It seems to be odd, at first sight, that there should be any such men
as these; but their name and number is legion. If we were to deduct
from the hunting-crowd farmers, and others who hunt because hunting is
brought to their door, of the remainder we should find that the "men
who don't like it" have the preponderance. It is pretty much the same,
I think, with all amusements. How many men go to balls, to races, to the
theatre, how many women to concerts and races, simply because it is the
thing to do? They have perhaps, a vague idea that they may ultimately
find some joy in the pastime; but, though they do the thing constantly,
they never like it. Of all such men, the hunting men are perhaps the
most to be pitied.
They are easily recognized by any one who cares to scrutinize the men
around him in the hunting field. It is not to be supposed that all
those who, in common parlance, do not ride, are to be included among
the number of hunting men who don't like it. Many a man who sticks
constantly to the roads and lines of gates, who, from principle, never
looks at a fence, is much attached to hunting. Some of those who have
borne great names as Nimrods in our hunting annals would as life have
led a forlorn-hope as put a horse at a flight of hurdles. But they,
too, are known; and though the nature of their delight is a mystery to
straight-going men, it is manifest enough, that they do like it. Their
theory of hunting is at any rate plain. They have an acknowledged
system, and know what they are doing. But the men who don't like it,
have no system, and never know distinctly what is their own aim.
During some portion of their career they commonly try to ride hard,
and sometimes for a while they will succeed. In short spurts, while the
cherry-brandy prevails, they often have small successes; but even with
the assistance of a spur in the head they never like it.
Dear old John Leech! What an eye he had for the man who hunts and
doesn't like it! But for such, as a pictorial chronicler of the hunting
field he would have had no fame. Briggs, I fancy, in his way did like
it. Briggs was a full-blooded, up-apt, awkward, sanguine man, who was
able to like anything, from gin and water upwards. But with how many a
wretched companion of Briggs' are we not familiar? men as to whom
any girl of eighteen would swear from the form of his visage and the
carriage of his legs as he sits on his horse that he was seeking honour
where honour was not to be found, and looking for pleasure in places
where no pleasure lay for him.
But the man who hunts and doesn't like it, has his moments of
gratification, and finds a source of pride in his penance. In the
summer, hunting does much for him. He does not usually take much
personal care of his horses, as he is probably a town man and his horses
are summered by a keeper of hunting stables; but he talks of them.
He talks of them freely, and the keeper of the hunting stables is
occasionally forced to write to him. And he can run down to look at his
nags, and spend a few hours eating bad mutton chops, walking about the
yards and paddocks, and, bleeding halfcrowns through the nose. In all
this there is a delight which offers some compensation for his winter
misery to our friend who hunts and doesn't like it.
He finds it pleasant to talk of his horses especially to young women,
with whom, perhaps, the ascertained fact of his winter employment does
give him some credit. It is still something to be a hunting man even
yet, though the multiplicity of railways and the existing plethora of
money has so increased the number of sportsmen, that to keep a nag or
two near some well-known station, is nearly as common as to die. But
the delight of these martyrs is at the highest in the presence of their
tailors; or, higher still, perhaps, in that of their bootmakers. The
hunting man does receive some honour from him who makes his breeches;
and, with a well-balanced sense of justice, the tailor's foreman is,
I think, more patient, more admiring, more demonstrative in his
assurances, more ready with his bit of chalk, when handling the knee of
the man who doesn't like the work, than he ever is with the customer who
comes to him simply because he wants some clothes fit for the saddle.
The judicious conciliating tradesman knows that compensation should
be given, and he helps to give it. But the visits to the bootmaker
are better still. The tailor persists in telling his customer how his
breeches should be made, and after what fashion they should be worn;
but the bootmaker will take his orders meekly. If not ruffled by paltry
objections as to the fit of the foot, he will accede to any amount of
instructions as to the legs and tops. And then a new pair of top boots
is a pretty toy; Costly, perhaps, if needed only as a toy, but very
pretty, and more decorative in a gentleman's dressing-room than
any other kind of garment. And top boots, when multiplied in such
a locality, when seen in a phalanx tell such pleasant lies on their
owner's behalf. While your breeches are as dumb in their retirement as
though you had not paid for them, your conspicuous boots are eloquent
with a thousand tongues! There is pleasure found, no doubt, in this.
As the season draws nigh the delights become vague, and still more
vague; but, nevertheless, there are delights. Getting up at six o'clock
in November to go down to Bletchley by an early train is not in itself
pleasant, but on the opening morning, on the few first opening mornings,
there is a promise about the thing which invigorates and encourages the
early riser. He means to like it this year if he can. He has still some
undefined notion that his period of pleasure will now come. He has not,
as yet, accepted the adverse verdict which his own nature has given
against him in this matter of hunting, and he gets into his early
tub with acme glow of satisfaction. And afterwards it is nice to find
himself bright with mahogany tops, buff-tinted breeches, and a pink
coat. The ordinary habiliments of an English gentleman are so sombre
that his own eye is gratified, and he feels that he has placed himself
in the vanguard of society by thus shining in his apparel. And he will
ride this year! He is fixed to that purpose. He will ride straight; and,
if possible, he will like it.
But the Ethiop cannot change his skin, nor can any man add a cubit to
his stature. He doesn't like it, and all around him in the field know
how it is with him; he himself knows how it is with others like himself,
and he congregates with his brethren. The period of his penance has come
upon him. He has to pay the price of those pleasant interviews with
his tradesmen. He has to expiate the false boasts made to his female
cousins. That row of boots cannot be made to shine in his chamber for
nothing. The hounds have found, and the fox is away. Men are fastening
on their flat-topped hats and feeling themselves in their stirrups.
Horses are hot for the run, and the moment for liking it has come, if
only it were possible!
But at moments such as these something has to be done. The man who
doesn't like it, let him dislike it ever so much, cannot check his horse
and simply ride back to the hunting stables. He understands that were he
to do that, he must throw up his cap at once and resign. Nor can he trot
easily along the roads with the fat old country gentleman who is out
on his rough cob, and who, looking up to the wind and remembering the
position of adjacent coverts, will give a good guess as to the direction
in which the field will move. No; he must make an effort. The time of
his penance has come, and the penance must be borne. There is a spark
of pluck about him, though unfortunately he has brought it to bear in a
wrong direction. The blood still runs at his heart, and he resolves that
he will ride, if only he could tell which way.
The stout gentleman on the cob has taken the road to the left with a few
companions; but our friend knows that the stout gentleman has a little
game of his own which will not be suitable for one who intends to ride.
Then the crowd in front has divided itself. Those to the right rush down
a hill towards a brook with a ford. One or two, men whom he hates with
an intensity of envy, have jumped the brook, and have settled to their
work. Twenty or thirty others are hustling themselves through the water.
The time for a judicious start on that side is already gone. But others,
a crowd of others, are facing the big ploughed field immediately before
them. That is the straightest riding, and with them he goes. Why has
the scent lain so hot over the up-turned heavy ground? Why do they go
so fast at this the very first blush of the morning? Fortune is always
against him, and the horse is pulling him through the mud as though the
brute meant to drag his arm out of the socket. At the first fence, as
he is steadying himself, a butcher passes him roughly in the jump and
nearly takes away the side of his top boot. He is knocked half out
of his saddle, and in that condition scrambles through. When he has
regained his equilibrium he sees the happy butcher going into the field
beyond. He means to curse the butcher when he catches him, but the
butcher is safe. A field and a half before him he still sees the tail
hounds, and renews his effort. He has meant to like it to-day, and he
will. So he rides at the next fence boldly, where the butcher has left
his mark, and does it pretty well, with a slight struggle. Why is it
that he can never get over a ditch without some struggle in his saddle,
some scramble with his horse? Why does he curse the poor animal so
constantly, unless it be that he cannot catch the butcher? Now he rushes
at a gate which others have opened for him, but rushes too late and
catches his leg. Mad with pain, he nearly gives it up, but the spark
of pluck is still there, and with throbbing knee he perseveres. How he
hates it! It is all detestable now. He cannot hold his horse because of
his gloves, and he cannot get them off. The sympathetic beast knows
that his master is unhappy, and makes himself unhappy and troublesome in
consequence. Our friend is still going, riding wildly, but still keeping
a grain of caution for his fences. He has not been down yet, but has
barely saved himself more than once. The ploughs are very deep, and his
horse, though still boring at him, pants heavily. Oh, that there might
come a check, or that the brute of a fox might happily go to ground! But
no! The ruck of the hunt is far away from him in front, and the game
is running steadily straight for some well known though still distant
protection. But the man who doesn't like it still sees a red coat before
him, and perseveres in chasing the wearer of it. The solitary red coat
becomes distant, and still more distant from him, but he goes on while
he can yet keep the line in which that red coat has ridden. He must
hurry himself, however, or he will be lost to humanity, and will be
alone. He must hurry himself, but his horse now desires to hurry no
more. So he puts his spurs to the brute savagely, and then at some
little fence, some ignoble ditch, they come down together in the mud,
and the question of any further effort is saved for the rider. When he
arises the red coat is out of sight, and his own horse is half across
the field before him. In such a position, is it possible that a man
should like it?
About four o'clock in the afternoon, when the other men are coming in,
he turns up at the hunting stables, and nobody asks him any questions.
He may have been doing fairly well for what anybody knows, and, as he
says nothing of himself, his disgrace is at any rate hidden. Why should
he tell that he had been nearly an hour on foot trying to catch his
horse, that he had sat himself down on a bank and almost cried, and that
he had drained his flask to the last drop before one o'clock? No one
need know the extent of his miseries. And no one does know how great is
the misery endured by those who hunt regularly, and who do not like it.