HUNTING SKETCHES

by Anthony Trollope

Contents:

 The Man who Hunts and Doesn't Like it The Man who Hunts and Does Like it The Lady who Rides to Hounds The Hunting Farmer The Man who Hunts and Never Jumps The Hunting Parson The Master of Hounds How to Ride to Hounds

THE MAN WHO HUNTS AND DOESN'T LIKE IT. 

It seems to be odd, at first sight, that there should be any such menas these; but their name and number is legion. If we were to deductfrom the hunting-crowd farmers, and others who hunt because hunting isbrought to their door, of the remainder we should find that the "menwho 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 thetheatre, how many women to concerts and races, simply because it is thething to do? They have perhaps, a vague idea that they may ultimatelyfind 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 themost to be pitied. 

They are easily recognized by any one who cares to scrutinize the menaround him in the hunting field. It is not to be supposed that allthose who, in common parlance, do not ride, are to be included amongthe number of hunting men who don't like it. Many a man who sticksconstantly to the roads and lines of gates, who, from principle, neverlooks at a fence, is much attached to hunting. Some of those who haveborne great names as Nimrods in our hunting annals would as life haveled 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 tostraight-going men, it is manifest enough, that they do like it. Theirtheory of hunting is at any rate plain. They have an acknowledgedsystem, 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 thecherry-brandy prevails, they often have small successes; but even withthe 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 anddoesn't like it! But for such, as a pictorial chronicler of the huntingfield he would have had no fame. Briggs, I fancy, in his way did likeit. Briggs was a full-blooded, up-apt, awkward, sanguine man, who wasable to like anything, from gin and water upwards. But with how many awretched companion of Briggs' are we not familiar? men as to whomany girl of eighteen would swear from the form of his visage and thecarriage of his legs as he sits on his horse that he was seeking honourwhere honour was not to be found, and looking for pleasure in placeswhere no pleasure lay for him. 

But the man who hunts and doesn't like it, has his moments ofgratification, and finds a source of pride in his penance. In thesummer, hunting does much for him. He does not usually take muchpersonal care of his horses, as he is probably a town man and his horsesare summered by a keeper of hunting stables; but he talks of them. He talks of them freely, and the keeper of the hunting stables isoccasionally forced to write to him. And he can run down to look at hisnags, and spend a few hours eating bad mutton chops, walking about theyards and paddocks, and, bleeding halfcrowns through the nose. In allthis there is a delight which offers some compensation for his wintermisery 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 doesgive him some credit. It is still something to be a hunting man evenyet, though the multiplicity of railways and the existing plethora ofmoney has so increased the number of sportsmen, that to keep a nag ortwo near some well-known station, is nearly as common as to die. Butthe delight of these martyrs is at the highest in the presence of theirtailors; or, higher still, perhaps, in that of their bootmakers. Thehunting 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 hisassurances, more ready with his bit of chalk, when handling the knee ofthe man who doesn't like the work, than he ever is with the customer whocomes to him simply because he wants some clothes fit for the saddle. The judicious conciliating tradesman knows that compensation shouldbe given, and he helps to give it. But the visits to the bootmakerare better still. The tailor persists in telling his customer how hisbreeches should be made, and after what fashion they should be worn;but the bootmaker will take his orders meekly. If not ruffled by paltryobjections as to the fit of the foot, he will accede to any amount ofinstructions as to the legs and tops. And then a new pair of top bootsis a pretty toy; Costly, perhaps, if needed only as a toy, but verypretty, and more decorative in a gentleman's dressing-room thanany other kind of garment. And top boots, when multiplied in sucha locality, when seen in a phalanx tell such pleasant lies on theirowner's behalf. While your breeches are as dumb in their retirement asthough you had not paid for them, your conspicuous boots are eloquentwith a thousand tongues! There is pleasure found, no doubt, in this. 

As the season draws nigh the delights become vague, and still morevague; but, nevertheless, there are delights. Getting up at six o'clockin November to go down to Bletchley by an early train is not in itselfpleasant, but on the opening morning, on the few first opening mornings, there is a promise about the thing which invigorates and encourages theearly riser. He means to like it this year if he can. He has still someundefined notion that his period of pleasure will now come. He has not, as yet, accepted the adverse verdict which his own nature has givenagainst him in this matter of hunting, and he gets into his earlytub with acme glow of satisfaction. And afterwards it is nice to findhimself bright with mahogany tops, buff-tinted breeches, and a pinkcoat. The ordinary habiliments of an English gentleman are so sombrethat his own eye is gratified, and he feels that he has placed himselfin the vanguard of society by thus shining in his apparel. And he willride 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 tohis stature. He doesn't like it, and all around him in the field knowhow 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 comeupon him. He has to pay the price of those pleasant interviews withhis tradesmen. He has to expiate the false boasts made to his femalecousins. That row of boots cannot be made to shine in his chamber fornothing. The hounds have found, and the fox is away. Men are fasteningon their flat-topped hats and feeling themselves in their stirrups. Horses are hot for the run, and the moment for liking it has come, ifonly it were possible!

But at moments such as these something has to be done. The man whodoesn't like it, let him dislike it ever so much, Cannot check his horseand simply ride back to the hunting stables. He understands that were heto do that, he must throw up his cap at once and resign. Nor can he troteasily along the roads with the fat old country gentleman who is outon his rough cob, and who, looking up to the wind and remembering theposition of adjacent coverts, will give a good guess as to the directionin which the field will move. No; he must make an effort. The time ofhis penance has come, and the penance must be borne. There is a sparkof pluck about him, though unfortunately he has brought it to bear in awrong direction. The blood still runs at his heart, and he resolves thathe will ride, if only he could tell which way. 

The stout gentleman on the cob has taken the road to the left with a fewcompanions; but our friend knows that the stout gentleman has a littlegame 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 downa hill towards a brook with a ford. One or two, men whom he hates withan intensity of envy, have jumped the brook, and have settled to theirwork. 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 beforethem. That is the straightest riding, and with them he goes. Why hasthe scent lain so hot over the up-turned heavy ground? Why do they goso fast at this the very first blush of the morning? Fortune is alwaysagainst him, and the horse is pulling him through the mud as though thebrute meant to drag his arm out of the socket. At the first fence, ashe is steadying himself, a butcher passes him roughly in the jump andnearly takes away the side of his top boot. He is knocked half outof his saddle, and in that condition scrambles through. When he hasregained his equilibrium he sees the happy butcher going into the fieldbeyond. He means to curse the butcher when he catches him, but thebutcher is safe. A field and a half before him he still sees the tailhounds, and renews his effort. He has meant to like it to-day, and hewill. So he rides at the next fence boldly, where the butcher has lefthis mark, and does it pretty well, with a slight struggle. Why is itthat 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 soconstantly, unless it be that he cannot catch the butcher? Now he rushesat a gate which others have opened for him, but rushes too late andcatches his leg. Mad with pain, he nearly gives it up, but the sparkof pluck is still there, and with throbbing knee he perseveres. How hehates it! It is all detestable now. He cannot hold his horse because ofhis gloves, and he cannot get them off. The sympathetic beast knowsthat his master is unhappy, and makes himself unhappy and troublesome inconsequence. Our friend is still going, riding wildly, but still keepinga grain of caution for his fences. He has not been down yet, but hasbarely saved himself more than once. The ploughs are very deep, and hishorse, though still boring at him, pants heavily. Oh, that there mightcome a check, or that the brute of a fox might happily go to ground! Butno! The ruck of the hunt is far away from him in front, and the gameis running steadily straight for some well known though still distantprotection. But the man who doesn't like it still sees a red coat beforehim, and perseveres in chasing the wearer of it. The solitary red coatbecomes distant, and still more distant from him, but he goes on whilehe can yet keep the line in which that red coat has ridden. He musthurry himself, however, or he will be lost to humanity, and will bealone. He must hurry himself, but his horse now desires to hurry nomore. So he puts his spurs to the brute savagely, and then at somelittle fence, some ignoble ditch, they come down together in the mud, and the question of any further effort is saved for the rider. When hearises the red coat is out of sight, and his own horse is half acrossthe field before him. In such a position, is it possible that a manshould 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 hesays nothing of himself, his disgrace is at any rate hidden. Why shouldhe tell that he had been nearly an hour on foot trying to catch hishorse, that he had sat himself down on a bank and almost cried, and thathe had drained his flask to the last drop before one o'clock? No oneneed know the extent of his miseries. And no one does know how great isthe misery endured by those who hunt regularly, and who do not like it. 

THE MAN WHO HUNTS AND DOES LIKE IT. 

The man who hunts and does like it is an object of keen envy to the manwho hunts and doesn't; but he, too, has his own miseries, and I am notprepared to say that they are always less aggravating than those enduredby his less ambitious brother in the field. He, too, when he comes tomake up his account, when he brings his hunting to book and inquireswhether his whistle has been worth its price, is driven to declare thatvanity and vexation of spirit have been the prevailing characteristicsof his hunting life. On how many evenings has he returned contented withhis sport? How many days has he declared to have been utterly wasted?How often have frost and snow, drought and rain, wind and sunshine, impeded his plans? for to a hunting man frost, snow, drought, rain, windand sunshine, will all come amiss. Then, when the one run of the seasoncomes, he is not there! He has been idle and has taken a liberty withthe day; or he has followed other gods and gone with strange hounds. With sore ears and bitter heart he hears the exaggerated boastings ofhis comrades, and almost swears that he will have no more of it. At theend of the season he tells himself that the season's amusement has costhim five hundred pounds; that he has had one good day, three days thatwere not bad, and that all the rest have been vanity and vexation ofspirit. After all, it may be a question whether the man who hunts anddoesn't like it does not have the best of it. 

When we consider what is endured by the hunting man the wonder is thatany man should like it. In the old days of Squire Western, and in theold days too since the time of Squire Western, the old days of thirtyyears since, the hunting man had his hunting near to him. He was acountry gentleman who considered himself to be energetic if he went outtwice a week, and in doing this he rarely left his house earlier forthat purpose than he would leave it for others. At certain periods ofthe year he if ho went out twice a he rarely left his house than hewould leave it periods of the year he would, perhaps, be out beforedawn; but then the general habits of his life conduced to early rising;and his distances were short. If he kept a couple of horses for thepurpose he was well mounted, and these horses were available for otheruses. He rode out and home, jogging slowly along the roads, and was amartyr to no ambition. All that has been changed now. The man who huntsand likes it, either takes a small hurting seat away from the comfortsof his own home, or he locates himself miserably at an inn, or heundergoes the purgatory of daily journeys up and down from London, doingthat for his hunting which no consideration of money-making would inducehim to do for his business. His hunting requires from him everything, his time, his money, his social hours, his rest, his sweet morningsleep; nay, his very dinners have to be sacrificed to this Moloch!

Let us follow him on an ordinary day. His groom comes to his bed-chamberat seven o'clock, and tells him that it has frozen during the night. Ifhe be a London man, using the train for his hunting, he knows nothing ofthe frost, and does not learn whether the day be practicable or not tillhe finds himself down in the country. But we will suppose our friend tobe located in some hunting district, and accordingly his groomvisits him with tidings. "Is it freezing now?" he asks from under thebedclothes. And even the man who does like it at such moments almostwishes that the answer should be plainly in the affirmative. Thenswiftly again to the arms of Morpheus he might take himself, and rufflehis temper no further on that morning! He desires, at any rate, adecisive answer. To be or not to be as regards that day's hurting iswhat he now wants to know. But that is exactly what the groom cannottell him. "It's just a thin crust of frost, sir, and the s'mometer isa standing at the pint. " That is the answer which the man makes, andon that he has to come to a decision! For half an hour he lies doubtingwhile his water is getting cold, and then sends for his man again. Thethermometer is still standing at the point, but the man has tried thecrust with his heel and found it to be very thin. The man who huntsand likes it scorns his ease, and resolves that he will at any ratepersevere. He tumbles into his tub, and a little before nine comes outto his breakfast, still doubting sorely whether or no the day "will do. "There he, perhaps, meets one or two others like himself, and learns thatthe men who hunt and don't like it are still warm in their beds. On suchmornings as these, and such mornings are very many, the men who hunt anddo not like it certainly have the best of it. The man who hunts anddoes like it takes himself out to some kitchen-garden or neighbouringpaddock, and kicks at the ground himself. Certainly there is a crust, a very manifest crust. Though he puts up in the country, he has to gosixteen miles to the meet, and has no means of knowing whether or no thehounds will go out. "Jorrocks always goes if there's a chance, " says onefellow, speaking of the master. "I don't know, " says our friend; "he's adeal slower at it than he used to be. For my part, I wish Jorrocks wouldgo; he's getting too old. " Then he bolts a mutton chop and a couple ofeggs hurriedly, and submits himself to be carried off in the trap. 

Though he is half an hour late at the meet, no hounds have as yet come, and he begins to curse his luck. A non-hunting day, a day that turns outto be no day for hunting purposes, begun in this way, is of all days themost melancholy. What is a man to do with himself who has put himselfinto his boots and breeches, and who then finds himself, by one o'clock, landed back at his starting-point without employment? Who under suchcircumstances can apply himself to any salutary employment? Cigars andstable-talk are all that remain to him; and it is well for him if he canrefrain from the additional excitement of brandy and water. 

But on the present occasion we will not presume that our friend hasfallen into so deep a bathos of misfortune. At twelve o'clock Tomappears, with the hounds following slowly at his heels; and a dozen men, angry with impatience, fly at him with assurances that there has been nosign of frost since ten o'clock. "Ain't there?" says Tom; "you look atthe north sides of the banks, and see how you'd like it. " Some one makesan uncivil remark as to the north sides of the banks, and wants to knowwhen old Jorrocks is coming. "The squire 'll be here time enough, " saysTom. And then there takes place that slow walking up and down of thehounds, which on such mornings always continues for half an hour. Lethim who envies the condition of the man who hunts and likes it, rememberthat a cold thaw is going on, that our friend is already sulky withwaiting, that to ride up and down for an hour and a half at a walkingpace on such a morning is not an exhilarating pastime, and he willunderstand that the hunting man himself may have doubts as to the wisdomof his course of action. 

But at last Jorrocks is there, and the hounds trot off to cover. So dullhas been everything on this morning that even that is something, andmen begin to make themselves happier in the warmth of the movement. The hounds go into covert, and a period of excitement is commenced. Ourfriend who likes hunting remarks to his neighbour that the ground isrideable. His neighbour who doesn't like it quite so well says that hedoesn't know. They remain standing close together on a forest ride fortwenty minutes, but conversation doesn't go beyond that. The man whodoesn't like it has lit a cigar, but the man who does like it neverlights a cigar when hounds are drawing. 

And now the welcome music is heard, and a fox has been found. Mr. Jorrocks, gallopping along the ride with many oaths, implores thosearound him to hold their tongues and remain quiet. Why he should troublehimself to do this, as he knows that no one will obey his orders, it isdifficult to surmise. Or why men should stand still in the middle of alarge wood when they expect a fox to break, because Mr. Jorrocks swearsat them, is also not to be understood. Our friend pays no attention toMr. Jorrocks, but makes for the end of the ride, going with ears erect, and listening to the distant hounds as they turn upon the turning fox. As they turn, he returns; and, splashing through the mud of the nowsoftened ground, through narrow tracks, with the boughs in his face, listening always, now hoping, now despairing, speaking to no one, butfollowing and followed, he makes his way backwards and forwards throughthe wood, till at last, weary with wishing and working, he rests himselfin some open spot, and begins to eat his luncheon. It is now past two, and it would puzzle him to say what pleasure he has as yet had out ofhis day's amusement. 

But now, while the flask is yet at his mouth, he hears from some distantcorner a sound that tells him that the fox is away. He ought to havepersevered, and then he would have been near them. As it is, all thatlabour of riding has been in vain, and he has before him the double taskof finding the line of the hounds and of catching them when he has foundit. He has a crowd of men around him; but he knows enough of huntingto be aware that the men who are wrong at such moments are always morenumerous than they who are right. He has to choose for himself, andchooses quickly, dashing down a ride to the right, while a host ofthose who know that he is one of them who like it, follow closely athis heels, too closely, as he finds at the first fence out of the woods, when one of his young admirers almost jumps on the top of him. "Do youwant to get into my pocket, sir?" he says, angrily. The young admirer issnubbed, and, turning away, attempts to make a line for himself. 

But though he has been followed, he has great doubt as to his owncourse. To hesitate is to be lost, so he goes on, on rapidly, looking ashe clears every fence for the spot at which he is to clear the next; buthe is by no means certain of his course. Though he has admirers athis heels who credit him implicitly, his mind is racked by an agony ofignorance. He has got badly away, and the hounds are running well, andit is going to be a good thing; and he will not see it. He has notbeen in for anything good this year, and now this is his luck! His eyetravels round over the horizon as he is gallopping, and though he seesmen here and there, he can catch no sign of a hound; nor can he catchthe form of any man who would probably be with them. But he perseveres, choosing his points as he goes, till the tail of his followers becomesthinner and thinner. He comes out upon a road, and makes the pace asgood as he can along the soft edge of it. He sniffs at the wind, knowingthat the fox, going at such a pace as this, must run with it. He tellshimself from outward signs where he is, and uses his dead knowledge todirect him. He scorns to ask a question as he passes countrymen in hiscourse, but he would give five guineas to know exactly where the houndsare at that moment. He has been at it now forty minutes, and is indespair. His gallant nag rolls a little under him, and he knows that hehas been going too fast. And for what; for what? What good has it alldone him? What good will it do him, though he should kill the beast?He curses between his teeth, and everything is vanity and vexation ofspirit. 

"They've just run into him at Boxall Springs, Mr. Jones, " says a farmerwhom he passes on the road. Boxall Springs is only a quarter of a milebefore him, but he wonders how the farmer has come to know all about it. But on reaching Boxall Springs he finds that the farmer was right, andthat Tom is already breaking up the fox. "Very good thing, Mr. Jones, "says the squire in good humour. Our friend mutters something between histeeth and rides away in dudgeon from the triumphant master. On his roadhome he hears all about it from everybody. It seems to him that he aloneof all those who are anybody has missed the run, the run of the season!"And killed him in the open as you may say, " says Smith, who has alreadytwice boasted in Jones's hearing that he had seen every turn the houndshad made. "It wasn't in the open, " says Jones, reduced in his anger todiminish as far as may be the triumph of his rival. 

Such is the fate, the too frequent fate of the man who hunts and doeslike it. 

THE LADY WHO RIDES TO HOUNDS. 

Among those who hunt there are two classes of hunting people who alwayslike it, and these people are hunting parsons and hunting ladies. Thatit should be so is natural enough. In the life and habits of parsonsand ladies there is much that is antagonistic to hunting, and they whosuppress this antagonism do so because they are Nimrods at heart. But the riding of these horsemen under difficulties, horsemen andhorsewomen, leaves a strong impression on the casual observer ofhunting; for to such an one it seems that the hardest riding isforthcoming exactly where no hard riding should be expected. On thepresent occasion I will, if you please, confine myself to the lady whorides to hounds, and will begin with an assertion, which will notbe contradicted, that the number of such ladies is very much on theincrease. 

Women who ride, as a rule, ride better than men. They, the women, havealways been instructed; whereas men have usually come to ride withoutany instruction. They are put upon ponies when they are all boys, andput themselves upon their fathers' horses as they become hobbledehoys:and thus they obtain the power of sticking on to the animal whilehe gallops and jumps, and even while he kicks and shies; and, soprogressing, they achieve an amount of horsemanship which answersthe purposes of life. But they do not acquire the art of riding withexactness, as women do, and rarely have such hands as a woman has ona horse's mouth. The consequence of this is that women fall less oftenthan men, and the field is not often thrown into the horror which wouldarise were a lady known to be in a ditch with a horse lying on her. 

I own that I like to see three or four ladies out in a field, and I likeit the better if I am happy enough to count one or more of them amongmy own acquaintances. Their presence tends to take off from hunting thatcharacter of horseyness, of both fast horseyness and slow horseyness, which has become, not unnaturally, attached to it, and to bring itwithin the category of gentle sports. There used to prevail an idea thatthe hunting man was of necessity loud and rough, given to strong drinks, ill adapted for the poetries of life, and perhaps a little prone to makemoney out of his softer friend. It may now be said that this idea isgoing out of vogue, and that hunting men are supposed to have that samefeeling with regard to their horses, the same and no more, which ladieshave for their carriage or soldiers for their swords. Horses are valuedsimply for the services that they can render, and are only valued highlywhen they are known to be good servants. That a man may hunt withoutdrinking or swearing, and may possess a nag or two without anypropensity to sell it or them for double their value, is now beginningto be understood. The oftener that women are to be seen "out, " the morewill such improved feelings prevail as to hunting, and the pleasanterwill be the field to men who are not horsey, but who may nevertheless begood horsemen. 

There are two classes of women who ride to hounds, or, rather, amongmany possible classifications, there are two to which I will now callattention. There is the lady who rides, and demands assistance; andthere is the lady who rides, and demands none. Each always, I maysay always, receives all the assistance that she may require; but thedifference between the two, to the men who ride with them, is verygreat. It will, of course, be understood that, as to both these samplesof female Nimrods, I speak of ladies who really ride, not of those whograce the coverts with, and disappear under the auspices of, their papasor their grooms when the work begins. 

The lady who rides and demands assistance in truth becomes a nuisancebefore the run is over, let her beauty be ever so transcendent, herhorsemanship ever-so-perfect, and her battery of general feminineartillery ever so powerful. She is like the American woman, who isalways wanting your place in a railway carriage, and demanding it, too, without the slightest idea of paying you for it with thanks; whose studyit is to treat you as though she ignored your existence while she isappropriating your services. The hunting lady who demands assistance isvery particular about her gates, requiring that aid shall be given toher with instant speed, but that the man who gives it shall neverallow himself to be hurried as he renders it. And she soon becomesreproachful, oh, so soon! It is marvellous to watch the manner in whicha hunting lady will become exacting, troublesome, and at last imperious, deceived and spoilt by the attention which she receives. She teachesherself to think at last that a man is a brute who does not ride asthough he were riding as her servant, and that it becomes her to assumeindignation if every motion around her is not made with some referenceto her safety, to her comfort, or to her success. I have seen women lookas Furies look, and heard them speak as Furies are supposed to speak, because men before them could not bury themselves and their horses outof their way at a moment's notice, or because some pulling animal wouldstill assert himself while they were there, and not sink into submissionand dog-like obedience for their behoof. 

I have now before my eyes one who was pretty, brave, and a goodhorse-woman; but how men did hate her! When you were in a line with herthere was no shaking her off. Indeed, you were like enough to be shakenoff yourself, and to be rid of her after that fashion. But while youwere with her you never escaped her at a single fence, and always feltthat you were held to be trespassing against her in some manner. I shallnever forget her voice, "Pray, take care of that gate. " And yet it wasa pretty voice, and elsewhere she was not given to domineering more thanis common to pretty women in general; but she had been taught badly fromthe beginning, and she was a pest. It was the same at every gap. "MightI ask you not to come too near me?" And yet it was impossible to escapeher. Men could not ride wide of her, for she would not ride wide ofthem. She had always some male escort with her, who did not ride as sherode, and consequently, as she chose to have the advantage of an escort, of various escorts, she was always in the company of some who did notfeel as much joy in the presence of a pretty young woman as men shoulddo under all circumstances. "Might I ask you not to come too near me?"If she could only have heard the remarks to which this constant littlerequest of hers gave rise. She is now the mother of children, and herhunting days are gone, and probably she never makes that little request. Doubtless that look, made up partly of offence and partly of femaledignity, no longer clouds her brow. But I fancy that they who knew herof old in the hunting field never approach her now without fancying thatthey hear those reproachful words, and see that powerful look of injuredfeminine weakness. 

But there is the hunting lady who rides hard and never asks forassistance. Perhaps I may be allowed to explain to embryo Dianas, to thegrowing huntresses of the present age, that she who rides and makesno demand receives attention as close as is ever given to her moreimperious sister. And how welcome she is! What a grace she lends tothe day's sport! How pleasant it is to see her in her pride of place, achieving her mastery over the difficulties in her way by her own wit, as all men, and all women also, must really do who intend to ride tohounds; and doing it all without any sign that the difficulties are toogreat for her!

The lady who rides like this is in truth seldom in the way. I have heardmen declare that they would never wish to see a side-saddle in the fieldbecause women are troublesome, and because they must be treated withattention let the press of the moment be ever so instant. From this Idissent altogether. The small amount of courtesy that is needed is morethan atoned for by the grace of her presence, and in fact produces nomore impediment in the hunting-field than in other scenes of life. But in the hunting-field, as in other scenes, let assistance never bedemanded by a woman. If the lady finds that she cannot keep a place inthe first flight without such demands on the patience of those aroundher, let her acknowledge to herself that the attempt is not in her line, and that it should be abandoned. If it be the ambition of a hunting ladyto ride straight, and women have very much of this ambition, let her useher eyes but never her voice; and let her ever have a smile for thosewho help her in her little difficulties. Let her never ask any one "totake care of that gate, " or look as though she expected the profanecrowd to keep aloof from her. So shall she win the hearts of thosearound her, and go safely through brake and brier, over ditch and dyke, and meet with a score of knights around her who will be willing and ableto give her eager aid should the chance of any moment require it. 

There are two accusations which the more demure portion of the worldis apt to advance against hunting ladies, or, as I should better say, against hunting as an amusement for ladies. It leads to flirting, theysay, to flirting of a sort which mothers would not approve; and it leadsto fast habits, to ways and thoughts which are of the horse horsey, andof the stable, strongly tinged with the rack and manger. The first ofthese accusations is, I think, simply made in ignorance. As girls arebrought up among us now-a-days, they may all flirt, if they have a mindto do so; and opportunities for flirting are much better and much morecommodious in the ball-room, in the drawing-room, or in the park, thanthey are in the hunting-field. Nor is the work in hand of a nature tocreate flirting tendencies, as, it must be admitted, is the nature ofthe work in hand when the floors are waxed and the fiddles are going. And this error has sprung from, or forms part of, another, which iswonderfully common among non-hunting folk. It is very widely thoughtby many, who do not, as a rule, put themselves in opposition to theamusements of the world, that hunting in itself is a wicked thing; thathunting men are fast, given to unclean living and bad ways of life; thatthey usually go to bed drunk, and that they go about the world roaringhunting cries, and disturbing the peace of the innocent generally. With such men, who could wish that wife, sister, or daughter shouldassociate? But I venture to say that this opinion, which I believe to becommon, is erroneous, and that men who hunt are not more iniquitousthan men who go out fishing, or play dominoes, or dig in their gardens. Maxima debetur pueris reverentia, and still more to damsels; but if boysand girls will never go where they will hear more to injure them thanthey will usually do amidst the ordinary conversation of a huntingfield, the maxima reverentia will have been attained. 

As to that other charge, let it be at once admitted that the young ladywho has become of the horse horsey has made a fearful, almost a fatalmistake. And so also has the young man who falls into the same error. Ihardly know to which such phase of character may be most injurious. Itis a pernicious vice, that of succumbing to the beast that carries you, and making yourself, as it were, his servant, instead of keeping himever as yours. I will not deny that I have known a lady to fall intothis vice from hunting; but so also have I known ladies to marry theirmusic-masters and to fall in love with their footmen. But not on thataccount are we to have no music-masters and no footmen. 

Let the hunting lady, however, avoid any touch of this blemish, remembering that no man ever likes a woman to know as much about a horseas he thinks he knows himself. 

THE HUNTING FARMER. 

Few hunting men calculate how much they owe to the hunting farmer, orrecognize the fact that hunting farmers contribute more than any otherclass of sportsmen towards the maintenance of the sport. It is hardlytoo much to say that hunting would be impossible if farmers did nothunt. If they were inimical to hunting, and men so closely concernedmust be friends or enemies, there would be no foxes left alive; andno fox, if alive, could be kept above ground. Fences would beimpracticable, and damages would be ruinous; and any attempt to maintainthe institution of hunting would be a long warfare in which the opposingfarmer would certainly be the ultimate conqueror. What right has thehunting man who goes down from London, or across from Manchester, toride over the ground which he treats as if it were his own, and to whichhe thinks that free access is his undoubted privilege? Few men, Ifancy, reflect that they have no such right, and no such privilege, orrecollect that the very scene and area of their exercise, the land thatmakes hunting possible to them, is contributed by the farmer. Let anyone remember with what tenacity the exclusive right of entering upontheir small territories is clutched and maintained by all cultivators inother countries; let him remember the enclosures of France, the vine andolive terraces of Tuscany, or the narrowly-watched fields of Lombardy;the little meadows of Switzerland on which no stranger's foot is allowedto come, or the Dutch pastures, divided by dykes, and made safe from allintrusions. Let him talk to the American farmer of English hunting, andexplain to that independent, but somewhat prosaic husbandman, that inEngland two or three hundred men claim the right of access to everyman's land during the whole period of the winter months! Then, when hethinks of this, will he realize to himself what it is that the Englishfarmer contributes to hunting in England? The French countryman cannotbe made to understand it. You cannot induce him to believe that ifhe held land in England, looking to make his rent from tender younggrass-fields and patches of sprouting corn, he would be powerless tokeep out intruders, if those intruders came in the shape of a rushingsquadron of cavalry, and called themselves a hunt. To him, in accordancewith his existing ideas, rural life under such circumstances would beimpossible. A small pan of charcoal, and an honourable death-bed, wouldgive him relief after his first experience of such an invasion. 

Nor would the English farmer put up with the invasion, if the Englishfarmer were not himself a hunting man. Many farmers, doubtless, do nothunt, and they bear it, with more or less grace; but they are inured toit from their infancy, because it is in accordance with the habits andpleasures of their own race. Now and again, in every hunt, some mancomes up, who is, indeed, more frequently a small proprietor new to theglories of ownership, than a tenant farmer, who determines to vindicatehis rights and oppose the field. He puts up a wire-fence round hisdomain, thus fortifying himself, as it were, in his citadel, and defiesthe world around him. It is wonderful how great is the annoyance whichone such man may give, and how thoroughly he may destroy the comfort ofthe coverts in his neighbourhood. But, strong as such an one is in hisfortress, there are still the means of fighting him. The farmers aroundhim, if they be hunting men, make the place too hot to hold him. To themhe is a thing accursed, a man to be spoken of with all evil language, as one who desires to get more out of his land than Providence, that is, than an English Providence, has intended. Their own wheat is exposed, and it is abominable to them that the wheat of another man should bemore sacred than theirs. 

All this is not sufficiently remembered by some of us when the periodof the year comes which is trying to the farmer's heart, when the youngclover is growing, and the barley has been just sown. Farmers, asa rule, do not think very much of their wheat. When such riding ispracticable, of course they like to see men take the headlands andfurrows; but their hearts are not broken by the tracks of horses acrosstheir wheat-fields. I doubt, indeed, whether wheat is ever much injuredby such usage. But let the thoughtful rider avoid the new-sown barley;and, above all things, let him give a wide berth to the new-laid meadowsof artificial grasses. They are never large, and may always be shunned. To them the poaching of numerous horses is absolute destruction. Thesurface of such enclosures should be as smooth as a billiard-table, sothat no water may lie in holes; and, moreover, any young plant cut by ahorse's foot is trodden out of existence. Farmers do see even this done, and live through it without open warfare; but they should not be put tosuch trials of temper or pocket too often. 

And now for my friend the hunting farmer in person, the sportsman whom Ialways regard as the most indispensable adjunct to the field, to whom Itender my spare cigar with the most perfect expression of my good will. His dress is nearly always the same. He wears a thick black coat, darkbrown breeches, and top boots, very white in colour, or of a very darkmahogany, according to his taste. The hunting farmer of the old schoolgenerally rides in a chimney-pot hat; but, in this particular, theyounger brethren of the plough are leaving their old habits, and runninginto caps, net hats, and other innovations which, I own, are somewhatdistasteful to me. And there is, too, the ostentatious farmer, who ridesin scarlet, signifying thereby that he subscribes his ten or fifteenguineas to the hunt fund. But here, in this paper, it is not of him Ispeak. He is a man who is so much less the farmer, in that he is themore an ordinary man of the ordinary world. The farmer whom we have nowbefore us shall wear the old black coat, and the old black hat, and thewhite top boots, rather daubed in their whiteness; and he shall be thegenuine farmer of the old school. 

My friend is generally a modest man in the field, seldom much given totalking unless he be first addressed; and then he prefers that you shalltake upon yourself the chief burden of the conversation. But on certainhunting subjects he has his opinion, indeed, a very strong opinion, andif you can drive him from that, your eloquence must be very great. He isvery urgent about special coverts, and even as to special foxes; andyou will often find smouldering in his bosom, if you dive deep enough tosearch for it, a half-smothered fire of indignation against the masterbecause the country has, according to our friend's views, been drawnamiss. In such matters the farmer is generally right; but he is slow tocommunicate his ideas, and does not recognize the fact that other menhave not the same opportunities for observation which belong to him. Amaster, however, who understands his business will generally consult afarmer; and he will seldom, I think, or perhaps never, consult any oneelse. 

Always shake hands with your friend the farmer. It puts him at his easewith you, and he will tell you more willingly after that ceremony whatare his ideas about the wind, and what may be expected of the day. His day's hunting is to him a solemn thing, and he gives to it all hisserious thought. If any man can predicate anything of the run of a fox, it is the farmer. 

I had almost said that if any one knew anything of scent, it is thefarmer; but of scent I believe that not even the farmer knows anything. But he knows very much as to the lie of the country, and should mygentle reader by chance have taken a glass or two of wine above ordinaryover night, the effect of which will possibly be a temporary distasteto straight riding, no one's knowledge as to the line of the lanes is soserviceable as that of the farmer. 

As to riding, there is the ambitious farmer and the unambitious farmer;the farmer who rides hard, that is, ostensibly hard, and the farmer whois simply content to know where the hounds are, and to follow them ata distance which shall maintain him in that knowledge. The ambitiousfarmer is not the hunting farmer in his normal condition; he is eitherone who has an eye to selling his horse, and, riding with that view, loses for the time his position as farmer; or he is some exceptionaltiller of the soil who probably is dangerously addicted to hunting asanother man is addicted to drinking; and you may surmise respecting himthat things will not go well with him after a year or two. The friendof my heart is the farmer who rides, but rides without sputtering; whonever makes a show of it, but still is always there; who feels it to beno disgrace to avoid a run of fences when his knowledge tells him thatthis may be done without danger of his losing his place. Such an onealways sees a run to the end. Let the pace have been what it may, he isup in time to see the crowd of hounds hustling for their prey, and totake part in the buzz of satisfaction which the prosperity of the runhas occasioned. But the farmer never kills his horse, and seldom rideshim even to distress. He is not to be seen loosing his girths, orlooking at the beast's flanks, or examining his legs to ascertain whatmischances may have occurred. He takes it all easily, as men always takematters of business in which they are quite at home. At the end of therun he sits mounted as quietly as he did at the meet, and has noneof that appearance of having done something wonderful, which on suchoccasions is so very strong in the faces of the younger portion of thepink brigade. To the farmer his day's hunting is very pleasant, and byhabit is even very necessary; but it comes in its turn like market-day, and produces no extraordinary excitement. He does not rejoice over anhour and ten minutes with a kill in the open, as he rejoices when hehas returned to Parliament the candidate who is pledged to repeal of themalt-tax; for the farmer of whom we are speaking now, though he rideswith constancy, does not ride with enthusiasm. 

O fortunati sua si bona norint farmers of England! Who in the town isthe farmer's equal? What is the position which his brother, his uncle, his cousin holds? He is a shopkeeper, who never has a holiday, and doesnot know what to do with it when it comes to him; to whom the fresh airof heaven is a stranger; who lives among sugars and oils, and the dustof shoddy, and the size of new clothing. Should such an one take tohunting once a week, even after years of toil, men would point theirfingers at him and whisper among themselves that he was as good asruined. His friends would tell him of his wife and children; and, indeed, would tell him truly, for his customers would fly from him. But nobody grudges the farmer his day's sport! No one thinks that he iscruel to his children and unjust to his wife because he keeps a nag forhis amusement, and can find a couple of days in the week to go among hisfriends. And with what advantages he does this! A farmer will do as muchwith one horse, will see as much hunting, as an outside member ofthe hunt will do with four, and, indeed, often more. He is his ownhead-groom, and has no scruple about bringing his horse out twice aweek. He asks no livery-stable keeper what his beast can do, but triesthe powers of the animal himself, and keeps in his breast a correctrecord. When the man from London, having taken all he can out of hisfirst horse, has ridden his second to a stand-still, the farmer trots upon his stout, compact cob, without a sign of distress. He knows that thecondition of a hunter and a greyhound should not be the same, and thathis horse, to be in good working health, should carry nearly all thehard flesh that he can put upon him. How such an one must laugh in hissleeve at the five hunters of the young swell who, after all, is broughtto grief in the middle of the season, because he has got nothing toride! A farmer's horse is never lame, never unfit to go, never throwsout curbs, never breaks down before or behind. Like his master, he isnever showy. He does not paw, and prance, and arch his neck, and bid theworld admire his beauties; but, like his master, he is useful; and whenhe is wanted, he can always do his work. 

O fortunatus nimium agricola, who has one horse, and that a good one, inthe middle of a hunting country!

THE MAN WHO HUNTS AND NEVER JUMPS. 

The British public who do not hunt believe too much in the jumping ofthose who do. It is thought by many among the laity that the huntingman is always in the air, making clear flights over five-barred gates, six-foot walls, and double posts and rails, at none of which would theaverage hunting man any more think of riding than he would at a smallhouse. We used to hear much of the Galway Blazers, and it was supposedthat in County Galway a stiff-built wall six feet high was the sort ofthing that you customarily met from field to field when hunting in thatcomfortable county. Such little impediments were the ordinary food of areal Blazer, who was supposed to add another foot of stonework and a sodof turf when desirous of making himself conspicuous in his moments ofsplendid ambition. Twenty years ago I rode in Galway now and then, andI found the six-foot walls all shorn of their glory, and that men whosenecks were of any value were very anxious to have some preliminaryknowledge of the nature of the fabric, whether for instance it mightbe solid or built of loose stones, before they trusted themselves toan encounter with a wall of four feet and a half. And here, in England, history, that nursing mother of fiction, has given hunting men honourswhich they here never fairly earned. The traditional five-barred gateis, as a rule, used by hunting men as it was intended to be used by theworld at large; that is to say, they open it; and the double posts andrails which look so very pretty in the sporting pictures, are thought tobe very ugly things whenever an idea of riding at them presents itself. It is well that mothers should know, mothers full of fear for their boyswho are beginning, that the necessary jumping of the hunting field isnot after all of so very tremendous a nature; and it may be well also toexplain to them and to others that many men hunt with great satisfactionto themselves who never by any chance commit themselves to the peril ofa jump, either big or little. 

And there is much excellent good sense in the mode of riding adopted bysuch gentlemen. Some men ride for hunting, some for jumping, and somefor exercise; some, no doubt, for all three of these things. Given aman with a desire for the latter, no taste for the second, and somepartiality for the first, and he cannot do better than ride in themanner I am describing. He may be sure that he will not find himselfalone; and he may be sure also that he will incur none of that ridiculewhich the non-hunting man is disposed to think must be attached to sucha pursuit. But the man who hunts and never jumps, who deliberately makesup his mind that he will amuse himself after that fashion, must alwaysremember his resolve, and be true to the conduct which he has laid downfor himself. He must jump not at all. He must not jump a little, whensome spurt or spirit may move him, or he will infallibly find himself introuble. There was an old Duke of Beaufort who was a keen and practicalsportsman, a master of hounds, and a known Nimrod on the face of theearth; but he was a man who hunted and never jumped. His experience wasperfect, and he was always true to his resolution. Nothing ever temptedhim to cross the smallest fence. He used to say of a neighbour of his, who was not so constant, "Jones is an ass. Look at him now. There he is, and he can't get out. Jones doesn't like jumping, but he jumps a little, and I see him pounded every day. I never jump at all, and I'm alwaysfree to go where I like. " The Duke was certainly right, and Jones wascertainly wrong. To get into a field, and then to have no way of gettingout of it, is very uncomfortable. As long as you are on the road youhave a way open before you to every spot on the world's surface, open, or capable of being opened; or even if incapable of being opened, notpositively detrimental to you as long as you are on the right side. Butthat feeling of a prison under the open air is very terrible, and isrendered almost agonizing by the prisoner's consciousness that hisposition is the result of his own imprudent temerity, of an audacitywhich falls short of any efficacious purpose. When hounds are running, the hunting man should always, at any rate, be able to ride on, to ridein some direction, even though it be in a wrong direction. He can thenflatter himself that he is riding wide and making a line for himself. But to be entrapped into a field without any power of getting out of it;to see the red backs of the forward men becoming smaller and smaller inthe distance, till the last speck disappears over some hedge; to see thefence before you and know that it is too much for you; to ride round andround in an agony of despair which is by no means mute, and at last togive sixpence to some boy to conduct you back into the road; that iswretched: that is real unhappiness. I am, therefore, very persistent inmy advice to the man who purposes to hunt without jumping. Let him notjump at all. To jump, but only to jump a little, is fatal. Let him thinkof Jones. 

The man who hunts and doesn't jump, presuming him not to be a duke orany man greatly established as a Nimrod in the hunting world, generallycomes out in a black coat and a hat, so that he may not be speciallyconspicuous in his deviations from the line of the running. He began hishunting probably in search of exercise, but has gradually come to add apeculiar amusement to that pursuit; and of a certain phase of hunting heat last learns more than most of those who ride closest to the hounds. He becomes wonderfully skillful in surmising the line which a fox mayprobably take, and in keeping himself upon roads parallel to the ruckof the horsemen. He is studious of the wind, and knows to a point ofthe compass whence it is blowing. He is intimately conversant with everycovert in the country; and, beyond this, is acquainted with every earthin which foxes have had their nurseries, or are likely to locate them. He remembers the drains on the different farms in which the huntedanimal may possible take refuge, and has a memory even for rabbit-holes. His eye becomes accustomed to distinguish the form of a moving horsemanover half-a-dozen fields; and let him see but a cap of any leading man, and he will know which way to turn himself. His knowledge of the countryis correct to a marvel. While the man who rides straight is altogetherignorant of his whereabouts, and will not even distinguish the woodsthrough which he has ridden scores of times, the man who rides and neverjumps always knows where he is with the utmost accuracy. Where parish isdivided from parish and farm from farm, has been a study to him; and hehas learned the purpose and bearing of every lane. He is never thrownout, and knows the nearest way from every point to point. If there be aline of gates across from one road to another he will use them, but hewill commit himself to a line of gates on the land of no farmer who usespadlocks. 

As he trots along the road, occasionally breaking into a gallop when heperceives from some sign known to him that the hunt is turning from him, he is generally accompanied by two or three unfortunates who have losttheir way and have straggled from the hounds; and to them he is aguide, philosopher, and friend. He is good-natured for the moment, andpatronizes the lost ones. He informs them that they are at last in theright way, and consoles them by assurances that they have lost nothing. 

"The fox broke, you know, from the sharp corner of Granby-wood, " hesays; "the only spot that the crowd had left for him. I saw him comeout, standing on the bridge in the road. Then he ran up-wind as faras Green's barn. " "Of course he did, " says one of the unfortunateswho thinks he remembers something of a barn in the early part of theperformance. "I was with the three or four first as far as that. " "Therewere twenty men before the hounds there, " says our man of the road, whois not without a grain of sarcasm, and can use it when he is strongon his own ground. "Well, he turned there, and ran back very near thecorner; but he was headed by a sheep-dog, luckily, and went to the leftacross the brook. " "Ah, that's where I lost them, " says one unfortunate. "I was with them miles beyond that, " says another. "There were five orsix men rode the brook, " continues our philosopher, who names the fouror five, not mentioning the unfortunate who had spoken last as havingbeen among the number. "Well; then he went across by Ashby Grange, and tried the drain at the back of the farmyard, but Bootle had had itstopped. A fox got in there one day last March, and Bootle always stopsit since that. So he had to go on, and he crossed the turnpike closeby Ashby Church. I saw him cross, and the hounds were then full fiveminutes behind him. He went through Frolic Wood, but he didn't hang aminute, and right up the pastures to Morley Hall. " "That's where I wasthrown out, " says the unfortunate who had boasted before, and who isstill disposed to boast a little. But our philosopher assures him thathe has not in truth been near Morley Hall; and when the unfortunate onemakes an attempt to argue, puts him down thoroughly. "All I can say is, you couldn't have been there and be here too at this moment. Morley Hallis a mile and a half to our right, and now they're coming round to theLinney. He'll go into the little wood there, and as there isn't as muchas a nutshell open for him, they'll kill him there. It'll have been atidy little thing, but not very fast. I've hardly been out of a trotyet, but we may as well move on now. " Then he breaks into an easy canterby the side of the road, while the unfortunates, who have been rollingamong the heavy-ploughed ground in the early part of the day, make vainefforts to ride by his side. They keep him, however, in sight, and arecomforted; for he is a man with a character, and knows what he is about. He will never be utterly lost, and as long as they can remain in hiscompany they will not be subjected to that dreadful feeling of absolutefailure which comes upon an inexperienced sportsman when he findshimself quite alone, and does not know which way to turn himself. 

A man will not learn to ride after this fashion in a day, nor yet ina year. Of all fashions of hunting it requires, perhaps, the mostpatience, the keenest observation, the strongest memory, and thegreatest efforts of intellect. But the power, when achieved, has itstriumph; it has its respect, and it has its admirers. Our friend, whilehe was guiding the unfortunates on the road, knew his position, and rodefor a while as though he were a chief of men. He was the chief of menthere. He was doing what he knew how to do, and was not failing. He hadmade no boasts which stern facts would afterwards disprove. And whenhe rode up slowly to the wood-side, having from a distance heard thehuntsman's whoop that told him of the fox's fate, he found that he hadbeen right in every particular. No one at that moment knows the linethey have all ridden as well as he knows it. But now, among the crowd, when men are turning their horses' heads to the wind, and loud questionsare being asked, and false answers are being given, and the ambitiousmen are congratulating themselves on their deeds, he sits by listeningin sardonic silence. "Twelve miles of ground !" he says to himself, repeating the words of some valiant youngster; "if it's eight, I'll eatit. " And then when he hears, for he is all ear as well as all eye, whenhe hears a slight boast from one of his late unfortunate companions, afirst small blast of the trumpet which will become loud anon if it benot checked, he smiles inwardly, and moralizes on the weakness of humannature. But the man who never jumps is not usually of a benevolentnature, and it is almost certain that he will make up a little storyagainst the boaster. 

Such is the amusement of the man who rides and never jumps. Attached toevery hunt there will be always one or two such men. Their evidence isgenerally reliable; their knowledge of the country is not to be doubted;they seldom come to any severe trouble; and have usually made forthemselves a very wide circle of hunting acquaintances by whom theyare quietly respected. But I think that men regard them as they do thechaplain on board a man-of-war, or as they would regard a herald ona field of battle. When men are assembled for fighting, the man whonotoriously does not fight must feel himself to be somewhat lower thanhis brethren around him, and must be so esteemed by others. 

THE HUNTING PARSON. 

I feel some difficulty in dealing with the character I am now aboutto describe. The world at large is very prone to condemn the huntingparson, regarding him as a man who is false to his profession; and, formyself, I am not prepared to say that the world is wrong. Had my pastorsand masters, my father and mother, together with the other outwardcircumstances of my early life, made a clergyman of me, I think that Ishould not have hunted, or at least, I hope that I might have abstained;and yet, for the life of me, I cannot see the reason against it, or tellany man why a clergyman should not ride to hounds. In discussing thesubject, and I often do discuss it, the argument against the practicewhich is finally adopted, the argument which is intended to beconclusive, simply amounts to this, that a parish clergyman who doeshis duty cannot find the time. But that argument might be used with muchmore truth against other men of business, against those to whose huntingthe world takes no exception. Indeed, of all men, the ordinary parishclergyman, is, perhaps, the least liable to such censure. He lives inthe country, and can hunt cheaper and with less sacrifice of time thanother men. His professional occupation does not absorb all his hours, and he is too often an idle man, whether he hunt or whether he do not. Nor is it desirable that any man should work always and never play. Ithink it is certainly the fact that a clergyman may hunt twice a weekwith less objection in regard to his time than any other man who hasto earn his bread by his profession. Indeed, this is so manifestly thecase, that I am sure that the argument in question, though it is the onewhich is always intended to be conclusive, does not in the least conveythe objection which is really felt. The truth is, that a large and mostrespectable section of the world still regards hunting as wicked. It issupposed to be like the Cider Cellars or the Haymarket at twelve o'clockat night. The old ladies know that the young men go to these wickedplaces, and hope that no great harm is done; but it would be dreadfulto think that clergymen should so degrade themselves. Now I wish I couldmake the old ladies understand that hunting is not wicked. 

But although that expressed plea as to the want of time really amountsto nothing, and although the unexpressed feeling of old ladies as to thewickedness of hunting does not in truth amount to much, I will notsay that there is no other impediment in the way of a hunting parson. Indeed, there have come up of late years so many impediments in the wayof any amusement on the part of clergymen, that we must almost presumethem to be divested at their consecration of all human attributes excepthunger and thirst. In my younger days, and I am not as yet very old, an elderly clergyman might play his rubber of whist whilst his youngerreverend brother was dancing a quadrille; and they might do this withoutany risk of a rebuke from a bishop, or any probability that theirneighbours would look askance at them. Such recreations are nowunclerical in the highest degree, or if not in the highest, they areonly one degree less so than hunting. The theatre was especially arespectable clerical resource, and we may still occasionally seeheads of colleges in the stalls, or perhaps a dean, or some rector, unambitious of further promotion. But should a young curate show himselfin the pit, he would be but a lost sheep of the house of Israel. Andlatterly there went forth, at any rate in one diocese, a firman againstcricket! Novels, too, are forbidden; though the fact that they may beenjoyed in solitude saves the clergy from absolute ignorance as to thatbranch of our national literature. All this is hard upon men who, letthem struggle as they may to love the asceticisms of a religious life, are only men; and it has a strong tendency to keep out of the Churchthat very class, the younger sons of country gentlemen, whom allChurchmen should wish to see enter it. Young men who think of the matterwhen the time for taking orders is coming near, do not feel themselvesqualified to rival St. Paul in their lives; and they who have notthought of it find themselves to be cruelly used when they are expectedto make the attempt. 

But of all the amusements which a layman may follow and a clergyman maynot, hunting is thought to be by much the worst. There is a savour ofwickedness about it in the eyes of the old ladies which almost takes itout of their list of innocent amusements even for laymen. By the termold ladies it will be understood, perhaps, that I do not allude simplyto matrons and spinsters who may be over the age of sixty, but to thatmost respectable portion of the world which has taught itself to abhorthe pomps and vanities. Pomps and vanities are undoubtedly bad, andshould be abhorred; but it behooves those who thus take upon themselvesthe duties of censors to be sure that the practices abhorred are intruth real pomps and actual vanities, not pomps and vanities of theimagination. Now as to hunting, I maintain that it is of itself themost innocent amusement going, and that it has none of that Cider-Cellarflavour with which the old ladies think that it is so savoury. Huntingis done by a crowd; but men who meet together to do wicked things meetin small parties. Men cannot gamble in the hunting-field, and drinkingthere is more difficult than in almost any other scene of life. Anonyma, as we were told the other day, may show herself; but if so, she ridesalone. The young man must be a brazen sinner, too far gone for huntingto hurt him, who will ride with Anonyma in the field. I know no vicewhich hunting either produces or renders probable, except the vice ofextravagance; and to that, if a man be that way given, every pursuit inlife will equally lead him A seat for a Metropolitan borough, or a loveof ortolans, or a taste even for new boots will ruin a man who putshimself in the way of ruin. The same may be said of hunting, the sameand no more. 

But not the less is the general feeling very strong against the huntingparson; and not the less will it remain so in spite of anything that Imay say. Under these circumstances our friend the hunting parson usuallyrides as though he were more or less under a cloud. The cloud is notto be seen in a melancholy brow or a shamed demeanour; for the huntingparson will have lived down those feelings, and is generally tooforcible a man to allow himself to be subjected to such annoyances; noris the cloud to be found in any gentle tardiness of his motions, or anattempt at suppressed riding; for the hunting parson generally rideshard. Unless he loved hunting much he would not be there. But the cloudis to be perceived and heard in the manner in which he speaks of himselfand his own doings. He is never natural in his self-talk as is anyother man. He either flies at his own cloth at once, marring some falseapology for his presence, telling you that he is there just to see thehounds, and hinting to you his own know ledge that he has no business toride after them; or else he drops his profession altogether, and speaksto you in a tone which makes you feel that you would not dare to speakto him about his parish. You can talk to the banker about his banking, the brewer about his brewing, the farmer about his barley, or thelandlord about his land; but to a hunting parson of this latter class, you may not say a word about his church. 

There are three modes in which a hunting parson may dress himself forhunting, the variations having reference solely to the nether man. Asregards the upper man there can never be a difference. A chimney-pothat, a white neckerchief, somewhat broad in its folds and strong withplentiful starch, a stout black coat, cut rather shorter than is commonwith clergymen, and a modest, darksome waistcoat that shall attract noattention, these are all matters of course. But the observer, if he willallow his eye to descend below these upper garments, will perceive thatthe clergyman may be comfortable and bold in breeches, or he may beuncomfortable and semi-decorous in black trowsers. And there is anothermode of dress open to him, which I can assure my readers is not anunknown costume, a tertium quid, by which semi-decorum and comfort arecombined. The hunting breeches are put on first, and the black trowsersare drawn over them. 

But in whatever garb the hunting parson may ride, he almost invariablyrides well, and always enjoys the sport. If he did not, what would tempthim to run counter, as he does, to his bishop and the old ladies? Andthough, when the hounds are first dashing out of covert, and whenthe sputtering is beginning and the eager impetuosity of the young isdriving men three at a time into the same gap, when that wild excitementof a fox just away is at its height, and ordinary sportsmen are rushingfor places, though at these moments the hunting parson may be able torestrain himself, and to declare by his momentary tranquillity thathe is only there to see the hounds, he will ever be found, seeingthe hounds also, when many of that eager crowd have lagged behind, altogether out of sight of the last tail of them. He will drop into therunning, as it were out of the clouds, when the select few have settleddown steadily to their steady work; and the select few will never lookupon him as one who, after that, is likely to fall out of their number. He goes on certainly to the kill, and then retires a little out ofthe circle, as though he had trotted in at that spot from his ordinaryparochial occupations, just to see the hounds. 

For myself I own that I like the hunting parson. I generally find himto be about the pleasantest man in the field, with the most to say forhimself, whether the talk be of hunting, of politics, of literature, orof the country. He is never a hunting man unalloyed, unadulterated, andunmixed, a class of man which is perhaps of all classes the most tediousand heavy in hand. The tallow-chandler who can talk only of candles, or the barrister who can talk only of his briefs, is very bad; but thehunting man who can talk only of his runs, is, I think, worse even thanthe unadulterated tallow-chandler, or the barrister unmixed. Let mepause for a moment here to beg young sportsmen not to fall into thisterrible mistake. Such bores in the field are, alas, too common; but thehunting parson never sins after that fashion. Though a keen sportsman, he is something else besides a sportsman, and for that reason, if for noother, is always a welcome addition to the crowd. 

But still I must confess at the end of this paper, as I hinted alsoat the beginning of it, that the hunting parson seems to have made amistake. He is kicking against the pricks, and running counter to thatsection of the world which should be his section. He is makinghimself to stink in the nostrils of his bishop, and is becoming astumbling-block, and a rock of offence to his brethren. It is bootlessfor him to argue, as I have here argued, that his amusement is in itselfinnocent, and that some open-air recreation is necessary to him. Granthim that the bishops and old ladies are wrong and that he is right inprinciple, and still he will not be justified. Whatever may be our walkin life, no man can walk well who does not walk with the esteem of hisfellows. Now those little walks by the covert sides, those pleasantlittle walks of which I am writing, are not, unfortunately, held to beestimable, or good for themselves, by English clergymen in general. 

THE MASTER OF HOUNDS. 

The master of hounds best known by modern description is the master ofthe Jorrocks type. Now, as I take it, this is not the type best knownby English sportsmen, nor do the Jorrocks ana, good though they be, giveany fair picture of such a master of hounds as ordinarily presides overthe hunt in English counties. Mr. Jorrocks comes into a hunt when noone else can be found to undertake the work; when, in want of any onebetter, the subscribers hire his services as those of an upperservant; when, in fact, the hunt is at a low ebb, and is struggling forexistence. Mr. Jorrocks with his carpet-bag then makes his appearance, driving the hardest bargain that he can, purposing to do the countryat the lowest possible figure, followed by a short train of mostundesirable nags, with reference to which the wonder is that Mr. Jorrocks should be able to induce any hunting servant to trust his neckto their custody. Mr. Jorrocks knows his work, and is generally a mostlaborious man. Hunting is his profession, but it is one by which he canbarely exist. He hopes to sell a horse or two during the season, and inthis way adds something of the trade of a dealer to his other trade. Buthis office is thankless, ill-paid, closely watched, and subject to allmanner of indignities. Men suspect him, and the best of those who ridewith him will hardly treat him as their equal. He is accepted as adisagreeable necessity, and is dismissed as soon as the country can dobetter for itself. Any hunt that has subjected itself to Mr. Jorrocksknows that it is in disgrace, and will pass its itinerant master on tosome other district as soon as it can suit itself with a proper masterof the good old English sort. 

It is of such a master as this, a master of the good old English sort, and not of an itinerant contractor for hunting, that I here intend tospeak. Such a master is usually an old resident in the county which hehunts; one of those country noblemen or gentlemen whose parks are theglory of our English landscape, and whose names are to be found in thepages of our county records; or if not that, he is one who, with a viewto hunting, has brought his family and fortune into a new district, andhas found a ready place as a country gentleman among new neighbours. Ithas been said that no one should become a member of Parliament unlesshe be a man of fortune. I hold such a rule to be much more true withreference to a master of hounds. For his own sake this should be so, andmuch more so for the sake of those over whom he has to preside. It isa position in which no man can be popular without wealth, and it is aposition which no man should seek to fill unless he be prepared to spendhis money for the gratification of others. It has been said of mastersof hounds that they must always have their hands in their pockets, andmust always have a guinea to find there; and nothing can be truer thanthis if successful hunting is to be expected. Men have hunted countries, doubtless, on economical principles, and the sport has been carried onfrom year to year; but under such circumstances it is ever dwindling andbecoming frightfully less. The foxes disappear, and when found almostinstantly sink below ground. Distant coverts, which are ever the bestbecause less frequently drawn, are deserted, for distance of course addsgreatly to expense. The farmers round the centre of the county becomesullen, and those beyond are indifferent; and so, from bad to worse, the famine goes on till the hunt has perished of atrophy. Grease to thewheels, plentiful grease to the wheels, is needed in all machinery; butI know of no machinery in which everrunning grease is so necessary as inthe machinery of hunting. 

Of such masters as I am now describing there are two sorts, of which, however, the one is going rapidly and, I think, happily out of fashion. There is the master of hounds who takes a subscription, and the masterwho takes none. Of the latter class of sportsman, of the imperial headof a country who looks upon the coverts of all his neighbours as beingalmost his own property, there are, I believe, but few left. Nor is suchimperialism fitted for the present age. In the days of old of which weread so often, the days of Squire Western, when fox-hunting was stillyoung among us, this was the fashion in which all hunts were maintained. Any country gentleman who liked the sport kept a small pack of hounds, and rode over his own lands or the lands of such of his neighbours ashad no similar establishments of their own. We never hear of SquireWestern that he hunted the county, or that he went far afield to hismeets. His tenants joined him, and by degrees men came to his hunt fromgreater distances around him. As the necessity for space increased, increasing from increase of hunting ambition, the richer and moreambitious squires began to undertake the management of wider areas, andso our hunting districts were formed. But with such extension of areathere came, of course, necessity of extended expenditure, and so thefashion of subscription lists arose. There have remained some few greatNimrods who have chosen to be magnanimous and to pay for everything, despising the contributions of their followers. Such a one was the lateEarl Fitzhardinge, and after such manner in, as I believe, the Berkeleyhunt still conducted. But it need hardly be explained, that ashunting is now conducted in England, such a system is neither fair norpalatable. It is not fair that so great a cost for the amusement ofother men should fall upon any one man's pocket; nor is it palatableto others that such unlimited power should be placed in any oneman's hands. The ordinary master of subscription hounds is no doubtautocratic, but he is not autocratic with all the power of tyranny whichbelongs to the despot who rules without taxation. I doubt whether anymaster of a subscription pack would advertise his meets for eleven, withan understanding that the hounds were never to move till twelve, whenhe intended to be present in person. Such was the case with LordFitzhardinge, and I do not know that it was generally thought that hecarried his power too far. And I think, too, that gentlemen feel thatthey ride with more pleasure when they themselves contribute to the costof their own amusement. 

Our master of hounds shall be a country gentleman who takes asubscription, and who therefore, on becoming autocratic, makes himselfanswerable to certain general rules for the management of his autocracy. He shall hunt not less, let us say, than three days a week; but thoughnot less, it will be expected probably that he will hunt oftener. Thatis, he will advertise three days and throw a byeday in for the benefitof his own immediate neighbourhood; and these byedays, it must be known, are the cream of hunting, for there is no crowd, and the foxes breaksooner and run straighter. And he will be punctual to his time, givingquarter to none and asking none himself. He will draw fairly through theday, and indulge no caprices as to coverts. The laws, indeed, arenever written, but they exist and are understood; and when they be toorecklessly disobeyed, the master of hounds falls from his high place andretires into private life, generally with a broken heart. In the huntingfield, as in all other communities, republics, and governments, thepower of the purse is everything. As long as that be retained, thedespotism of the master is tempered and his rule will be beneficent. 

Five hundred pounds a day is about the sum which a master should demandfor hunting an average country, that is, so many times five hundredpounds a year as he may hunt days in the week. If four days a week berequired of him, two thousand a year will be little enough. But as arule, I think masters are generally supposed to charge only for theadvertised days, and to give the byedays out of their own pocket. Normust it be thought that the money so subscribed will leave the masterfree of expense. As I have said before, he should be a rich man. Whatever be the subscription paid to him, he must go beyond it, verymuch beyond it, or there will grow up against him a feeling that he ismean, and that feeling will rob him of all his comfort. Hunting men inEngland wish to pay for their own amusement; but they desire that moreshall be spent than they pay. And in this there is a rough justice, that roughness of justice which pervades our English institutions. To amaster of hounds is given a place of great influence, and into hishands is confided an authority the possession of which among hisfellow-sportsmen is very pleasant to him. For this he is expected topay, and he does pay for it. A Lord Mayor is, I take it, much in thesame category. He has a salary as Lord Mayor, but if he do not spendmore than that on his office he becomes a byword for stinginess amongLord Mayors To be Lord Mayor is his whistle, and he pays for it. 

For myself, if I found myself called upon to pay for one whistle or theother, I would sooner be a master of hounds than a Lord Mayor. The poweris certainly more perfect, and the situation, I think, more splendid. The master of hounds has no aldermen, no common council, no liverymen. As long as he fairly performs his part of the compact, he is altogetherwithout control. He is not unlike the captain of a man-of-war; but, unlike the captain of a man-of-war, he carries no sailing orders. Heis free to go where he lists, and is hardly expected to tell any onewhither he goeth. He is enveloped in a mystery which, to the young, addsgreatly to his grandeur; and he is one of those who, in spite of thedemocratic tenderness of the age, may still be said to go about as aking among men. No one contradicts him. No one speaks evil of him tohis face; and men tremble when they have whispered anything of somehalf-drawn covert, of some unstopped earth, some fox that should nothave escaped, and, looking round, see that the master is withinearshot. He is flattered, too, if that be of any avail to him. How heis flattered! What may be done in this way to Lord Mayors by commoncouncilmen who like Mansion-house crumbs, I do not know; but kennelcrumbs must be very sweet to a large class of sportsmen. Indeed, theyare so sweet that almost every man will condescend to flatter the masterof hounds. And ladies too, all the pretty girls delight to be spokento by the master! He needs no introduction, but is free to sip all thesweets that come. Who will not kiss the toe of his boots, or refuse tobe blessed by the sunshine of his smile?

But there are heavy duties, deep responsibilities, and much trueheart-felt anxiety to stand as makeweight against all these sweets. The master of hounds, even though he take no part in the actual work ofhunting his own pack, has always his hands full of work. He is alwayslearning, and always called upon to act on his knowledge suddenly. ALord Mayor may sit at the Mansionhouse, I think, without knowing much ofthe law. He may do so without discovery of his ignorance. But the masterof hounds who does not know his business is seen through at once. Tosay what that business is would take a paper longer than this, and theprecept writer by no means considers himself equal to such a task. Butit is multifarious, and demands a special intellect for itself. Themaster should have an eye like an eagle's, an ear like a thief's, and aheart like a dog's that can be either soft or ruthless as occasion mayrequire. How he should love his foxes, and with what pertinacity heshould kill them! How he should rejoice when his skill has assisted ingiving the choice men of his hunt a run that they can remember for thenext six years! And how heavy should be his heart within him when hetrudges home with them, weary after a blank day, to the misery of whichhis incompetency has, perhaps, contributed! A master of hounds should bean anxious man; so anxious that the privilege of talking to pretty girlsshould be of little service to him. 

One word I will say as to the manners of a master of hounds, and then Iwill have done. He should be an urbane man, but not too urbane; and heshould certainly be capable of great austerity. It used to be said thatno captain of a man-of-war could hold his own without swearing. I willnot quite say the same of a master of hounds, or the old ladies whothink hunting to be wicked will have a handle against me. But I willdeclare that if any man could be justified in swearing, it would be amaster of hounds. The troubles of the captain are as nothing to his. The captain has the ultimate power of the sword, or at any rate of thefetter, in his hands, while the master has but his own tongue to trust, his tongue and a certain influence which his position gives him. Themaster who can make that influence suffice without swearing is indeed agreat man. Now-a-days swearing is so distasteful to the world at large, that great efforts are made to rule without it, and some such effortsare successful; but any man who has hunted for the last twenty yearswill bear me out in saying that hard words in a master's mouth used tobe considered indispensable. Now and then a little irony is tried. "Iwonder, sir, how much you'd take to go home?" I once heard a master askof a red-coated stranger who was certainly more often among the houndsthan he need have been. "Nothing on earth, sir, while you carry on asyou are doing just at present, " said the stranger. The master acceptedthe compliment, and the stranger sinned no more. 

There are some positions among mankind which are so peculiarly blessedthat the owners of them seem to have been specially selected byProvidence for happiness on earth in a degree sufficient to raise themalice and envy of all the world around. An English country gentlemanwith ten thousand a year must have been so selected. Members ofParliament with seats for counties have been exalted after the sameunjust fashion. Popular masters of old-established hunts sin againsttheir fellows in the same way. But when it comes to a man to fill up allthese positions in England, envy and malice must be dead in the land ifhe be left alive to enjoy their fruition. 

HOW TO RIDE TO HOUNDS

Now attend me, Diana and the Nymphs, Pan, Orion, and the Satyrs, for Ihave a task in hand which may hardly be accomplished without some divineaid. And the lesson I would teach is one as to which even gods mustdiffer, and no two men will ever hold exactly the same opinion. Indeed, no written lesson, no spoken words, no lectures, be they ever so oftenrepeated, will teach any man to ride to hounds. The art must come ofnature and of experience; and Orion, were he here, could only tell thetyro of some few blunders which he may avoid, or give him a hint or twoas to the manner in which he should begin. 

Let it be understood that I am speaking of fox-hunting, and let theyoung beginner always remember that in hunting the fox a pack of houndsis needed. The huntsman, with his servants, and all the scarlet-coatedhorsemen in the field, can do nothing towards the end for which they areassembled without hounds. He who as yet knows nothing of hunting willimagine that I am laughing at him in saying this; but, after a while, hewill know how needful it is to bear in mind the caution I here givehim, and will see how frequently men seem to forget that a fox cannot behunted without hounds. A fox is seen to break from the covert, and menride after it; the first man, probably, being some cunning sinner, whowould fain get off alone if it were possible, and steal a march upon thefield. But in this case one knave makes many fools; and men will rush, and ride along the track of the game, as though they could hunt it, andwill destroy the scent before the hounds are on it, following, in theirignorance, the footsteps of the cunning sinner. Let me beg my youngfriend not to be found among this odious crowd of marplots. His businessis to ride to hounds; and let him do so from the beginning of the run, persevering through it all, taking no mean advantages, and allowinghimself to be betrayed into as few mistakes as possible; but let himnot begin before the beginning. If he could know all that is inside thebreast of that mean man who commenced the scurry, the cunning man whodesires to steal a march, my young friend would not wish to emulatehim. With nine-tenths of the men who flutter away after this ill fashionthere is no design of their own in their so riding. They simply wish toget away, and in their impatience forget the little fact that a pack ofhounds is necessary for the hunting of a fox. 

I have found myself compelled to begin with this preliminary caution, asall riding to hounds hangs on the fact in question. Men cannot ride tohounds if the hounds be not there. They may ride one after another, and that, indeed, suffices for many a keen sportsman; but I am nowaddressing the youth who is ambitious of riding to hounds. But though Ihave thus begun, striking first at the very root of the matter, I mustgo back with my pupil into the covert before I carry him on through therun. In riding to hounds there is much to do before the straight workcommences. Indeed, the straight work is, for the man, the easiest work, or the work, I should say, which may be done with the least previousknowledge. Then the horse, with his qualities, comes into play; and ifhe be up to his business in skill, condition, and bottom, a man may gowell by simply keeping with others who go well also. Straight riding, however, is the exception and not the rule. It comes sometimes, and isthe cream of hunting when it does come; but it does not come as often asthe enthusiastic beginner will have taught himself to expect. 

But now we will go back to the covert, and into the covert if it be alarge one. I will speak of three kinds of coverts, the gorse, the wood, and the forest. There are others, but none other so distinct as torequire reference. As regards the gorse covert, which of all is the mostdelightful, you, my disciple, need only be careful to keep in the crowdwhen it is being drawn. You must understand that if the plantationwhich you see before you, and which is the fox's home and homestead, be surrounded, the owner of it will never leave it. A fox will run backfrom a child among a pack of hounds, so much more terrible is to him thehuman race even than the canine. The object of all men of course is thatthe fox shall go, and from a gorse covert of five acres he must go veryquickly or die among the hounds. It will not be long before he starts ifthere be space left for him to creep out, as he will hope, unobserved. Unobserved he will not be, for the accustomed eye of some whip orservant will have seen him from a corner. But if stray horsemen roaminground the gorse give him no room for such hope, he will not go. Allwhich is so plainly intelligible, that you, my friend, will not failto understand why you are required to remain with the crowd. And withsimple gorse coverts there is no strong temptation to move about. Theyare drawn quickly, and though there be a scramble for places when thefox has broken, the whole thing is in so small a compass that there isno difficulty in getting away with the hounds. In finding your rightplace, and keeping it when it is found, you may have difficulty; butin going away from a gorse the field will be open for you, and whenthe hounds are well out and upon the scent, then remember your Latin;Occupet extremum scabies. 

But for one fox found in a gorse you will, in ordinary countries, seefive found in woods; and as to the place and conduct of a hunting manwhile woods are being drawn, there is room for much doubt. I presumethat you intend to ride one horse throughout the day, and that you wishto see all the hunting that may come in your way. This being so, it willbe your study to economize your animal's power, and to keep him freshfor the run when it comes. You will hardly assist your object in thisrespect by seeing the wood drawn, and galloping up and down the rides asthe fox crosses and recrosses from one side of it to another. Such ridesare deep with mud, and become deeper as the work goes on; and foxesare very obstinate, running, if the covert be thick, often for an hourtogether without an attempt at breaking, and being driven back when theydo attempt by the horsemen whom they see on all sides of them. It isvery possible to continue at this work, seeing the hounds hunt, withyour ears rather than your eyes, till your nag has nearly done his day'swork. He will still carry you perhaps throughout a good run, but hewill not do so with that elasticity which you will love; and then, after that, the journey home is, it is occasionally something almost toofrightful to be contemplated. You can, therefore, if it so please you, station yourself with other patient long-suffering, mindful men at somecorner, or at some central point amidst the rides, biding your time, consoling yourself with cigars, and not swearing at the vile perfidious, unfoxlike fox more frequently than you can help. For the fox on suchoccasions will be abused with all the calumnious epithets which theingenuity of angry men can devise, because he is exercising thatingenuity the possession of which on his part is the foundation offox-hunting. There you will remain, nursing your horse, listening tochaff, and hoping. But even when the fox does go, your difficulties maybe but beginning. 

It is possible he may have gone on your side of the wood; but much moreprobable that he should have taken the other. He loves not that crowdthat has been abusing him, and steals away from some silent distantcorner. You, who are a beginner, hear nothing of his going; and when yourush off, as you will do with others, you will hardly know at first whythe rush is made. But some one with older eyes and more experienced earshas seen signs and heard sounds, and knows that the fox is away. Then, my friend, you have your place to win, and it may be that the distanceshall be too great to allow of your winning it. Nothing but experiencewill guide you safely through these difficulties. 

In drawing forests or woodlands your course is much clearer. There isno question, then, of standing still and waiting with patience, tobacco, and chaff for the coming start. The area to be drawn is too large toadmit of waiting, and your only duty is to stay as close to the houndsas your ears and eyes will permit, remembering always that your earsshould serve you much more often than your eyes. And in woodland huntingthat which you thus see and hear is likely to be your amusement for theday. There is "ample room and verge enough" to run a fox down withoutany visit to the open country, and by degrees, as a true love of huntingcomes upon you in place of a love of riding, you will learn to thinkthat a day among the woodlands is a day not badly spent. At first, whenafter an hour and a half the fox has been hunted to his death, or hassucceeded in finding some friendly hole, you will be wondering when thefun is going to begin. Ah me! how often have I gone through all the fun, have seen the fun finished, and then have wondered when it was going tobegin; and that, too, in other things besides hunting!

But at present the fun shall not be finished, and we will go back to thewood from which the fox is just breaking. You, my pupil, shall have beenpatient, and your patience shall be rewarded by a good start. On thepresent occasion I will give you the exquisite delight of knowing thatyou are there, at the spot, as the hounds come out of the covert. Yoursuccess, or want of success, throughout the run will depend on the wayin which you may now select to go over the three or four first fields. It is not difficult to keep with hounds if you can get well away withthem, and be with them when they settle to their running. In a long andfast run your horse may, of course, fail you. That must depend on hispower and his condition. But, presuming your horse to be able to go, keeping with hounds is not difficult when you are once free from thethick throng of the riders. And that thick throng soon makes itselfthin. The difficulty is in the start, and you will almost be offendedwhen I suggest to you what those difficulties are, and suggest also thatsuch as they are even they may overcome you. You have to choose yourline of riding. Do not let your horse choose it for you instead ofchoosing it for yourself. He will probably make such attempts, and it isnot at all improbable that you should let him have his way. Your horsewill be as anxious to go as you are, but his anxiety will carry himafter some other special horse on which he has fixed his eyes. The riderof that horse may not be the guide that you would select. But some humanguide you must select. Not at first will you, not at first does any man, choose for himself with serene precision of confident judgment theline which he will take. You will be flurried, anxious, self-diffident, conscious of your own ignorance, and desirous of a leader. Many of thosemen who are with you will have objects at heart very different fromyour object. Some will ride for certain points, thinking that they canforetell the run of the fox. They may be right; but you, in your newambition, are not solicitous to ride away to some other covert becausethe fox may, perchance, be going there. Some are thinking of the roads. Others are remembering that brook which is before them, and riding widefor a ford. With none such, as I presume, do you wish to place yourself. Let the hounds be your mark; and if, as may often be the case, youcannot see them, then see the huntsman; or, if you cannot see him, follow, at any rate, some one who does. If you can even do this as abeginner, you will not do badly. 

But, whenever it be possible, let the hounds themselves be your mark, and endeavour to remember that the leading hounds are those which shouldguide you. A single hound who turns when he is heading the pack shouldteach you to turn also. Of all the hounds you see there in the open, probably not one-third are hunting. The others are doing as you do, following where their guides lead them. It is for you to follow the realguide, and not the followers, if only you can keep the real guide inview. To keep the whole pack in view and to ride among them is easyenough when the scent is slack and the pace is slow. At such times letme counsel you to retire somewhat from the crowd, giving place to thoseeager men who are breaking the huntsman's heart. When the hounds havecome nearer to their fox, and the pace is again good, then they willretire and make room for you. 

Not behind hounds, but alongside of them, if only you can achieve suchposition, it should be your honour and glory to place yourself; and youshould go so far wide of them as in no way to impede them or disturbthem, or even to remind them of your presence. If thus you live withthem, turning as they turn, but never turning among them, keeping yourdistance, but losing no yard, and can do this for seven miles over agrass country in forty-five minutes, then you can ride to hounds betterthan nineteen men out of every twenty that you have seen at the meet, and will have enjoyed the keenest pleasure that hunting, or perhaps, Imay say, that any other amusement, can give you.