Part 3

When I went to the stud I was first mated with Lord Zetland’s Morocco, to whom I bred a fine weight-carrying hunter named Manacles, who distinguished himself during a good many seasons with Lord Zetland’s hounds in carrying a cousin of my master’s, whose riding weight was nearly sixteen stone and who is a hard rider. Manacles won one year, with this weight, the Zetland Point-to-Point, and, with his owner’s brother up, the Cleveland Point-to-Point in 1894. Although I have been mated with better-bred and much better-looking sires, I do not think I have bred another quite as good in the field. It is curious how uneven as a rule are the foals of hunter mares. Manacles was about 17 hands, and a great, striding, fast, staying horse; but the next foal I dropped was never more than a pony, about 14.3 hands, by Laureate (by Rosicrucian). I then had a very fine daughter, Carina, by Syrian, who went to Mr. Cecil Boyle’s stud, after winning many prizes; but my next foal, by Pursebearer, was another weedy one. My last and youngest, Saffron, is a fine mare and a good hunter, and is in many ways very like what I was in my prime. I am not what is called a certain breeder, and I have during the years when I was not engaged in my family duties done some light work on the farm. I never objected to this, and indeed was all the better for it, nor did I ever feel that there was any indignity in useful service.

And now I think I have fairly earned, and can enjoy, the retrospect of a well-spent life. I may not have had a very distinguished career, but blest with an equable temperament and more than ordinary intelligence, loving the chase, and supported by a robust constitution and a courageous heart, I can, without boasting, say that, even with a somewhat exacting master, I never failed to do anything that was asked of me. And I know, when I go hence, as I trust, to even happier hunting-grounds, that those with whom I have spent my life, and who have shared with me the pleasures of the chase, will feel that one has gone with whom are associated the happiest hours and pleasantest memories of the irrevocable past. I have said nothing about the companions of my old age, and it may be thought that I am lonely; but other brood mares, whose best years have been spent in hunting, share the fields with me, and when by chance the hounds come our way, we still take a keen interest in watching the proceedings, and leave off feeding while we discuss the performance of horses and hounds, and our own share in the past, long after the echo of the horn and the distant cry has died away over fence and field. And so I take my leave, asking for my epitaph, if I am considered worthy of it:

HERE LIES

QUEEN MAB

LIFE WELL RUN,

REST WELL WON.

III

HOUNDS

III

MEASURED by the human standard, the life of a fox-hound is a short one. It is not a butterfly existence; it cannot be summed up as short and sweet, or as a short and a merry one, for war, hunting, and love, as the proverb says, have a thousand troubles for their pleasure. The problem whether life is worth living is not one that either fox-hunter or fox-hound are likely to strain their intellects in solving. To many persons who follow hounds, as well as to the many who do not, a fox-hound is little more than a spotted dog. Little do these realise how every hound has its own distinct individuality, and how much careful attention, education, and training each of them has received before it was incorporated with the pack; and that the fox-hound--a wonder of beauty and endurance, with the qualities of nose, pace, and tongue exquisitely developed--has been produced by the labour and skill of Masters of Hounds and huntsmen through more than two centuries. Who can measure the work, the thought, and the anxiety, that have given us the modern fox-hound? How often we remark, “They’re a good pack of hounds,” but how seldom do we think of the pains that have been taken to make them a good pack! The selection of brood bitches, the choosing of sires, the rearing of puppies, the finding of walks, the losses by distemper; the accidents, the drafting, the entering; the exercising and disciplining of young hounds; the conditioning of working hounds, their maintenance in health, their feeding and kennelling,--these give but an outline of the subjects that demand the skilled attention of an M.F.H. and his servants. It is man that has made the fox-hound not less than the race-horse. Nature’s laws are hard to learn, and slow in their operation, but by lives passed in their study, and by experience and practice, the fox-hound has been evolved, and the kennels of England can boast of many hundred couples of hounds, each one of which approaches Whyte-Melville’s description of Bachelor--

On the straightest of legs and the roundest of feet, With ribs like a frigate his timbers to meet, With a fashion and fling and a form so complete, That to see him dance over the flags is a treat.

But fashion and form without nose are in vain, And in March or mid-winter, storm, sunshine or rain, When the line has been fouled, or the sheep leave a stain, His fox he accounts for again and again.

Where the fallows are dry, where manure has been thrown, With a storm in the air, with the ground like a stone, When we’re all in a muddle, beat, baffled, and blown, See! Bachelor has it! Bill, let him alone!

I once heard of a man, who was walking with his dog (a crop-eared cur, with a stump of a tail), being asked by a passer-by, “What do you call your dog?” The owner replied, “Well, sir, he was a grey-hound, and we called him ‘Fly’, but we cropped his loogs and coot off his tail and made a mastiff on him, and called him ‘Lion’.” It is a simple transformation, but would not be applicable to a fox-hound. A fox-hound is a fox-hound, and, play what tricks you like with him, he will remain one. It might be expected that any race bred for so long to a fixed type and to a uniform standard of quality would show a want of individuality of character and temper, but this is not so. The disposition, virtues, and vices of every hound in a pack vary. A good huntsman knows the habits, temperament, weaknesses, and qualities of each separate member of his kennel. There are the bold and the timid, the too noisy and the too silent, the sulky and the quick-tempered, the affectionate and the indifferent, the meek and the rebellious, the greedy and the fastidious, the quarrelsome and the kind, the light-hearted and the stout-hearted. There are hounds that can drive, and hounds that can stoop; the ones that can draw, and the ones that are handy to cast. There are some that combine all these virtues, and, alas! others that are guilty at times of babbling, riot, skirting, and turning a deaf ear to the horn. The object of huntsmen has never been to turn their packs into mechanical fox-killers--to do so would be to drag down the kennel to the level of the steel trap and vulpicide’s gun.”

Much of the charm of hunting consists in the style, grace, and neatness in which it is done. Hunting must be a pleasure to the eye; it should be picturesque and in harmony with nature. The woodland or valley should echo back wild music, and the huntsman’s horn and the whip’s halloo should delight the ear and warm the blood. A badly-assorted pack, of all shapes and sizes, some of which carry a head, and others with a strain of Southern blood, as line hunters, might give more sport and kill more foxes than a better and handsomer pack of hounds. They would, however, never give the same satisfaction to the huntsman with a knowledge of the craft, or to those who appreciate the rules of the game.

There is a supreme pleasure in watching a level pack of well-turned, straight-legged hounds exhibiting their hunting powers and quality, as they only can be exhibited under the command of a good huntsman. Uniformity of pace is necessary, uniformity in size pleases the eye. The power of instilling into fifteen or twenty-five couple that cohesiveness that makes them seem possessed, as it were, with one soul, combined with the ability to handle them, is an amazing example of man’s capacity to subordinate animal nature to his own purposes. Colour is a secondary consideration, a matter of fancy; and a good fox-hound, like a good horse and a good candidate, cannot be a bad colour. Were I an M.F.H., I should never spend my time and money in trying to make a pack all badger-pied or Belvoir tan; provided they were well-assorted in other respects, the very variety in their colours would please me. The question of utility may, in some countries, influence the colour. For instance, in a moorland district, where it is often impossible to live with hounds, it will be found that a few light-coloured hounds greatly minimise the risk of losing. On a dull day, if dark-coloured hounds get away over a moor, they may be easily lost, for they are extremely difficult to see on the heather.

To all lovers of hunting, if not to all hunting-men (and great is the difference), the animal which alone makes the chase possible is an interesting study from the moment he comes into the world. There is something that appeals to our tenderer feelings when we contemplate the very young, whether it be a little child or a puppy. No more cruel beasts exist than those of the cat species, from the spotted pard to the household tabby, yet few can resist the sensation of fondness for the lion’s cub, or puss’s kittens. Their helplessness as well as the beauty and jolly roundness of the little things go to our heart; and, it may be, the pity that is akin to love affects us, when we think of the battle of life that lies before these innocents. I confess to these sentiments when I watch the little black, white, and tan whelps lying beside the fond mother in the paddock by the kennels. How blissfully ignorant these are of the immediate future before them, and of what they have to go through before education fits them for their glorious calling! In a few weeks they will be taken from the sheltering care of the dam and sent to distant walks, their little sides red and sore with the cruel branding-iron. Those which get through all the diseases and disasters peculiar to puppyhood will enjoy the happy period of freedom till the day arrives when they are brought in from their walks. Then begins the hard discipline of life. Their ears are rounded, their names have often to be relearned, they are made to submit to the severe but necessary routine of the kennel. Then comes the time when they learn, with rating and great expenditure of whip-cord, what “ware hare,” “ware sheep,” “ware horse,” and much else besides means,--till that supreme moment when their future is decided, and the awful question is answered whether they are worthy to be entered with the chosen few, or drafted with the condemned. Among the hounds that are drafted, some will be put down as useless; others may be put aside, for failing only by the standard of height, colour, or type, and yet may be of the greatest value to other packs. At the present day the leading breeders of hounds pay most minute attention to symmetry, and cast every dog or bitch that is not straight or that does not come up to a very high standard. Many cultivate a type showing immense bone; but though a hound has legs as straight as an arrow, feet as round as a cat’s, and bone like a lion, he is useless if he has not the quality to go the pace, a nose to hunt with, and a voice that proclaims the true gospel. There is no doubt that to obtain wearing and working qualities, with uniformity of type, the safest line to follow in breeding hounds for hunting is the middle size. Such hounds will be big enough to go through dirt, and not too big to draw and run in cover. Were I an M.F.H., ambitious to distinguish myself at the Peterborough Show, I confess I should be puzzled to know how to do it, for the hounds that go to Peterborough are the selected few from thousands that go to walk. It probably is within the mark to say that, over an average of years, a Master who sends out sixty to eighty couple of puppies considers that he is fortunate if, out of this number, there are ten couple that come up to the standard at which he aims. Out of these he can only hope now and again to find a couple whose merit is so evenly balanced as to give a chance of success in the show-ring; and when in a lucky year he thinks he has the prize in view, there may be the misfortune of just missing the individual taste of the judges in such a matter as condition. Some judges will condemn hounds for being too fat, others for being too light. It may appear as absurd to favour a fat hound as it would be to back a fat horse out of training against a properly trained one. Yet it must be admitted that there are good judges, who like to see hounds fat,--why, I will not venture to say, for, with all respect to superior authority, it has always appeared to me that fat is out of place where hard work is required. It is a pitiable sight, when cub-hunting on a hot morning in August or September, to see a lot of panting suet-puddings hanging about outside the covert; it is equally ugly to watch a lot of gorged dogs or bitches refusing to break up a fox. Besides, after a few days of this sort of work, the fat laid on with such an expenditure of time and attention has melted away, and you have a pack even lighter in condition than the one which has been kept in hard flesh, carefully exercised, and made fit and keen to go straight to work.

The proper career of a fox-hound, from his birth to his death, might be described thus: I would have him bred from parents in the prime of life, that have themselves not only all the chief points of fox-hound symmetry and substance, but the tried qualities of pace, nose, and tongue; and sent to a farm walk where a hound is loved and cared for, where new milk is liberally given to the little lodger, and liberty to play, gallop and hunt at his own sweet will is allowed. We all know what mischief the fox-hound puppy, like the human puppy, is capable of; and many of us have had expensive, if entertaining, experiences of his youthful manners. We have seen our turkey hens, our peacocks, or our poultry the victims of his sporting proclivities. We have seen our tablecloths, curtains, and doormats worried and tattered in a manner prophetic of the style in which the miscreant, when he grows into a hound, will treat poor Reynard; we have wrung our hands while he drew the flower-garden; and yet, while we have soundly rated him, we have laughed over these domestic tragedies. I love to see a wild puppy; I like to see him with a leveret in his mouth after he has tow-rowed through the pheasant covert; for I know that all his hunting and worrying instincts can be controlled when he is finally enlisted in the ranks, but can never be put into him unless they are there to begin with. Were my pup treated as I would have him treated, he should neither be rounded nor branded. The former is all but useless, while the tattooing of the inside of the ear with the initial letter of the pack and the litter number, is a more humane and simpler, as well as a more complete and lasting mark than that made with the branding-iron.

When my pup arrives, I would wish to be quite clear about his name, so that he may not have to relearn it when he goes back to the kennels. This summer I saw a pup walked by a neighbour of mine, who answered while at walk to the name of “Ree-Torrick,” and when he was “sent in” had, no doubt, to discover, through much rating, that his name was “Rhetoric.” On the other hand, I knew a pup called “Vagrant,” which was always called after he was entered “Vagerrant”; so, after all, we may agree with Peter Beckford’s huntsman, who evidently considered that as long as a hound answered to his name, it made no difference what he was called, for being asked the name of a young hound, he said it was “Lyman.” “Lyman?” said his master. “Why, James, what does Lyman mean?” “Lord, sir!” replied James; “what does anything mean?”

But now my pup has grown into a young hound, and has, with the help of a good constitution, a warm lodging, and a generous diet, withstood the distemper. Then the day comes when he must leave the shelter of his home, and the caressing care of those who have watched over his puppyhood, and go to school. As with the schoolboy, so with young Wrangler; he will find compensation in the company of his many companions for the routine and monotony of kennel life.

Wrangler enters the kennels, receiving very much the same treatment, and being as thoroughly inspected, as any “new boy” ever was. For a time his stern droops, and he feels lost and cowed; but after standing a certain amount of rough play, he shows his mettle, asserts himself, and holds his own amongst the new arrivals. The strange, prisonlike impression of his new quarters wears off; he begins to appreciate the cleanliness and order that guarantee all that is necessary for health and comfort; but many a time he hears his name, and often he feels the whip, before his wild nature is brought to bend to the discipline of the kennel. The summer months are at last over; Wrangler has learned to go in couples; then to pass through the sheep without thinking of mutton; and though in his heart he dearly loves the scent of a hare, he has had the lesson “ware hare” writ so distinctly on his back that there is no fear of his forgetting it. And now our hero makes his début as a fox-hound, and is blooded. The very first day he is out, curiosity and desire to see what is doing tempt him into the covert. He is all excitement as the old hounds speak, he follows hard, and quickly learns to stoop to the new scent. The season slips by, and Wrangler has taken his place in the van. He has learned to love a scent, and he is keen in the struggle to find and proclaim it, and when the primrose and “stinking violets” announce that hunting days are over, he can show a few goodly scars around his youthful nose. But see him the next season, as the horses go kennel fadge to the meet, slipping along with both ends up; look at his waving stern and impatient eye during the vexing delay before a move is made; mark him as he races to the covert and bustles through the whins; hark, as with his full and musical voice he gives the delightful news that a fox is found; watch him as he flies to the view-halloo, tops the fence, shoots right and left like a sky-rocket, till he has the line, and then bless him as he races away with his head up and stern down. “Yonder he goes,” but the pack need never a word. The loud cry sinks to that modified chorus that proclaims that it is real business, and there is Wrangler driving ahead in the first bunch. Over the grass they race, through and over the fence in the fallow, down the furrow Wrangler leads them, throwing now and again a full, confident note. Away they stream, and if in the excitement of the hot pursuit he flashes over the scent for a moment, one swift fling and he has it again. The field is growing thinner as the miles of grass and plough are covered, and the best pack in England would begin to tail! But the game is over. They run from scent to view, Wrangler’s bristles are up, and you

may swear it’s who-hoop, For he’ll dash at his fox like a hawk in her stoop, And he carries the head marching home to his soup.

And many and oftentimes will Wrangler make a run, till he, too, has, like every dog, had his day. The Master’s heart is steeled, he gives the order (who knows with what regret?), and another hound takes his place with the flying black, white, and tan!

IV

HARE-HUNTING

IV

“By inclination I never was a hare-hunter; I followed this diversion more for air and exercise than for amusement, and if I could have persuaded myself to ride on the turnpike road to the three-mile stone and back again, I should have thought I had no need of a pack of harriers.”

PETER BECKFORD.

I OWE too many pleasant hours to hunting hares to damn the sport with faint praise, but, kind reader, if you notice a want of enthusiasm in the following chapter, pray do not ascribe it so much to my sympathy with the quotation that heads this article, as to my desire to pose as an impartial critic. Silence, care, and science are the qualities that a hare-hunter should pride himself on; youth and high spirits, eagerness and impetuosity are the life and soul of fox-hunting--dangerous qualities in the chase of the timid little hare. I have had many a day with beagles and harriers--many a happy one; and yet in fairness I must make the confession that the days I enjoyed best were those when they got on to a fox. Ah! I fear if I made a clean breast of it, I should have to tell of days when my brother (who had a fine little cry of beagles) and I used to get up before daybreak, mount our horses, and hie off to the moors by ourselves, out of the ear of the sleeping world, to give a belated marauder a jolly good dusting before he made his distant and unstopped earth; and, more rarely perhaps, the eternal craving for “a run” was so great that a man with a bag shook “something” out of it in a lonely spot. Dear me! I could tell some tales. I have in my mind’s eye a day when my brother, with another more famous master of harriers (now, like some others, an M.F.H.), and myself were beaten by the little hounds as they raced away over the moors after an extraordinarily fine-smelling fox; but I must check myself, or my style will degenerate into that of a fox-hunter’s.

After all, I have a conviction that many a green-coated gentleman has a sneaking sympathy with my sins and want of orthodoxy. If these lines meet the eye of any hare-hunter, whose indignation and contempt is becoming too strong for words at the levity with which I speak of his sport, let him keep cool and take comfort, for have not I, as prescribed by the ancient rules of the Cleveland Hunt Club, laid my right hand on the hunting-horn and solemnly declared myself to be “no enemy to fox-hunting and harriers.” Let me answer such an one that I, like him, regard the man who is so innocent of sport that he declares the triumph over the timid hare to be poor, as an ignorant simpleton; and if any one with superior airs were to hazard such a statement to me, my reply would be “All right, my boy! you try your hand on an old buck hare on a cold scenting day in February, on horseback, if you like; or, if that is too easy, get off and hunt them on foot, be up to them, see them from start to finish, and tell me how you got on and what you think of it.”

Personally, were I to criticise hare-hunting, I should say that too much of the chief diversion is the monopoly of the huntsmen--certainly the days I have thoroughly enjoyed have been those when I carried the horn myself. Again, with fast harriers or 20-inch fox-hounds, you must ride, but then you would do better with fox-hounds. If you went on foot, nature must have been lavish in her gifts if you have the physical power, courage, and endurance to enable you to keep near enough to see the beautiful detail of harrier work; and, finally, when you have killed your hare, it is rather a miserable-looking trophy that is yours. You may ornament your smoking-room with your hares’ heads, but you alone will feel that they are appropriate mural decorations; for your friends a few lop-eared rabbits would be more interesting.