires, neat and grim, among the well and
ill dressed, well and ill mounted, who form the staple of every
watering-place,--with this satisfactory feature pervading the whole
gathering, that with the exception of a few whose first appearance it
was in saddle on any turf, and the before-mentioned grim brewers, all
seemed decidedly jolly and determined to enjoy themselves.
The hounds drew up; to criticise them elaborately would be as unfair,
under the circumstances, as to criticise a pot-luck dinner of beans and
bacon put before a hungry man. They are not particularly
handsome--white patches being the prevailing colour; and they certainly
do not keep very close; but they are fast enough, persevering, and,
killing a fair share of hares, show very good sport to both lookers-on
and hard riders. The huntsman Willard, who has no "whip" to help him,
and often more assistance than he requires, is a heavy man, but
contrives, in spite of his weight, to get his hounds in the fastest
runs.
The country, it may be as well to say for the benefit of the thousands
who have never been on these famous mutton-producing "South Downs," is
composed of a series of table-lands divided by basin-like valleys, for
the most part covered with short turf, with large patches of gorse and
heather, in which the hares, when beaten, take refuge. Of late years,
high prices and Brighton demand, with the new system of artificial
agriculture, have pushed root crops and corn crops into sheltered
valleys and far over the hills, much to the disgust of the ancient race
of shepherds.
It is scarcely necessary to observe, that on Brighton Downs there are no
blank days, but the drawing is a real operation performed seriously
until such a time as the company having all assembled, say at half-past
seven o'clock, when, if the unaided faculties of the pack have not
brought them up to a form, a shepherd appears as the _Deus ex machina_.
In spite of all manner of precautions, the hounds will generally rush up
to the point without hunting; loud rises the joyful cry; and, if it is
level ground, the whole meet--hacks, hobbie-horses, and hunters--look as
if their riders meant to go off in a whirlwind of trampling feet. There
is usually a circle or two with the stoutest hare before making a long
stretch; but, on lucky days like that of our first and last visit, the
pace mends the hounds settle, the riding-masters check their more
dashing pupils, the crowd gets dispersed, and rides round, or halts on
the edges, or crawls slowly down the steep-sided valleys; while the hard
riders catch their nags by the head, in with the spurs, and go down
straight and furious, as if they were away for ever and a day; but the
pedestrians and constitutional cob-owners are comforted by assurances
that the hare is sure to run a ring back. But, on our day, Pussy, having
lain _perdu_ during a few minutes' check, started up suddenly amid a
full cry, and rather too much hallooing. A gentleman in large mustachios
and a velvet cap rode at her as if he meant to catch her himself. Away
we all dashed, losing sight of the dignity of fox-hunters--all mad as
hatters (though why hatters should be madder than cappers it would be
difficult to say). The pace becomes tremendous; the pack tails by twos
and threes; the valleys grow steeper; the field lingers and halts more
and more at each steeper comb; the lads who have hurried straight up the
hillsides, instead of creeping up by degrees blow their horses and come
to a full stop; while old hands at Devonshire combs and Surrey steeps
take their nags by the head, rush down like thunder, and slily zigzag up
the opposite face at a trot; and so, for ten minutes, so straight, that
a stranger, one of three in front, cried, "By Jove, it must be a fox!"
But at that moment the leading hounds turned sharp to the right and then
to the left--a shrill squeak, a cry of hounds, and all was over. The sun
shone out bright and clear; looking up from the valley on the hills,
nine-tenths of the field were to be seen a mile in the distance,
galloping, trotting, walking, or standing still, scattered like a pulk
of pursuing Cossacks. The sight reminded me that, putting aside the
delicious excitement of a mad rush down hill at full-speed, the
lookers-on, the young ladies on ponies, and old gentlemen on cobs, see
the most of the sport in such a country as the Brighton Downs; while in
a flat inclosed, or wooded country, those who do not ride are left alone
quite deserted, five minutes after the hounds get well away.
We killed two more hares before retiring for the day, but as they ran
rings in the approved style, continually coming back to the slow,
prudent, and constitutional riders, there was nothing to distinguish
them from all other hare-hunts. After killing the last hare there was
ample time to get back to Brighton, take a warm bath, dress, and stroll
on the Esplanade for an hour in the midst of as gay and brilliant crowd,
vehicular, equestrian, and pedestrian, as can be found in Europe, before
sitting down to a quiet dinner, in which the delicious Southdown haunch
was not forgotten. So ended a day of glorious weather and pleasant
sport, jolly--if not in the highest degree genteel.
Tempted to stay another day, I went the next morning six miles through
Rottingdean to Telscombe Tye, to meet the Brookside; and, after seeing
them, have no hesitation in saying that every one who cares to look at a
first-rate pack of harriers would find it worth his while to travel a
hundred miles to meet the Brookside, for the whole turnout is
perfection. Royalty cannot excel it.
A delicious ride over turf all the way, after passing Rottingdean, under
a blue sky and a June-like sun, in sight of the sea, calm as a lake,
brought us to the top of a hill of rich close turf, enveloped in a cloud
of mist, which rendered horses and horsemen alike invisible at the
distance of a few yards; and when we came upon three tall shepherds,
leaning on their iron-_hooked_ crooks, in the midst of a gorse covert,
it was almost impossible to believe that we were not in some remote
Highland district instead of within half an hour of a town of 70,000
inhabitants.
The costumes of the field, more exact than the previous day, showed that
the master was considered worthy of the compliment; and when, the mist
clearing, the beautiful black-and-tan pack, all of a size, and as like
as peas, came clustering up with Mr. Saxby, a white-haired, healthy,
fresh-coloured, neat-figured, upright squire, riding in the midst on a
rare black horse, it was a picture that, taking in the wild heathland
scenery, the deep valleys below, bright in sun, the dark hills beyond
it, was indeed a bright page in the poetry of field sports.
The Brookside are as good and honest as they are handsome; hunting, all
together, almost entirely without assistance. If they have a fault they
are a little too fast for hare-hounds. After killing the second hare, we
were able to leave Brighton by the 3.30 P.M. train. Thus, under modern
advantages, a man troubled with indigestion has only to order a horse by
post the previous day, leave town at eight in the morning, have a day's
gallop, with excitement more valuable than gallons of physic, and be
back in town by half-past five o'clock. Can eight hours be passed more
pleasantly or profitably?
PRINCE ALBERT'S HARRIERS.
The South-Western Rail made a very good hack up to the Castle station.
That Prince Albert should never have taken to the Royal stag-hounds is
not at all surprising. It requires to be "to the manner born" to endure
the vast jostling, shouting, thrusting mob of gentlemen and horse
dealers, "legs" and horse-breakers, that whirl away after the uncarted
deer. Without the revival of the old Court etiquette, which forbade any
one to ride before royalty, his Royal Highness might have been ridden
down by some ambitious butcher or experimental cockney horseman on a
runaway. If the etiquette of the time of George III had been revived,
then only Leech could have done justice to the appearance of the field,
following impatiently at a respectful distance--not the stag, as they do
now very often, or the hounds, as they ought to do--but the Prince's
horse's tail.
Prince Albert's harriers are in the strictest sense of the term a
private pack, kept by his Royal Highness for his own amusement, under
the management of Colonel Hood. The meets are not advertised. The fields
consist, in addition to the Royal and official party from the Castle, of
a few neighbouring gentlemen and farmers, the hunting establishment of a
huntsman and one whip, both splendidly mounted, and a boy on foot. The
costume of the hunt is a very dark green cloth double-breasted coat,
with the Prince's gilt button, brown cords, and velvet cap.
The hounds were about fifteen couple, of medium size, with considerable
variety of true colours, inclining to the fox-hound stamp, yet very
honest hunters. In each run the lead was taken by a hound of peculiar
and uncommon marking--black and tan, but the tan so far spreading that
the black was reduced to merely a saddle.
The day was rather too bright, perhaps, for the scent to lie well; but
there was the better opportunity for seeing the hounds work, which they
did most admirably, without any assistance. It is one of the advantages
of a pack like this that no one presumes to interfere and do the
business of either the huntsman or hounds. The first hare was found on
land apparently recently inclosed near Eton; but, after two hours'
perseverance, it was impossible to make anything of the scent over
ploughed land.
We then crossed the railway into some fields, partly in grass, divided
by broad ditches full of water, with plenty of willow stumps on the
banks, and partly arable on higher, sloping ground, divided by fair
growing fences into large square inclosures. Here we soon found a stout
hare that gave us an opportunity of seeing and admiring the qualities of
the pack. After the first short burst there was a quarter of an hour of
slow hunting, when the hounds, left entirely to themselves, did their
work beautifully. At length, as the sun went behind clouds, the scent
improved; the hounds got on good terms with puss, and rattled away at a
pace, and over a line of big fields and undeniable fences, that soon
found out the slows and the nags that dared not face shining water.
Short checks of a few minutes gave puss a short respite; then followed a
full cry, and soon a view. Over a score of big fields the pack raced
within a dozen yards of pussy's scent, without gaining a yard, the
black-tanned leading hound almost coursing his game; but this was too
fast to last, and, just as we were squaring our shoulders and settling
down to take a very uncompromising hedge with evident signs of a broad
ditch of running water on the other side, the hounds threw up their
heads; poor puss had shuffled through the fence into the brook, and sunk
like a stone.
There is something painful about the helpless finish with a hare. A fox
dies snarling and fighting.
FOOTNOTES:
[176-*] This sketch was written in 1857.