Hunting Sketches
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Anthony Trollope >> Hunting Sketches
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
men as these; but their name and number is legion. If we were to
deduct from the hunting-crowd farmers, and others who hunt
because hunting is brought to their door, of the remainder we
should find that the "men who 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 the theatre,
how many women to concerts and races, simply because it is the
thing to do? They have perhaps, a vague idea that they may
ultimately find 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 the most to be pitied.
They are easily recognized by any one who cares to scrutinize the
men around him in the hunting field. It is not to be supposed
that all those who, in common parlance, do not ride, are to be
included among the number of hunting men who don't like it. Many
a man who sticks constantly to the roads and lines of
gates, who, from principle, never looks at a fence, is much
attached to hunting. Some of those who have borne great names as
Nimrods in our hunting annals would as life have led 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 to
straight-going men, it is manifest enough, that they do like it.
Their theory of hunting is at any rate plain. They have an
acknowledged system, 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 the cherry-brandy prevails, they
often have small successes; but even with the 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 and
doesn't like it ! But for such, as a pictorial chronicler of the
hunting field he would have had no fame. Briggs, I fancy, in his
way did like it. Briggs was a full-blooded, up-apt, awkward,
sanguine man, who was able to like anything, from gin and water
upwards. But with how many a wretched companion of Briggs' are we
not familiar? men as to whom any girl of eighteen would swear
from the form of his visage and the carriage of his legs as he
sits on his horse that he was seeking honour where honour was not
to be found, and looking for pleasure in places where no pleasure
lay for him.
But the man who hunts and doesn't like it, has his moments of
gratification, and finds a source of pride in his penance. In the
summer, hunting does much for him. He does not usually take much
personal care of his horses, as he is probably a town man and his
horses are summered by a keeper of hunting stables; but he talks
of them. He talks of them freely, and the keeper of the hunting
stables is occasionally forced to write to him. And he can run
down to look at his nags, and spend a few hours eating bad mutton
chops, walking about the yards and paddocks, and, bleeding
halfcrowns through the nose. In all this there is a delight which
offers some compensation for his winter misery 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 does give him some credit. It is still something to be
a hunting man even yet, though the multiplicity of railways and
the existing plethora of money has so increased the number of
sportsmen, that to keep a nag or two near some well-known
station, is nearly as common as to die. But the delight of these
martyrs is at the highest in the presence of their tailors; or,
higher still, perhaps, in that of their bootmakers. The hunting
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
his assurances, more ready with his bit of chalk, when handling
the knee of the man who doesn't like the work, than he ever is
with the customer who comes to him simply because he wants some
clothes fit for the saddle. The judicious conciliating tradesman
knows that compensation should be given, and he helps to give it.
But the visits to the bootmaker are better still. The tailor
persists in telling his customer how his breeches should be made,
and after what fashion they should be worn; but the bootmaker
will take his orders meekly. If not ruffled by paltry objections
as to the fit of the foot, he will accede to any amount of
instructions as to the legs and tops. And then a new pair of top
boots is a pretty toy; Costly, perhaps, if needed only as a toy,
but very pretty, and more decorative in a gentleman's dressing-
room than any other kind of garment. And top boots, when
multiplied in such a locality, when seen in a phalanx tell such
pleasant lies on their owner's behalf. While your breeches are as
dumb in their retirement as though you had not paid for them,
your conspicuous boots are eloquent with a thousand tongues!
There is pleasure found, no doubt, in this.
As the season draws nigh the delights become vague, and still
more vague; but, nevertheless, there are delights. Getting up at
six o'clock in November to go down to Bletchley by an early train
is not in itself pleasant, but on the opening morning, on the
few first opening mornings, there is a promise about the thing
which invigorates and encourages the early riser. He means to
like it this year if he can. He has still some undefined notion
that his period of pleasure will now come. He has not, as yet,
accepted the adverse verdict which his own nature has given
against him in this matter of hunting, and he gets into his early
tub with acme glow of satisfaction. And afterwards it is nice to
find himself bright with mahogany tops, buff-tinted breeches, and
a pink coat. The ordinary habiliments of an English gentleman are
so sombre that his own eye is gratified, and he feels that he has
placed himself in the vanguard of society by thus shining in his
apparel. And he will ride 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 to his stature. He doesn't like it, and all around him in
the field know how 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 come upon him. He has to pay the
price of those pleasant interviews with his tradesmen. He has to
expiate the false boasts made to his female cousins. That row of
boots cannot be made to shine in his chamber for nothing. The
hounds have found, and the fox is away. Men are fastening on
their flat-topped hats and feeling themselves in their stirrups.
Horses are hot for the run, and the moment for liking it has
come, if only it were possible!
But at moments such as these something has to be done. The man
who doesn't like it, let him dislike it ever so much, Cannot
check his horse and simply ride back to the hunting stables. He
understands that were he to do that, he must throw up his cap at
once and resign. Nor can he trot easily along the roads with the
fat old country gentleman who is out on his rough cob, and who,
looking up to the wind and remembering the position of adjacent
coverts, will give a good guess as to the direction in which the
field will move. No; he must make an effort. The time of his
penance has come, and the penance must be borne. There is a spark
of pluck about him, though unfortunately he has brought it to
bear in a wrong direction. The blood still runs at his heart, and
he resolves that he will ride, if only he could tell which way.
The stout gentleman on the cob has taken the road to the left
with a few companions; but our friend knows that the stout
gentleman has a little game 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 down a hill towards a brook with
a ford. One or two, men whom he hates with an intensity of
envy, have jumped the brook, and have settled to their work.
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 before them. That is the straightest riding,
and with them he goes. Why has the scent lain so hot over the up-
turned heavy ground? Why do they go so fast at this the very
first blush of the morning ? Fortune is always against him, and
the horse is pulling him through the mud as though the brute
meant to drag his arm out of the socket. At the first fence, as
he is steadying himself, a butcher passes him roughly in the jump
and nearly takes away the side of his top boot. He is knocked
half out of his saddle, and in that condition scrambles through.
When he has regained his equilibrium he sees the happy butcher
going into the field beyond. He means to curse the butcher when
he catches him, but the butcher is safe. A field and a half
before him he still sees the tail hounds, and renews his effort.
He has meant to like it to-day, and he will. So he rides at the
next fence boldly, where the butcher has left his mark, and does
it pretty well, with a slight struggle. Why is it that 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 so
constantly, unless it be that he cannot catch the butcher? Now
he rushes at a gate which others have opened for him, but rushes
too late and catches his leg. Mad with pain, he nearly gives it
up, but the spark of pluck is still there, and with throbbing
knee he perseveres. How he hates it! It is all detestable now. He
cannot hold his horse because of his gloves, and he cannot get
them off. The sympathetic beast knows that his master is unhappy,
and makes himself unhappy and troublesome in consequence. Our
friend is still going, riding wildly, but still keeping a grain
of caution for his fences. He has not been down yet, but has
barely saved himself more than once. The ploughs are very deep,
and his horse, though still boring at him, pants heavily. Oh,
that there might come a check, or that the brute of a fox might
happily go to ground ! But no! The ruck of the hunt is far away
from him in front, and the game is running steadily straight for
some well known though still distant protection. But the man who
doesn't like it still sees a red coat before him, and perseveres
in chasing the wearer of it. The solitary red coat becomes
distant, and still more distant from him, but he goes on while he
can yet keep the line in which that red coat has ridden. He must
hurry himself, however, or he will be lost to humanity, and will
be alone. He must hurry himself, but his horse now desires to
hurry no more. So he puts his spurs to the brute savagely, and
then at some little fence, some ignoble ditch, they come down
together in the mud, and the question of any further effort is
saved for the rider. When he arises the red coat is out of sight,
and his own horse is half across the field before him. In such a
position, is it possible that a man should 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 he says nothing of himself, his disgrace
is at any rate hidden. Why should he tell that he had been nearly
an hour on foot trying to catch his horse, that he had sat
himself down on a bank and almost cried, and that he had drained
his flask to the last drop before one o'clock ? No one need know
the extent of his miseries. And no one does know how great is the
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 man who hunts and doesn't; but he, too, has his own miseries,
and I am not prepared to say that they are always less
aggravating than those endured by his less ambitious brother in
the field. He, too, when he comes to make up his account, when
he brings his hunting to book and inquires whether his whistle
has been worth its price, is driven to declare that vanity and
vexation of spirit have been the prevailing characteristics of
his hunting life. On how many evenings has he returned contented
with his 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, wind and sunshine, will all come
amiss. Then, when the one run of the season comes, he is not
there! He has been idle and has taken a liberty with the day; or
he has followed other gods and gone with strange hounds. With
sore ears and bitter heart he hears the exaggerated boastings of
his comrades, and almost swears that he will have no more of it.
At the end of the season he tells himself that the season's
amusement has cost him five hundred pounds; that he has had one
good day, three days that were not bad, and that all the rest
have been vanity and vexation of spirit. After all, it may be a
question whether the man who hunts and doesn't like it does not
have the best of it.
When we consider what is endured by the hunting man the wonder is
that any man should like it. In the old days of Squire Western,
and in the old days too since the time of Squire Western, the
old days of thirty years since, the hunting man had his hunting
near to him. He was a country gentleman who considered himself to
be energetic if he went out twice a week, and in doing this he
rarely left his house earlier for that purpose than he would
leave it for others. At certain periods of the year he
if ho went out twice a he rarely left his house than he would
leave it periods of the year he would, perhaps, be out before
dawn; 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 the purpose he was well mounted, and these horses were
available for other uses. He rode out and home, jogging slowly
along the roads, and was a martyr to no ambition. All that has
been changed now. The man who hunts and likes it, either takes a
small hurting seat away from the comforts of his own home, or he
locates himself miserably at an inn, or he undergoes the
purgatory of daily journeys up and down from London, doing that
for his hunting which no consideration of money-making would
induce him to do for his business. His hunting requires from him
everything, his time, his money, his social hours, his rest, his
sweet morning sleep; 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-
chamber at seven o'clock, and tells him that it has frozen during
the night. If he be a London man, using the train for his
hunting, he knows nothing of the frost, and does not learn
whether the day be practicable or not till he finds himself down
in the country. But we will suppose our friend to be located in
some hunting district, and accordingly his groom visits him with
tidings. "Is it freezing now?" he asks from under the bedclothes.
And even the man who does like it at such moments almost wishes
that the answer should be plainly in the affirmative. Then
swiftly again to the arms of Morpheus he might take himself, and
ruffle his temper no further on that morning! He desires, at any
rate, a decisive answer. To be or not to be as regards that day's
hurting is what he now wants to know. But that is exactly what
the groom cannot tell him. " It's just a thin crust of frost,
sir, and the s'mometer is a standing at the pint." That is the
answer which the man makes, and on that he has to come to a
decision! For half an hour he lies doubting while his water is
getting cold, and then sends for his man again. The thermometer
is still standing at the point, but the man has tried the crust
with his heel and found it to be very thin. The man who hunts and
likes it scorns his ease, and resolves that he will at any rate
persevere. He tumbles into his tub, and a little before nine
comes out to his breakfast, still doubting sorely whether or no
the day "will do." There he, perhaps, meets one or two others
like himself, and learns that the men who hunt and don't like it
are still warm in their beds. On such mornings as these, and
such mornings are very many, the men who hunt and do not like it
certainly have the best of it. The man who hunts and does like it
takes himself out to some kitchen-garden or neighbouring paddock,
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
go sixteen miles to the meet, and has no means of knowing whether
or no the hounds will go out. " Jorrocks always goes if there's a
chance," says one fellow, speaking of the master. " I don't
know," says our friend; " he's a deal slower at it than he used
to be. For my part, I wish Jorrocks would go; he's getting too
old." Then he bolts a mutton chop and a couple of eggs 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 out to be no day for hunting purposes, begun in this
way, is of all days the most melancholy. What is a man to do with
himself who has put himself into his boots and breeches, and who
then finds himself, by one o'clock, landed back at his starting-
point without employment ? Who under such circumstances can apply
himself to any salutary employment ? Cigars and stable-talk are
all that remain to him; and it is well for him if he can refrain
from the additional excitement of brandy and water.
But on the present occasion we will not presume that our friend
has fallen into so deep a bathos of misfortune. At twelve o'clock
Tom appears, with the hounds following slowly at his heels; and a
dozen men, angry with impatience, fly at him with assurances that
there has been no sign of frost since ten o'clock. " Ain't there
?" says Tom; " you look at the north sides of the banks, and see
how you'd like it." Some one makes an uncivil remark as to the
north sides of the banks, and wants to know when old Jorrocks is
coming. " The squire 'll be here time enough," says Tom. And then
there takes place that slow walking up and down of the hounds,
which on such mornings always continues for half an hour. Let him
who envies the condition of the man who hunts and likes it,
remember that a cold thaw is going on, that our friend is already
sulky with waiting, that to ride up and down for an hour and a
half at a walking pace on such a morning is not an exhilarating
pastime, and he will understand that the hunting man himself may
have doubts as to the wisdom of his course of action.
But at last Jorrocks is there, and the hounds trot off to cover.
So dull has been everything on this morning that even that is
something, and men begin to make themselves happier in the warmth
of the movement. The hounds go into covert, and a period of
excitement is commenced. Our friend who likes hunting remarks to
his neighbour that the ground is rideable. His neighbour who
doesn't like it quite so well says that he doesn't know. They
remain standing close together on a forest ride for twenty
minutes, but conversation doesn't go beyond that. The man who
doesn't like it has lit a cigar, but the man who does like it
never lights 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
those around him to hold their tongues and remain quiet. Why he
should trouble himself to do this, as he knows that no one will
obey his orders, it is difficult to surmise. Or why men should
stand still in the middle of a large wood when they expect a fox
to break, because Mr. Jorrocks swears
at them, is also not to be understood. Our friend pays no
attention to Mr. 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 now softened ground, through
narrow tracks, with the boughs in his face, listening
always, now hoping, now despairing, speaking to no one, but
following and followed, he makes his way backwards and forwards
through the wood, till at last, weary with wishing and working,
he rests himself in 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 of his day's amusement.
But now, while the flask is yet at his mouth, he hears from some
distant corner a sound that tells him that the fox is away. He
ought to have persevered, and then he would have been near them.
As it is, all that labour of riding has been in vain, and he has
before him the double task of finding the line of the hounds and
of catching them when he has found it. He has a crowd of men
around him; but he knows enough of hunting to be aware that the
men who are wrong at such moments are always more numerous than
they who are right. He has to choose for himself, and chooses
quickly, dashing down a ride to the right, while a host of those
who know that he is one of them who like it, follow closely at
his 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 you want to get into my pocket, sir?" he says,
angrily. The young admirer is snubbed, and, turning away,
attempts to make a line for himself.
But though he has been followed, he has great doubt as to his own
course. To hesitate is to be lost, so he goes on, on rapidly,
looking as he clears every fence for the spot at which he is to
clear the next; but he is by no means certain of his course.
Though he has admirers at his heels who credit him implicitly,
his mind is racked by an agony of ignorance. He has got badly
away, and the hounds are running well, and it is going to be a
good thing; and he will not see it. He has not been in for
anything good this year, and now this is his luck! His eye
travels round over the horizon as he is gallopping, and though he
sees men here and there, he can catch no sign of a hound; nor can
he catch the 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 becomes thinner and thinner. He comes out upon a
road, and makes the pace as good as he can along the soft edge of
it. He sniffs at the wind, knowing that the fox, going at such a
pace as this, must run with it. He tells himself from outward
signs where he is, and uses his dead knowledge to direct him. He
scorns to ask a question as he passes countrymen in his course,
but he would give five guineas to know exactly where the hounds
are at that moment. He has been at it now forty minutes, and is
in despair. His gallant nag rolls a little under him, and he
knows that he has been going too fast. And for what; for what ?
What good has it all done him ? What good will it do him, though
he should kill the beast ? He curses between his teeth, and
everything is vanity and vexation of spirit.
"They've just run into him at Boxall Springs, Mr. Jones," says a
farmer whom he passes on the road. Boxall Springs is only a
quarter of a mile before 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, and that Tom is already breaking
up the fox. "Very good thing, Mr. Jones," says the squire in good
humour. Our friend mutters something
between his teeth and rides away in dudgeon from the triumphant
master. On his road home he hears all about it from everybody. It
seems to him that he alone of 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 already twice boasted
in Jones's hearing that he had seen every turn the hounds had
made. " It wasn't in the open," says Jones, reduced in his anger
to diminish as far as may be the triumph of his rival.
Such is the fate, the too frequent fate of the man who hunts and
does like it.
THE LADY WHO RIDES TO HOUNDS.