THE BRAESIDE HARRIERS.
The Braeside Harriers can hardly be called a "crack" pack of
hounds. Lord Hautboy had been right in saying that they were always
scrambling through ravines, and that they hunted whatever they
could find to hunt. Nevertheless, the men and the hounds were in
earnest, and did accomplish a fair average of sport under difficult
circumstances. No "Pegasus" or "Littlelegs," or "Pigskin," ever sent
accounts of wondrous runs from Cumberland or Westmoreland to the
sporting papers, in which the gentlemen who had asked the special
Pigskin of the day to dinner were described as having been "in"
at some "glorious finish" on their well-known horses Banker or
Buff,--the horses named being generally those which the gentlemen
wished to sell. The names of gorses and brooks had not become
historic, as have those of Ranksborough and Whissendine. Trains were
not run to suit this or the other meet. Gentlemen did not get out of
fast drags with pretty little aprons tied around their waists, like
girls in a country house coming down to breakfast. Not many perhaps
wore pink coats, and none pink tops. One horse would suffice for
one day's work. An old assistant huntsman in an old red coat, with
one boy mounted on a ragged pony, served for an establishment. The
whole thing was despicable in the eyes of men from the Quorn and
Cottesmore. But there was some wonderful riding and much constant
sport with the Braeside Harriers, and the country had given birth to
certainly the best hunting song in the language;--
Do you ken John Peel with his coat so gay;
Do you ken John Peel at the break of day;
Do you ken John Peel when he's far, far away
With his hounds and his horn in the morning.
Such as the Braeside Harriers were, Lord Hampstead determined to
make the experiment, and on a certain morning had himself driven
to Cronelloe Thorn, a favourite meet halfway between Penrith and
Keswick.
I hold that nothing is so likely to be permanently prejudicial to
the interest of hunting in the British Isles as a certain flavour of
tip-top fashion which has gradually enveloped it. There is a pretence
of grandeur about that and, alas, about other sports also, which is,
to my thinking, destructive of all sport itself. Men will not shoot
unless game is made to appear before them in clouds. They will not
fish unless the rivers be exquisite. To row is nothing unless you can
be known as a national hero. Cricket requires appendages which are
troublesome and costly, and by which the minds of economical fathers
are astounded. To play a game of hockey in accordance with the times
you must have a specially trained pony and a gaudy dress. Racquets
have given place to tennis because tennis is costly. In all these
cases the fashion of the game is much more cherished than the game
itself. But in nothing is this feeling so predominant as in hunting.
For the management of a pack, as packs are managed now, a huntsman
needs must be a great man himself, and three mounted subordinates are
necessary, as at any rate for two of these servants a second horse
is required. A hunt is nothing in the world unless it goes out four
times a week at least. A run is nothing unless the pace be that of a
steeplechase. Whether there be or be not a fox before the hounds is
of little consequence to the great body of riders. A bold huntsman
who can make a dash across country from one covert to another, and
who can so train his hounds that they shall run as though game were
before them, is supposed to have provided good sport. If a fox can be
killed in covert afterwards so much the better for those who like to
talk of their doings. Though the hounds brought no fox with them, it
is of no matter. When a fox does run according to his nature he is
reviled as a useless brute, because he will not go straight across
country. But the worst of all is the attention given by men to things
altogether outside the sport. Their coats and waistcoats, their boots
and breeches, their little strings and pretty scarfs, their saddles
and bridles, their dandy knick-knacks, and, above all, their flasks,
are more to many men than aught else in the day's proceedings. I
have known girls who have thought that their first appearance in
the ball-room, when all was fresh, unstained, and perfect from the
milliner's hand, was the one moment of rapture for the evening. I
have sometimes felt the same of young sportsmen at a Leicestershire
or Northamptonshire meet. It is not that they will not ride when
the occasion comes. They are always ready enough to break their
bones. There is no greater mistake than to suppose that dandyism is
antagonistic to pluck. The fault is that men train themselves to care
for nothing that is not as costly as unlimited expenditure can make
it. Thus it comes about that the real love of sport is crushed under
a desire for fashion. A man will be almost ashamed to confess that
he hunts in Essex or Sussex, because the proper thing is to go down
to the Shires. Grass, no doubt, is better than ploughed land to ride
upon; but, taking together the virtues and vices of all hunting
counties, I doubt whether better sport is not to be found in what
I will venture to call the haunts of the clodpoles, than among the
palmy pastures of the well-breeched beauties of Leicestershire.
Braeside Harriers though they were, a strong taste for foxes had
lately grown up in the minds of men and in the noses of hounds. Blank
days they did not know, because a hare would serve the turn if the
nobler animal were not forthcoming; but ideas of preserving had
sprung up; steps were taken to solace the minds of old women who had
lost their geese; and the Braeside Harriers, though they had kept
their name, were gradually losing their character. On this occasion
the hounds were taken off to draw a covert instead of going to
a so-ho, as regularly as though they were advertised among the
fox-hounds in _The Times_. It was soon known that Lord Hampstead was
Lord Hampstead, and he was welcomed by the field. What matter that he
was a revolutionary Radical if he could ride to hounds? At any rate,
he was the son of a Marquis, and was not left to that solitude which
sometimes falls upon a man who appears suddenly as a stranger among
strangers on a hunting morning. "I am glad to see you out, my lord,"
said Mr. Amblethwaite, the Master. "It isn't often that we get
recruits from Castle Hautboy."
"They think a good deal of shooting there."
"Yes; and they keep their horses in Northamptonshire. Lord Hautboy
does his hunting there. The Earl, I think, never comes out now."
"I dare say not. He has all the foreign nations to look after."
"I suppose he has his hands pretty full," said Mr. Amblethwaite. "I
know I have mine just at this time of the year. Where do you think
these hounds ran their fox to last Friday? We found him outside
of the Lowther Woods, near the village of Clifton. They took him
straight over Shap Fell, and then turning sharp to the right, went
all along Hawes Wall and over High Street into Troutbeck."
"That's all among the mountains," said Hampstead.
"Mountains! I should think so. I have to spend half my time among the
mountains."
"But you couldn't ride over High Street?"
"No, we couldn't ride; not there. But we had to make our way round,
some of us, and some of them went on foot. Dick never lost sight of
the hounds the whole day." Dick was the boy who rode the ragged pony.
"When we found 'em there he was with half the hounds around him, and
the fox's brush stuck in his cap."
"How did you get home that night?" asked Hampstead.
"Home! I didn't get home at all. It was pitch dark before we got the
rest of the hounds together. Some of them we didn't find till next
day. I had to go and sleep at Bowness, and thought myself very lucky
to get a bed. Then I had to ride home next day over Kirkstone Fell.
That's what I call something like work for a man and horse.--There's
a fox in there, my lord, do you hear them?" Then Mr. Amblethwaite
bustled away to assist at the duty of getting the fox to break.
"I'm glad to see that you're fond of this kind of thing, my lord,"
said a voice in Hampstead's ear, which, though he had only heard
it once, he well remembered. It was Crocker, the guest at the
dinner-party,--Crocker, the Post Office clerk.
"Yes," said Lord Hampstead, "I am very fond of this kind of thing.
That fox has broken, I think, at the other side of the cover." Then
he trotted off down a little lane between two loose-built walls,
so narrow that there was no space for two men to ride abreast. His
object at that moment was to escape Crocker rather than to look after
the hounds.
They were in a wild country, not exactly on a mountain side, but
among hills which not far off grew into mountains, where cultivation
of the rudest kind was just beginning to effect its domination over
human nature. There was a long spinney rather than a wood stretching
down a bottom, through which a brook ran. It would now cease,
and then renew itself, so that the trees, though not absolutely
continuous, were nearly so for the distance of half a mile. The
ground on each side was rough with big stones, and steep in some
places as they went down the hill. But still it was such that
horsemen could gallop on it. The fox made his way along the whole
length, and then traversing, so as to avoid the hounds, ran a ring
up the hillside, and back into the spinney again. Among the horsemen
many declared that the brute must be killed unless he would make up
his mind for a fair start. Mr. Amblethwaite was very busy, hunting
the hounds himself, and intent rather on killing the fox fairly than
on the hopes of a run. Perhaps he was not desirous of sleeping out
another night on the far side of Helvellyn. In this way the sportsmen
galloped up and down the side of the wood till the feeling arose, as
it does on such occasions, that it might be well for a man to stand
still awhile and spare his horse, in regard to the future necessities
of the day. Lord Hampstead did as others were doing, and in a moment
Crocker was by his side. Crocker was riding an animal which his
father was wont to drive about the country, but one well known in
the annals of the Braeside Harriers. It was asserted of him that
the fence was not made which he did not know how to creep over. Of
jumping, such as jumping is supposed to be in the shires, he knew
nothing. He was, too, a bad hand at galloping, but with a shambling,
half cantering trot, which he had invented for himself, he could go
along all day, not very quickly, but in such fashion as never to be
left altogether behind. He was a flea-bitten horse, if my readers
know what that is,--a flea-bitten roan, or white covered with small
red spots. Horses of this colour are ugly to look at, but are very
seldom bad animals. Such as he was, Crocker, who did not ride much
when up in London, was very proud of him. Crocker was dressed in a
green coat, which in a moment of extravagance he had had made for
hunting, and in brown breeches, in which he delighted to display
himself on all possible occasions. "My lord," he said, "you'd
hardly think it, but I believe this horse to be the best hunter in
Cumberland."
"Is he, indeed? Some horse of course must be the best, and why not
yours?"
"There's nothing he can't do;--nothing. His jumping is mi--raculous,
and as for pace, you'd be quite surprised.--They're at him again now.
What an echo they do make among the hills!"
Indeed they did. Every now and then the Master would just touch his
horn, giving a short blast, just half a note, and then the sound
would come back, first from this rock and then from the other, and
the hounds as they heard it would open as though encouraged by the
music of the hills, and then their voices would be carried round the
valley, and come back again and again from the steep places, and they
would become louder and louder as though delighted with the effect
of their own efforts. Though there should be no hunting, the concert
was enough to repay a man for his trouble in coming there. "Yes,"
said Lord Hampstead, his disgust at the man having been quenched for
the moment by the charm of the music, "it is a wonderful spot for
echoes."
"It's what I call awfully nice. We don't have anything like that up
at St. Martin's-le-Grand." Perhaps it may be necessary to explain
that the Post Office in London stands in a spot bearing that poetic
name.
"I don't remember any echoes there," said Lord Hampstead.
"No, indeed;--nor yet no hunting, nor yet no hounds; are there, my
lord? All the same, it's not a bad sort of place!"
"A very respectable public establishment!" said Lord Hampstead.
"Just so, my lord; that's just what I always say. It ain't swell like
Downing Street, but it's a deal more respectable than the Custom
House."
"Is it? I didn't know."
"Oh yes. They all admit that. You ask Roden else." On hearing the
name, Lord Hampstead began to move his horse, but Crocker was at his
side and could not be shaken off. "Have you heard from him, my lord,
since you have been down in these parts?"
"Not a word."
"I dare say he thinks more of writing to a correspondent of the
fairer sex."
This was unbearable. Though the fox had again turned and gone up the
valley,--a movement which seemed to threaten his instant death, and
to preclude any hope of a run from that spot,--Hampstead felt himself
compelled to escape, if he could. In his anger he touched his horse
with his spur and galloped away among the rocks, as though his object
was to assist Mr. Amblethwaite in his almost frantic efforts. But
Crocker cared nothing for the stones. Where the lord went, he went.
Having made acquaintance with a lord, he was not going to waste the
blessing which Providence had vouchsafed to him.
"He'll never leave that place alive, my lord."
"I dare say not." And again the persecuted nobleman rode
on,--thinking that neither should Crocker, if he could have his will.
"By the way, as we are talking of Roden--"
"I haven't been talking about him at all." Crocker caught the tone of
anger, and stared at his companion. "I'd rather not talk about him."
"My lord! I hope there has been nothing like a quarrel. For the
lady's sake, I hope there's no misunderstanding!"
"Mr. Crocker," he said very slowly, "it isn't customary--"
At that moment the fox broke, the hounds were away, and Mr.
Amblethwaite was seen rushing down the hill-side, as though
determined on breaking his neck. Lord Hampstead rushed after him at
a pace which, for a time, defied Mr. Crocker. He became thoroughly
ashamed of himself in even attempting to make the man understand
that he was sinning against good taste. He could not do so without
some implied mention of his sister, and to allude to his sister in
connection with such a man was a profanation. He could only escape
from the brute. Was this a punishment which he was doomed to bear for
being--as his stepmother was wont to say--untrue to his order?
In the mean time the hounds went at a great pace down the hill. Some
of the old stagers, who knew the country well, made a wide sweep
round to the left, whence by lanes and tracks, which were known to
them, they could make their way down to the road which leads along
Ulleswater to Patterdale. In doing this they might probably not see
the hounds again that day,--but such are the charms of hunting in a
hilly country. They rode miles around, and though they did again see
the hounds, they did not see the hunt. To have seen the hounds as
they start, and to see them again as they are clustering round the
huntsman after eating their fox, is a great deal to some men.
On this occasion it was Hampstead's lot--and Crocker's--to do much
more than that. Though they had started down a steep valley,--down
the side rather of a gully,--they were not making their way out
from among the hills into the low country. The fox soon went up
again,--not back, but over an intervening spur of a mountain towards
the lake. The riding seemed sometimes to Hampstead to be impossible.
But Mr. Amblethwaite did it, and he stuck to Mr. Amblethwaite. It
would have been all very well had not Crocker stuck to him. If the
old roan would only tumble among the stones what an escape there
would be! But the old roan was true to his character, and, to give
every one his due, the Post Office clerk rode as well as the lord.
There was nearly an hour and a-half of it before the hounds ran
into their fox just as he was gaining an earth among the bushes and
hollies with which Airey Force is surrounded. Then on the sloping
meadow just above the waterfall, the John Peel of the hunt dragged
out the fox from among the trees, and, having dismembered him
artistically, gave him to the hungry hounds. Then it was that perhaps
half-a-dozen diligent, but cautious, huntsmen came up, and heard all
those details of the race which they were afterwards able to give, as
on their own authority, to others who had been as cautious, but not
so diligent, as themselves.
"One of the best things I ever saw in this country," said Crocker,
who had never seen a hound in any other country. At this moment he
had ridden up alongside of Hampstead on the way back to Penrith. The
Master and the hounds and Crocker must go all the way. Hampstead
would turn off at Pooley Bridge. But still there were four miles,
during which he would be subjected to his tormentor.
"Yes, indeed. A very good thing, as I was saying, Mr. Amblethwaite."