The present series of Sketches in the Hunting Field have, from time to time, appeared in the columns of The Country Gentleman and Sporting Gazette, to the Editor of which journal I am indebted for leave to reprint them. All, or nearly all, the characters I have endeavoured to portray have come under my personal observation, and are from life; but I have done my utmost to avoid depicting peculiarities that might serve to identify my models, or using personalities that might offend them.
In placing Men we Meet in the Field before the public, beyond acknowledging that I have perhaps not done full justice to the subject, I offer no apology; for anything said or done, painted or written, that serves in any way to call attention to our glorious old national sport, or to recall perchance the scenes of our youth, is not done amiss. In that it is one more stone, however humble, in the wall of defence which, alas! it is now becoming necessary to build against the attacks of those whose aim seems to be the demolition of all sport, dazzled as they are by the glamour of notoriety, won by sensational legislation, at the expense of all that has made England what she is, and her sons and daughters what they are.
I do not for a moment wish to enter into political argument. In the Field, Liberal and Conservative, Radical and Home-Ruler, meet as one, save only in the struggle for the lead. But what I do hold is that, by measures such as the Ground Game Bill and the Abolition of all Freedom of Contract, our national sports are fast being blotted out, and that it behoves all true sportsmen to array themselves against such things.
Of the matter contained in the volume I am now sending on its way, others must judge. I confess that I have enjoyed the writing of it. If I am fortunate enough to find some at least who enjoy the reading I shall be content, and shall feel I have not laboured in vain.
To those who so kindly received my maiden venture, "Sporting Sketches" (Messrs. Swan, Sonnenschein, and Allen), I offer my best thanks. Like a young hound who has not felt too much whipcord, encouragement has given confidence. I can only hope I may not have flashed over the line.
THE AUTHOR.
For "Hollo!" read throughout "Holloa!"
MEN WE MEET IN THE FIELD.
For those fond of studying character under various circumstances and in various positions, there is, perhaps, no medium affording so good an opportunity, or so vast a scope, as the hunting-field.
There more than in any other place do men's characters appear in their true lights. At the covert-side the irritable man, however well he may on ordinary occasions be able to conceal his irritability, will fret and fume if things do not go exactly as he wishes. The boaster, who in the safety of his armchair astonishes his friends with anecdotes of his own daring exploits, is, after a fast forty minutes, more often than not weighed in the balance and found wanting. The garrulous individual, who invariably knows where the fox has gone and what the huntsman ought to do, is in the field estimated at his proper value. There also the grumblers never fail to find a grievance, nor the elder generations of sportsmen to lament the "good old days gone by." In fact, the "bell-mouthed pack and tuneful horn" seem to act in some occult way in bringing out the idiosyncrasies of all their followers. This being so, a few sketches may not be uninteresting, and I shall endeavour to draw with my pen some portraits of those with whom we yearly ride, and who are so well known to most of us. To do this the more concisely, I propose to describe the field, subscribers, visitors, and others, who are to be found at the meets from the 1st of November to the end of April, and who go to make up the members of that justly celebrated pack—the Bullshire Hounds. Before individualising, however, it will be necessary to give a short history of the hunt, with a brief outline of the country, and its gradual growth.
The Bullshire country is one of the oldest in England, and was originally hunted on what is known as the "Trencher system," that is everybody, in lieu of paying a subscription, kept (according to his means) one or more hounds, which he was bound to bring with him to the spot selected by the Master (who was yearly elected as huntsman) for the meet. No sinecure was the office of M.F.H., carrying the horn, for as every hound recognised the rule of a different Master, and every Master considered himself entitled to an opinion in the case of his own hound, there was a good deal of jealousy among the latter and no small amount of "tail" among the former. The "tailing," however, was augmented by the different system of preparation and feeding the Bullshire Hounds received, for while Bellman before hunting was treated to no supper, Truelove had to deal with a sumptuous repast placed before her by the compassionate but ignorant goodwife, "who couldn't abear the idea of the old dog doing all that work on an empty stomach."
After a little the system proved unsatisfactory, and a step in the proper direction was taken. Old Gregory the Whip was sent round early in the morning the day before the meet to collect the pack, and it thus became his business to see that all fared alike—wisely, and not too well. From this it was an easy stage to kennels, and somehow, before the inhabitants knew how it happened, they found themselves paying their subscriptions with and without a murmur, and were able to point with pride to the Bullshire kennels. Once this an accomplished fact, everything went on smoothly; and from old Gregory and a Master whose office was the subject of an annual election, they now turn out a huntsman, two whips, and a second horseman, and, for a provincial pack, stand first on the list.
Their present Master is one of the right sort, who takes an interest in his hounds and his servants, perhaps at times a little free with his tongue, but only when absolutely necessary, and it is because of their large and varied field that I have selected the Bullshire for description. The country, though not a flying one, has a fair share of grass, and is acknowledged by all to hold a good scent. As there is every conceivable sort of obstacle, of every conceivable size, shape, and form, wet and dry, it requires a clever horse to get over it. Indeed, when some of the swells from the Shires condescend to patronise the Bullshire (no uncommon occurrence, by-the-way), there are generally two or three to be found, like water, at the bottom of a ditch.
I remember hearing a description of his day by a Meltonian, when he returned to his quarters with a battered head-piece and covered in mud. In reply to a question of "Where had he been?" he said: "Lord knows where I have not been. To the bottom of about ten ditches, three brooks, nearly into a gravel-pit, hung up in a bullfinch for five minutes, and almost broke my neck at the biggest post and rails I ever saw." "Well," continued his interlocutor, "did you have a good run?" "Run!" said he; "I believe you! Ran three miles after my horse and then nicked in, and was up at the finish. Blessed if ever I saw such a country. They think nothing of an hour and ten minutes, and they do stick to it, I can tell you; fox hasn't a chance with the Bullshire. It's for all the world like a stoat and a hare. Rare place to send creditor to; give him a mount on a green nag, he's bound to kill himself."
Added to these advantages, so ably set forth by the Leicestershire sportsman, foxes are plentiful, and, with one notable exception, of whom more anon, everybody looks after them, and does his best to demonstrate the fact that the fox and the pheasant can both be preserved, despite what Velveteens and his myrmidons may say. The man who rules the destinies of this sporting pack will form the subject of my first sketch.
"Morning, gentlemen," accompanied by a bow to the ladies, apprises us of the fact that Sir John Lappington has arrived, and as we turn round in our saddles we see a cheery face beaming with health and goodnature, and note what a thorough business look both man and horse present. The horse is one of those rare specimens of weight-carriers, known as "a good thing in a small parcel." Standing about fifteen hands two inches, with quarters fit to jump over a house, and shoulders of equal value when landing the other side, clean flat legs with plenty of bone, and excellent feet, well ribbed up, with a broad deep chest, it stands a living picture of the old-fashioned hunter that could and would go anywhere. And surely the man is not far behind in appearance. Riding about thirteen stone, or a little lighter, with somewhat a careless seat, one's first impression is that he is by no means smartly turned out, though the eye acknowledges at once the workman.
A second and more careful study shows us that, while there is an entire absence of gilt and gingerbread, of varnish and veneer, still, from the crown of his-well-brushed hat to the sole of his well-cleaned boot, everything is neatness itself. It may be that we take exception to the brown cords which Sir John always wears; but when one has tried to follow the clever cobby horse and his master through some of the roughest places in the day's work, and our leathers show plainly where we have been, we are fain to confess the wisdom of the said brown cords. Notwithstanding the cheery goodnature that beams from the Master's face, there is something in his eye and chin that warns instinctively against riding over the hounds or heading a fox, and shows a latent power of anathema and rebuke which, when once heard, is not in a hurry forgotten.
Sir John Lappington has been Master of the Bullshire for four seasons. He took the hounds at the request of the county on the death of Mr. Billington, who had hunted them for six-and-twenty years without hardly missing a day. Some few people urged that the new Master would not be found old enough to control so large a field, being but thirty years of age when he commenced his reign; but the first day dispelled their doubts, for on some of the "galloping-and-jumping" contingent trying to have things their own way, and paying no heed to repeated remonstrances to "give hounds a chance," the young Master astonished everyone by saying to the huntsman: "Stop 'em, Tom;" and when that was effected, turning to the offenders: "Now, gentlemen, when you have done your d——d steeplechasing we will go on hunting. If you want to break your necks you may put down my name for five pounds to bury the first who does so, provided you run it off at once, so that other people who prefer hunting to rough-riding may not be kept waiting."
This effectually stopped them, and from that day very little trouble has been shown, and when any have offended, it has generally required but one talking-to to bring them to a sense of what was required of them. Such is the man who now rides up punctual to the minute, and is greeted by all with a hearty welcome. The hunt servants, with old Tom the huntsman at their head, are as proud of being under him as they can be, and the hounds simply adore him. See how they fly, heedless of Harry's "Ware 'oss, ger away baik," clustering all round the cobby hunter, and leaving the marks of their affection on boot and saddle. "Eu leu, Minstrel, old boy; ay, Harbinger, good old man," says Sir John, a word for each by name; and back they go to the rule of Tom, who cannot for the life of him help feeling a twinge of jealousy, that "the hounds should be so 'nation fond of t' young Master, most as much as they are o' me, I'll be blessed if they ain't."
Five minutes of friendly chaff with the carriages, two more with old Farmer Simms, who, on being shown his wife's poultry bill, says: "Give it here, Sir John, give it here. The ould woman would take the money out of a man's breeches if he did not keep his hands in his pockets," and with a laugh Tom gets the signal to move off, Sir John stopping before he canters on to the hounds to say: "Never mind, Simms, I daresay we shall make it all right. The missus and I are old friends," and replying to Simms's loudly-expressed opinion that "The ould wench 'ull fleece you, I fear," with a deprecatory wave of the hand as he ranges up alongside the old huntsman.
The first draw is a gorse lying on the side of a hill, where there is always a little difficulty in restraining the impatience of the field, who, anxious for a start, are rather apt to override the hounds. There is a hunting-gate, beyond which no one is allowed to go until the hounds are well away, and here the Master posts himself, saying in a loud voice that can be heard by all: "If there is any stranger in the field to-day, he must understand that while hounds are drawing no one is allowed farther than this." At this moment his quick eye catches sight of a youngster who has jumped the rails lower down, and hopes he has escaped detection. "Come back, you sir," rings out; "come back; and as you are so fond of timber you can take the rails up hill. Dash your impudence, when I have just said no one is allowed to go for'ard! Come, at them—no funking;" and as, amid roars of laughter, the culprit, looking exceedingly foolish, rides at the rails, and gets a rattling fall, Sir John chuckles to himself: "Don't think he'll try that game on again." The hounds are by this time hard at work, and from the way they throw themselves out of the gorse there are evident signs of a speedy find. With keen enjoyment the Master watches the young entry, and as first one and then another of his favourites momentarily expose themselves to view, he thinks he would not exchange his empire for untold wealth.
In this enviable frame of mind he is interrupted by the appearance of a tall cadaverous-looking individual on foot, who, addressing himself to him, says: "Sir John Lappington, I believe?" "That's me; what can I do for you?" is the reply. "Ah! they told me I should find you here, ah! I—my name is Simpkins, Mr. Simpkins, Secretary of the Young Men's Improvement Society. I have been requested to ask for your patronage and subscription for a new school our society have decided on opening for young men in Lappington; and as they told me you were following the chase, ah! and my time is limited, I thought I should not be intruding if I could persuade you to" (pulling out a long subscription-list) "look over this."
Here, luckily, "Away, g-o-rne a-wa-a-y!" cut short the conversation, and the Master, swinging down the hill and slipping over the bank and ditch at the bottom, almost before the astonished Simpkins has made out what has happened, might have been heard muttering to himself: "Well, I am blowed! Did anyone hear of a man being asked to subscribe to a school when hounds had just found? Following the chase too! If they don't teach the young men better than that, the future Lappingtonians won't be much in the sporting line. Hark for'ard; for'ard away!" and sending his horse somewhat viciously at a bigger pace than usual he is shut out from sight, where for the time I will leave him.
"Hounds, please, gentlemen; hounds, please," says old Tom Wilding, as he threads his way through the field, who have, in their eagerness, ridden over the line. "Now, where the deuce should t' fox a gotten to, I wonder?" thinks he to himself; "Harbinger made it good across the lane, I swear, for I saw 'im, and there's naught to turn 'im that I can see." But there is; for an old woman, innocent of mischief, suddenly raises her much-be-bonneted head out of the turnips right in front, and with a "Dang her ugly mug," Tom makes a swinging cast for'ard. Minstrel, hitting off the scent under the gate out of the field, is promptly corroborated in his statement by Gaylad, and in a second things are going as jolly as a peal of bells.
The old Huntsman stops just a moment before pulling his horse together at the timber, to give "t' ould wench" a bit of his mind. "Look here," says he, "you've frightened fox away with that danged ould top-knot o' your'n. I be a good mind to——" But the old lady drops a most humble curtsy, and looks so penitent, that his anger vanishes, a smile steals over his face, and with a "Coom up," he pops over the rails and gets to his hounds. A bit of a martinet is Tom, and right well does he know how to keep his whips in order. Ay, and for the matter of that, some of the fire-eaters of the field besides.
Woe betide the unfortunate Harry who, keen as mustard, slips away, leaving two couple and a half behind. "All here?" says Tom. "A couple coming up, sir," replies Harry (he thinks it better to economise the truth as to numbers); "they are close behind." "Then what the devil business have you in front of them? Get back and bring 'em along at once. D'ye suppose my second whip's come out as a horniment?" (Tom, when excited, is a little shaky with his h's.) "If you don't know your business I can jolly soon get someone who does. There's lots of chaps to do the riding without you a-figuring about here. Get back at once, and let me catch you a-leaving hounds behind again." Yet in his heart he thinks none the worse of the lad for being keen to get along in front, and remembers How often he himself has been rated in bygone days for the same offence.
Of course Tom has his aversions, and there is one particular individual who, he says, he "just can't abear"—a Captain Stockley, one of the galloping-and-jumping division, who, although he can ride anything and over anything, knows little of hunting as hunting per se, and is always getting on top of the pack. One day, when he had managed to head the fox twice, the first whip, Charles, allowed his feelings to get the better of him, and holloed: "Hold hard, sir; d——n it, give 'em a chance;" whereupon Stockley rode up to Tom, and with a bland smile said: "I am sorry to be obliged to make a complaint, but one of the whips has been very impudent—in fact, he cursed me." The reply was not quite what the Captain expected, for Tom, seeing the cause of the two mischances in front of him, growled out: "He cursed yer, did he? Well, if it 'ad a-been me, I'd a gi'en yer a jolly good hiding;" and then catching his horse by the head he drove him at the wood fence, and was cheering on the pack before the Captain had recovered from his surprise.
However, we left him just out of the turnips, with the hounds settling down to the line. Everything goes well for some ten minutes, there is a burning scent, lots of fencing for those who like it, and a convenient lane for those who don't. All of a sudden the hounds throw their heads up and spread like a fan. Not a sign does the Huntsman make beyond holding up his hand to stop the rush of the field. But with one eye on the pack, and the other looking forward to where the sheep are scampering across the meadow on the hillside and huddling together in a close column, he sits like a statue. Deaf is he to the remonstrances of the eager ones, who say: "It's for'ard, Tom; get along," merely remarking: "Let 'em puzzle it out; they want to hunt now. Yer can always lift 'em, but yer can't always get their heads down again;" and in a few moments he is rewarded by seeing the hounds work it out of their own accord, and dash forward, proud of their own cleverness.
Some of the strangers to the Bullshire country say Tom is slow, but they do not know the old man. See him in another half hour, when the fox is beginning to run short. They are beginning to look for their second horses, and someone remarks that Charles is away. Suddenly a cap is seen in the air some four fields to the right, and "Hoick, holloa, hoick, holloa!" rings out clear. "Who is that?" ask some of the field. "Why, it's Charles! how the deuce did he get there?" say others. The Huntsman, however, knows well how it all came about, for did not he send Charles off to the high ground overlooking Bromley Wood on the off chance of a view? and now he does not wait an instant to discuss the question, but with a "chink-wink" of the horn and with cap in hand he gallops off, lifting the pack almost on to the fox's back.
Two fields farther on his "Who-whoop" tells everybody that all is over, and as they ride up one after another they see the old man, with his gray hairs streaming in the breeze, standing in the middle of his hounds, holding aloft the fox at arm's length, preparatory to giving his body over to the tender mercies of Traveller, Gaylad, and Co. "Eugh, tear 'im and eat 'im," and the "worry, worry" begins. Tom looks up at his young master with a smile, and says: "We've got the ould divil this time, sir; he's beat us often enough before;" and then raising his voice so as to be heard by all, he continues: "None so slow either. If we had'na let t' hounds work it out theirselves, fox would a-been a-going now. Where to, sir?" as he swings into his saddle. "Bromley Wood? right, sir. Coom away, hounds; coop, coop, coom away;" and Tom trots off with the pack best pace, for, as he remarks: "It's lunch-time now, and if so be I bestirs mysen I can leave about half t' field behind; and that's just what I like. I can get away comfortable without a lot a-trampling and messing over t' hounds, and them as likes eating better nor hunting, why they've no cause to grumble if they're chucked out."
As he approaches the wood, a wave of the hand sends the whole pack tumbling in, the two whips taking their stations like clockwork. With a "'War'oss!" the old Huntsman jumps into cover, and though lost to sight his voice is heard out of the woods cheering on his hounds. "Eugh, at 'im, my beauties. Eugh, doit, eugh, boys," he shouts; and the pack, who have learnt to love, ay, and what is more, respect their tutor, fly to his holloa, each doing what our American cousins call their "level best" to please him.
Tom, when he gets home, will not fail over his glass and pipe to recount exactly what each of his favourites did at each particular spot, for nothing escapes his quick eye, and he fully returns with interest the love of the Bullshire Hounds, of which he has been Huntsman for some eighteen years, and in which position he hopes to remain until he is, as he puts it, "run to ground."
Before leaving him, one anecdote will suffice to show the kindliness of the old man's heart towards dumb animals. They had had a long wearing day over a heavy country, with but little or no scent, and Tom found himself on leaving off some eighteen miles from the kennels. On arrival, after seeing that his darlings were all right (a duty he never neglected), he thought it about time to look after himself, and had just sat down to his well-earned supper, when a small boy arrived at his house, crying fit to break his heart. "What's up, my lad?" said Tom. "P-p-please, sir," replied the urchin between his sobs, "old Bob's b-b-een runned over, and they is broke 'is leg, bo-hoo! and mother s-says as how he mun be shot—for her canna mend it; and if yer p-please, Bob allas slept along wi' me sin' 'e wur a puppy, a-and I c-can't abear it, bo-hoo!" "Well, boy, don't 'e cry; I'll come down mysen and see tew 'im," said the old Huntsman; and, tired and supperless as he was, he there and then put on his coat and tramped off the best part of a mile to see to the crippled terrier, and after setting the leg and making the poor dog as comfortable as he could, he sat up best part of the night nursing it as a mother would her baby. It was three o'clock in the morning before Tom got into his bed; and he will tell you how tired he was, but he will also say: "Poor old doggie, 'e was just for all the world like a Christian. There was none on 'em as knowed aught about it, and when I'd done 'is leg he wagged 'is stump of a tail, saying plain enough: 'Don't 'e go now; I'm main thankful to yer, but don't 'e go,' that I couldna a-bear to leave 'im till 'e wur a bit more comfortable like. You see, we can holloa out, but them dum' animals canna." Bob, the old dog, is still alive, and the boy is now an under-keeper, but neither of them forget old Tom's kindness, and both would almost lay down their lives for the Huntsman of the Bullshire Hounds.
"'Say, Harry, the old man killed his fox well to-day," says Charles, the First Whip, to his junior, as they jog home to the kennels in the evening.
"Umph!" replies Harry; "but he need not have dropped it so hot on to me just because them two couple of loiterers stopped back. Blessed if I ever saw such hounds as them for messing about in cover. It's always the same. Caterer and Bellman, Pillager and Marksman, never up in time; and then if I gets on a bit, it's 'Where's them two couple? Go back and fetch 'em at once.' Dashed if I oughtn't to take a return ticket to every field in the county."
Charles, who thinks it by no means improbable that some day he may find himself with the horn of office, and Harry promoted to First Whip's place, merely says: "Well, you shouldn't be in such a thundering hurry to get off. You know your place is back, and back you should be."
At this juncture they ride up to The Bell and Horns, a famous halfway house, where they brew the best of ale, and can, if so disposed, give you a glass of the best whisky out of Ireland. The landlord, a sporting old veteran, bustles out and takes Tom's order for "Three pints of dog's nose" (a compound of ale and gin), "and some gruel for the nags."
"Well, what sort of a day have you had?" says he. "Nay, nay, don't mind the hound, let him be," as Harry is proceeding to correct Minstrel's attack of curiosity concerning the construction of Boniface's waistcoat. "The old boy and I are friends," and he pats the hound's sensible head.
Old Tom, having taken his face out of the pint pot, and smacking his lips, replies: "A first-rate day. Found in the gorse, run through Bouffler's meadows up to the Mere, turned in the lane, where the fox was headed, then over the Ring Hills, and killed by Bromley Wood. Charles here," pointing to his aide-de-camp, "was the means of our killing; and I must say Harry did uncommon well, though he does always want to be in front."
At this meed of praise from their chief both the Whips feel some inches taller, and Harry quite forgets his rating in the morning.
The horses gruelled and the score paid by the Huntsman, they are again on the road, having been joined by a couple of farmers going their way as far as the cross-roads, and with whom old Tom is soon in close confabulation. Harry rides for some distance without vouchsafing a word, save an occasional "Whip, get for'ard," to some straggler of the pack. At last he says:
"Charles, the old man is a good 'un, and no mistake. I'd sooner have a kick from him than sixpence from anyone else. He's quite right—business is business; but when it's over how many of 'em would stand a glass, 'specially after a bit of a word?"
"You're right, my lad," replies Charles. "You'll go mony a day afore you pitch on a man like old Tom, or, for the matter o' that, on a pack like our'n. Look you, it ain't every Huntsman as 'ull let his Whips into the secret of breeding; but I'll be bound there ain't a hound as you and I don't know as much about as he does hisself."
"What are you two a-chattering about?" interrupts Tom.
"Only a-saying as how we knowed the pedigrees, sir," said Harry.