My love shall hear the music of my hounds:
Uncouple in the western valley; let them go,--
Dispatch, I say, and find the Forester.
We will, fair Queen, up to the mountain's top.
MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM.
Fashion is at her best when she makes men and women love horses, dogs,
boating, swimming, and all out-of-door games,--when she preaches
physical culture. It is a good thing to see a man play lawn-tennis
under a hot sun for hours; you feel that such a man could storm a
battery. Nothing is more encouraging to the lover of all physical
culture than the hunting, shooting, boating, and driving mania in the
United States.
"Hunting" and "shooting" are sometimes used as synonymous terms in
America; in England they mean quite different things. Hunting is
riding to hounds without firearms, letting the dogs kill the fox;
while shooting is to tramp over field, mountain, and through forest
with dogs and gun, to kill deer, grouse, or partridge. The 12th of
August is the momentous day, the first of the grouse shooting. Every
one who can afford it, or who has a friend who can afford it, is off
for the moors on the 11th, hoping to fill his bag. The 1st of
September, partridge, and the 1st of October, pheasant shooting, are
gala days, and the man is little thought of who cannot handle a gun.
In August inveterate fox-hunters meet at four or five o'clock in the
morning for cub-hunting, which amusement is over by eleven or twelve.
As the winter comes on the real hunting begins, and lasts until late
in March. In the midland counties it is the special sport. Melton, in
Leicestershire, is a noted hunting rendezvous. People, many Americans
among them, take boxes there for the season, with large stables, and
beguile the evenings with dinners, dancing, and card-parties. It is a
sort of winter watering-place without any water, where the wine flows
in streams every night, and where the brandy flask is filled every
morning, "in case of accidents" while out with the hounds. An
enthusiast in riding can be in the saddle ten or twelve hours out of
every day, except Sunday, which is a dull day at Melton.
All the houses within such a neighbourhood are successively made the
rendezvous or meet of the hunt. People come from great distances and
send their horses by rail; others drive or ride in, and send their
valuable hunters by a groom, who walks them the whole way. The show of
"pink" is generally good. "Pink" means the scarlet hunting-coat worn
by the gentlemen, the whippers-in, etc. The weather fades these coats
to a pale pink very much esteemed by the older men. They suggest the
scars of a veteran warrior, hence the name. Some men hunt in black,
but always in top boots. These boots are a cardinal point in a
sportsman's dandyism.
Once or twice during the season a hunt breakfast is given in the house
where the meet takes place. This is a pretty scene. All sorts of neat
broughams, dog-carts, and old family chariots bring the ladies, who
wear as much scarlet as good taste will allow.
Ladies, with their children, come to these breakfasts, which are
sumptuous affairs. Great rounds of cold beef, game patties, and salads
are spread out. All sorts of drinks, from beer up to champagne, are
offered. One of the ladies of the house sits at the head of the table,
with a large antique silver urn before her, and with tea and coffee
ready for those who wish these beverages.
Some girls come on horseback, and look very pretty in their habits.
These Dianas cut slices of beef and make impromptu sandwiches for
their friends outside who have not dismounted. The daughters of the
house stand on the steps while liveried servants hand around cake and
wine, and others carry foaming tankards of ale, and liberal slices of
cheese, among the farmers and attendants of the kennel.
It is an in-door and an out-door feast. The hounds are gathered in a
group, the huntsman standing in the centre cracking his whip, and
calling each hound by his name. Two or three masters of neighbouring
packs are talking to the master of the hounds, a prominent gentleman
of the county, who holds fox-hunting as something sacred, and the
killing of a fox otherwise than in a legitimate manner as one of the
seven deadly sins.
Twelve o'clock strikes, and every one begins to move. Generally the
throw off is at eleven, but in honour of this breakfast a delay has
been allowed. The huntsman mounts his horse and blows his horn; the
hounds gather around him, and the whole field starts out. They are
going to draw the covers at some large plantation above the park. The
earths, or fox-holes, have been stopped for miles around, so that the
fox once started has no refuge to make for, and is compelled to give
the horses a run. It is a fine, manly sport, for with all the odds
against him, the fox often gets away.
It is a pretty sight. The hounds go first, with nose to the ground,
searching for the scent. The hunters and whippers-in, professional
sportsmen, in scarlet coats and velvet jockey caps, ride immediately
next to them, followed by the field. In a little while a confusion of
rumours and cries is heard in the wood, various calls are blown on the
horn, and the frequent cracking of high whips, which sound is used to
keep the hounds in order, has all the effect of a succession of pistol
shots. Hark! the fox has broken cover, and a repeated cry of "Tally
Ho!" bursts from the wood. Away go the hounds, full cry, and what
sportsmen call their music, something between a bay and a yelp, is
indeed a pleasant sound, heard as it always is under circumstances
calculated to give it a romantic character. Many ladies and small boys
are amongst the followers of the chase. As soon as a boy can sit on
his pony he begins to follow the hounds. A fox has no tail and no feet
in hunting parlance, he has only a brush and pads. The lady who is in
at the death receives the brush, and the man the pads, as a rule.
The hunt is a privileged institution in England, and can make gaps in
hedges and break down walls with impunity. The farmer never complains
if his wheat and turnip fields are ruined by the sport, nor does a
lady complain if her flower garden and ornamental arbour be laid in
ruins. The wily fox who has made such a skilful run must be followed
at any cost.
Shooting is, however, the favourite sport of all Englishmen. Both
pheasants and partridges are first carefully reared; the eggs
generally purchased in large quantities, hatched by hens, and the
birds fed through the summer with meal and other appropriate food. The
gamekeepers take the greatest pride in the rearing of these birds.
The pheasant is to the Englishman what the ibis was to the Egyptian.
They are let loose in the woods only when nearly full-grown. When the
covers are full, and a good bag is to be expected, the first of
October is a regular feast-day; a large party is asked, and a variety
of costumes makes the scene picturesque. Red or purple stockings,
knickerbockers of stout cloth or velveteen, a shooting-jacket of rough
heavy material, and stout shoes make up the costume. The ladies
collect after breakfast to see the party start out, a rendezvous is
agreed upon, and luncheon or tea brings them together at either two or
five o'clock, under a sheltering hedge on the side of a wood. The
materials for an ample meal are brought to the appointed place, and a
gay picnic ensues.
Though shooting is a sport in which more real personal work is done by
those who join in it, and in which skill is a real ingredient, still
it is neither so characteristic nor so picturesque as fox-hunting.
There, a firm seat in the saddle, a good horse, and a determination to
ride straight across country, are all that is needed for the majority
of the field. In shooting much patience is required, besides accuracy
of aim, and a judicious knowledge of when and how to shoot.
When we consider that hunting is the fashion which Americans are
trying to follow, in a country without foxes, we must concede that
success must be the result of considerable hard study. The fox is an
anise-seed bag, but stone walls and high rail fences often make a
stiffer country to ride over than any to be found abroad. In England
there are no fences.
As an addition to the art of entertaining, hunting is a very great
boon, and a hunt breakfast at the Westchester Hunting Club is as
pretty a sight as possible.
In America, the sport began in Virginia in the last century, and no
doubt in our great West and South it will some day become as
recognized an institution as in England. We have room enough for it,
too much perhaps. Shooting should become, from the Adirondacks to the
Mississippi, a recognized sport, as it was once a necessity. If
Americans could devote five months of the year to sport, as the
Englishmen do, they might rival Great Britain. Unfortunately,
Americans are bringing down other kinds of game. We cannot help
thinking, however, that shooting a buck in the Adirondacks is a more
manly sport than shooting one in England.
No one who has ever had the privilege will forget his first drive
through the delights of an English park. The herds of fallow deer that
haunt the ferny glades beneath the old oaks and beeches, are kept both
for show and for the table; for park-fed venison is a more delicious
morsel than the flesh of the Scotch red deer, that runs wild on the
moor. White, brown, and mottled, with branching antlers which serve
admirably for offensive and defensive weapons, the deer browse in
groups; the does and fawns generally keeping apart from the more
lordly bucks. The park-keeper knows them all, and when one is shot,
the hides, hoofs, and antlers become his perquisites.
The method of shooting a buck is, however, this: The keeper's
assistant drives the herd in a certain direction previously agreed
upon. The sight is a very pretty one. The keeper stations himself,
rifle in hand, in the fork of some convenient tree along the route. He
takes aim at the intended victim, and at the ominous report the
scared herd scampers away faster than ever, leaving their comrade to
the knives of the keeper. It is very much like going out to shoot a
cow. There is occasionally an attempt to renew the scenes of Robin
Hood and Sherwood Forest, and the hounds are let out, but it is a sham
after all, as they are trained not to kill the deer. The stag in this
instance is given a start, being carried bound in a cart to a certain
point, whence he is released and the chase commences. Thus the same
stag may be hunted a number of times and be none the worse for
it,--which is not the way they do it in the Adirondacks.
American venison is a higher flavoured meat than English, and should
be only partly roasted before the fire, then cut in slices half-raw,
placed on a chafing-dish with jelly and gravy, and warmed and cooked
before the guest to ensure perfection.
A Polish officer of distinction has sent me the following account of
hunting in his province:--
"We do not hunt the fox as in England. He is shot when met in a drive,
or worried out of his subterranean castle by a special breed of dogs,
the Dachshund, or Texel; or if young cubs are suspected to be in the
hole the exits so far as known are closed, a shaft sunk to the centre,
and the whole brood extinguished.
"We ride to hounds after hare, and the speed of a fox-hunt is nothing
when compared with a cruise of the hare; for the greyhound, used for
the latter, can beat any fox hound in racing. No one would ever think
of water-killing deer as is done in the Adirondacks, and woe unto him
who kills a doe!
"The old-fashioned way to kill the wild boar is to let him run at you,
then kneel on one knee holding a hunting knife, or cutlass,
double-edged. The boar infuriated by the dogs rushes at you. If well
directed, the knife enters his breast and heart; if it does not, then
look out. This is what is called pig-sticking in India. Old Emperor
William hunted the boar in the Royal Forests near Berlin, and King
Humbert does the same in the mountains near Rome.
"Bird hunting, that of snipe, woodcock, partridge, quail, and
waterfowl, is done in the same way as here, excepting the use of duck
batteries.
"There is very little big game to be found in Europe, that is, in the
civilized parts of it, but in some forests belonging to royalty and
that ilk, the elk, the stag, the bear, and the wild boar, present
themselves as a target, and bison are to be found in Russia. The elk
is purely royal game in Prussia.
"Southern or Upper Silesia is called the Prussian Ireland, and was
famous for hunting-parties; ladies would join, and we would drive home
with lighted torches attached to our sleighs."
These accounts of hunting-parties are introduced into the Art of
Entertaining as they each and all contain hints which may be of use to
the future American entertainer.