Part 30

We cannot help being struck with the number of packs that come under the letter B in this volume, no less than twenty-three of them, including the Duke of Buccleuch’s, in Scotland; and the letter C comes next with over twenty.

The Earl of Yarborough has the proud distinction of being the owner of a pack that through eight generations has been handed down lineally as a private pack to the present day, and from 1714 its kennel book has been maintained carefully. It is, indeed, hard to say how much foxhunting owes to such splendid sportsmen as the Pelhams have been in their care and breeding of hounds. The Yarborough pages in this book are a revelation to sportsmen who appreciate what a landowner can do with 60,000 acres within a ring fence, and able to indulge to the full in hereditary tastes.

Sir Watkin Williams-Wynn’s pack, the Wynnstay, is another instance of the success of a territorial magnate successfully forming an historic pack and country.

The Quorn, the head and front of fashion, that has led the way among the daring hard-riding spirits of Great Britain for more than 200 years, is most ably dealt with in this volume. From the days of John Boothby in 1700, and of old Hugo Meynell, who succeeded him in 1753 up to 1800, there have been twenty-five masters of the Quorn who have one and all handed down their names to posterity as worthy of note, and have earned the gratitude of many thousands of men who have in their time satiated their ambitions over those Leicestershire pastures, where the oxer still holds its own, and wire is treated as a noxious weed. The picture of old Hugo Meynell and his old huntsman, Jack Raven, is inimitable; you can see there the characters of those two aged sportsmen discussing the _pros and cons_ of the day, and can fancy how fully they are entering into it. Let us leave that Meltonian chapter with all its particulars and prints to the full appreciation of its readers.

The Cottesmore is scarcely a less interesting chapter. Founded by the Noel family at Exton Park in 1753, that adjoins the village of Cottesmore, from which it takes its name, it soon came into the Lowther family, and was hunted for a long series of years by the first Earl of Lonsdale. Then we find Sir Richard Sutton at the head of affairs, followed by Sir John Trollope, afterwards Lord Kesteven, and Mr. Henry Greaves—always in high feather—with its glorious sweet-scenting country, its grand woodlands, strong foxes, and expansive acreage of upland pastures. Surely, if any country in the world is made for the sport of kings, that country is the Cottesmore, which now enjoys the acme of sport, and worthily so.

We long to dwell on the Atherstone, the Meynell, the Oakley, the Grafton, Lord Harrington’s, Lord Galway’s, and the Rufford, did our space permit, but are not their stories all faithfully and succinctly told there?

Cheshire stands out well, and the old Tarporley Hunt Club is a lasting tribute to the hunting instincts of that famed shire, where every other sport stands aside to make way for it. Shropshire also is its goodly neighbour, hunted as it is from end to end, right up into its Welsh border, in a style worthy of its best traditions; and viewed from its grand old Hawkstone on the north to gaunt Clee Hill on the south, is a fair domain of sport.

Yorkshire, of course, is another leading feature in the book, as well it must be, and so are our southern, eastern, and western counties; none, indeed, escape all the notice that is their due; and as it is not given to all sportsmen to revel in the realms of pasture, unalloyed by the drawbacks of small enclosures, hills and dales, crags and boulders, mud and marshes, or impenetrable woodlands, so we all accommodate ourselves to locality, and are happy in our less ambitious surroundings and histories. To these this book will not the less be a treasure. Whether we happen to be east or west, north or south countrymen, we recognise a friendly word, a well-known and honoured portrait on every page.

Neither Ireland nor Scotland has been forgotten, as it is well they should not be, for as far as hunting is concerned, are we not united in a bond of love and friendship, which it will indeed be hard to sever? For is it not to those Irish horses that we owe our mainstay over here, that so soon learn to jump our flying fences as easily as their native banks? And do not we welcome some of our finest riders from across the Irish Channel?

In dealing, however, with the historical side of our foxhunting book, we must not overlook its value as regards the foxhound himself. Great pains have been taken by the compiler of this work to define the combination of blood which has been diffused into each individual kennel and has contributed to its success. To hound-lovers this book must prove of especial value, and we can picture the delight of our old friend, Mr. Cecil Legard,—whose portrait is to be found in the introduction—when he scans its pages, and the satisfaction he feels at having spent many years in perfecting the Foxhound Stud Book. It would ill become me to enter into much foxhound lore in this short review, further than to say that, from the days of the old Corbet Trojan down to those of Brocklesby Rallywood, and so on through the Belvoir celebrities and the Craven and Warwickshire favourites, as well as others in profuse plenty, not only are they made mention of, but the portraits of many of them adorn the pages and speak for themselves as to the symmetrical beauty of the modern foxhound—a fact that the success of the Peterborough Hound Shows bears ample evidence to. When I look at these splendid specimens of hound culture I cannot ever refrain from picturing what natural perfection there must be in the grand attributes of that little animal the fox, which for centuries right up to to-day has been enabled to withstand the onslaught of his foes, and defy all their artifices.

A leading feature of this book is its illustrations. It will be evident to all who study it that to gather such a collection of portraits of men and hounds, as well as innumerable hunting groups and meets in almost every country, has been a work that has taxed the energies of all who have had a hand in its compilation. Such a thing has never been attempted before, and its accomplishment will suffice for many a long year. Turn over page after page as you may, you come across old and young friends, the Nestors of bygone days, and our best young Nimrods of to-day. This is in itself a theme on hunting, which I long to go away “full cry” on, were it not that you, Mr. Editor, let fall the threatening crack of the whip, warning me homewards. It concludes with tabulated pedigrees of some of our most celebrated hounds that have won the leading honours at Peterborough, such as Fitzwilliam Harper, V.W.H. Damsel, Belvoir Dexter, Grove Druid, Puckeridge Cardinal, Zetland Rocket, and Lord Middleton’s Cheerful, and winds up with a key plate of the Quorn meet at Baggrave Hall.

Perhaps we ought to say a few words in commendation of those fourteen sportsmen whose brains and pens have assisted the Editor in bringing this great work on foxhounds before the public. They knew their subject, and have striven hard and well to draw together all the cardinal points of interest in each country with which they had to deal. How far they have succeeded it will be for readers or critics to say. Inasmuch as I am myself a helpmate in this matter to a small extent it will not become me to say any more than that it has been a labour of love to me, and that I feel sure that Sir Humphrey de Trafford will, as the Editor, hand his name down to posterity in honour for this standard work.

BORDERER.

Hind-hunting.

For those who like to combine hard riding with careful and interesting hound work, there is no sport to equal hind-hunting. It is not easy work. Indeed, there is no form of hunting which is harder upon man and horse. Patience, judgment and courage are required in no small degree by the man who would see a red-deer hind fairly hunted on Exmoor. In the course of a run we may and often do cross moor and fell, grass and plough. We plunge into the recesses of deep woods, clatter up the beds of mountain torrents, climb up ascents so steep that one wonders the horse can ever face them, and come down hills which seem more fitted for sheep or goats than horses. All this you must do if you wish to _see_ hounds at work. You may do your best, and yet lose the chase, to recover it again later on, or perhaps be left alone to find your way as best you can. If the charm of hunting is uncertainty, then hind-hunting ought to be the most delightful form of the chase, for in none is there more. Sometimes the hinds will not run at all, at others they twist about so persistently that do what you will you cannot keep in touch with the chase, and find and lose the hounds half-a-dozen times in the course of a run. The knowing ones ride to points, cut off corners, wait for hounds to come back to them. But that is not the best way to enjoy a hind-hunt; indeed, taken in that form it might be thought a tedious and unsatisfactory form of hunting. I was for some time rather inclined to undervalue it. The whole secret of the pleasure is to see as much of hounds as you can. In doing that the interest never fails; if there is anything like a good run you want to be ever pushing on, always striving to get forward to take advantage of every check, and get the best of every turn. If one is always galloping to catch hounds, no horse could live through a really fine hind-hunt, a chase which may last for three hours or more, and cover any distance (as hounds run) from fifteen to thirty miles. But so long as you can keep near the pack, there will be many opportunities of easing the horse and nursing him to the end of the run.

Let me tell the story of a hunt with its moments of joy and excitement and its times of deep depression. It is a clear, bright morning, with not too much wind, so that one can both see and hear. The air is keen as we ride on to the meet, fixed for some cross-roads near the haunts of the deer. The first few miles are along a commonplace road enough, and then we turn up a steep hill and gradually come out on the higher land. This is not the Exmoor of the holiday stag-hunter, with its deep leafy combes, its broad expanse of purple heather. It is a study in browns and russets, with the grey-purple of Dunkery in the distance, and here and there a golden blossom of heather in the foreground. The landscape is like a chequer board, with the tiny square enclosures which creep up to the edge of the moorland.

There is one advantage about hind-hunting, you know where to look for your quarry, and they are not seldom out in the open. The Master takes with him four couple of hounds, and goes to look for the hinds. We all go, too, for sometimes the best of the run may come with the tufters. I have known them to get away with the hind, and the body of the pack never to have a chance of coming up.

Presently we hear the horn, a hound challenges, and we know the hunt is up. So closely do hinds resemble the heather in its winter brown, that it is not easy to see them. At last we obtain a glimpse of one as she comes stepping high over the heather with a free, easy and proud step. There is nothing more beautiful than the action of a hind; it is far more graceful than the lumbering lollop of a fat old stag with his mighty weight of body and antlers. The way she goes leads to a covert on the side of a hill, and we make for this point, arriving there before she does. This is one of those cases in which you cannot ride to hounds—there is a bit of impossible ground. We are now on one slope of a deep valley cut by a stream. On the opposite side is a hanging wood, and along its steep sides the hind is working, the hounds hunting fitfully behind. She dodges about, running twice up to the boundary fence, and twice turning back. This is the critical spot, for it is easy to be left here and very difficult to keep touch with hounds. The hind, moreover, comes straight across, almost touching one rider; the hounds stream after her, we scramble up the slope, and down she goes again. Galloping along the top we find an impenetrable beech fence, and by the time we are clear hounds have gone.

This is one of the dark moments of the chase. Though we do not know the country well, we do know that in front there are thick and extensive coverts. We are out of the fun unless we can pick up the pack, which has not yet been laid on. Luck favours us, and after a long trot we find them waiting in the heather on the open moor, and what is also good, our second horses. With hounds now eager for the hunt and a fresh horse, we canter easily over the heather, which is far better going now than in summer, soft, springy and delightful. Watch the hounds, how they try for the line. Presently one hound bounds over the heather and quickens its pace, and then another and another. “For’ard, for’ard!” shouts the Master, and touches his horn, then one and another of the pack speak. There is none of the dash, none of the clamour of foxhounds hitting off a line. The hounds are lobbing over the heather, and we drop into a hand gallop. Now one way they swing, now the other, for the hind seldom runs straight, but in a curious, hesitating, wavering, sort of way. This gives us many a turn. But we need to keep close, for hounds leave us in a moment if we are slack. Downhill she has run straighter, hounds pack more, and speak to the line more freely. This is a delightful gallop over the heather, the horse going easily as we turn down hill. Now catch hold of him and pull him back, and we stride down without an effort, and economise the strength we shall need later. Somehow the hind doubles back, aye, and nearly escapes, were it not that two couple of hounds hold to the line. This saves the situation, though it is quite a quarter of an hour or more, during which we have scrambled down a steep path and up another, before hounds are really going again. Then comes another phase of the chase. The hind has left the open moorland and taken to the fields. A very pretty hunt it is. The pastures hold a scent, and we hunt on merrily till a sharp turn nearly throws us all out. The master’s eye sees the pack at fault. He gallops up the hill, fetches his pack, and casts boldly and quickly down hill. The hind has taken to the water, and it would not be wonderful if she was near the end of her strength. We have been running for about two hours, and have made a seven-mile point.

“This hind must have had about enough,” remarks the Master; but she is not, in fact, near the end of her resources as yet. As soon as hounds touch the line she leaves the water, and runs along the cover on the wooded slopes above us. Suddenly we see the leading hounds turn, for a hind has as many turns and twists as a hare. Now comes an exciting time for us. Hounds are running in an inaccessible bottom, and we have to ride a path about two feet wide on the side of a hill, with tangled cover and brushwood. A branch bashes in one’s hat, another almost sweeps a rider out of the saddle; but the notes of the hounds coming up fitfully and always further on beckon us forward. The going may be bad, but we must get forward. What a relief to find one self on the open heather once more! The horse is not done yet, and we work our way back to hounds, which have a long start.

But now a deep, dark wood swallows them up, and we follow the Master on trust. How he knows or divines which way hounds are going it is hard to say; but it is all right, and we find hounds running over a grass field, and then comes a stretch of most appalling ground. Frozen turf, an outcrop of slippery rock, a hillside broken up as though a number of small earthquakes had taken place; somehow we scramble down. But the hind is really beaten at last. We have been hunting since 11 a.m., and it is now long past three.

This is a good, but not an unusual example of a hind-hunt in the winter or spring, on a day when the weather is fairly favourable. When the weather is bad on the moors it is very bad. For example, the hind has gone up on to the moor, but the hounds have changed in the coverts. The Master and one follower are sitting with a couple or so of hounds for half an hour waiting for the whippers-in to bring on the hounds, while pitiless rain-, hail- and sleet-storms sweep over the exposed hillside. At last the hounds come, and what is wonderful, they can still hunt, though a storm has swept over the moor and their deer is three-quarters of an hour in front. We ride to them a short distance, plunge into a deep valley, and failing to hit the right path where the hind turns up, lose hounds altogether for the day.

Again, sometimes the hind never runs at all, but dodges and turns and twists until at last she fairly beats off her pursuers. These erratic courses of the hind are, so far as we can tell, governed by two motives. The first is to lead hounds away from her calf—the red-deer calves run with the mother till they are nearly as big as she is—and having shaken off pursuit, to return to the place she started from. There is no device to this end she will not try. Sometimes she lies down in the open, and so well concealed is she that it is impossible to distinguish her from the heather. Again, she will work her way down the middle of a stream for a long distance, so that the winter flood may carry away the scent, or she will run backwards and forwards in a covert till the line is foiled. Worst of all she will join a herd. If a hunted stag endeavours to join a band of stags, the others will butt him out of their company. They are not going to be compromised by the presence of an unlucky relative. But a bevy of hinds seem to try to shelter a distressed one, and by running on with her in a bunch to puzzle the hounds. Thus hind-hunting stands very high in the estimation of lovers of hound work. Hind-hunting brings out many latent hereditary qualities of the foxhound. We are reminded that the foxhound’s ancestors hunted stag before they hunted fox. There are, unluckily, very few foxes in the west of England, but there are still some, though mange, traps and fox-sellers or stealers have worked great havoc. Yet hounds seldom run fox when once entered to deer. These staghounds soon develop a considerable aptitude for distinguishing the scent of the hunted animal, so that amidst a multiplicity of lines they hold to the line of the hunted deer. A hound named Tradesman, belonging to Mr. E. A. V. Stanley’s pack, ran a hind from Lype Common to Cloutsham, right round Dunkery, never changing and never losing the line. When the pack were astray, he held on by himself. When they were with him he led them, and was, no doubt, the cause of the death of a stout hind after a long chase. This is a trait which is greatly valued in France, but has been almost lost in most foxhound packs in England, since the huntsman is as ready to change his fox as the hounds are apt to run more eagerly on a fresh line than a stale one. Then the foxhound often recalls his bloodhound forbears, or at least those stately white Talbots, so much favoured by our ancestors, by his steady tracking of the hunted deer.

Like bloodhounds, the staghound runs silently, speaking for a find, for the recovery of the scent after a check, and in covert, in order no doubt that the pack may keep together, but when working over the heather the pack string out in a resolute, silent and rather blood-thirsty fashion, for a staghound means and expects to have blood, and there is quite a different note in his voice as the chase begins to draw to its finish. In most cases in the last stages of a hunt the hounds are close to their quarry, and they know what it means. A curious trait about a hunted hind is that while pursued by hounds she seems almost devoid of fear of horses and men. It seems as if the red deer, from having been a hunted animal for so many ages, was able to distinguish between a real and imaginary danger. A hind has the reputation of being a timid animal, but if you try to ride one off from a point she is bent on making you will soon find that she cares nothing for you, but will hold on obstinately, or perhaps stop short and dodge behind your horse and so make her point.