IV
“The capacity to understand is as good a proof of vocal intelligence, though in an inferior degree, as the capacity to speak.”
FROM the kennel we will follow the hound into the field. Here he has definite work for which all the events of his life are one long preparation. That he delights in it, no one can doubt who watches him. If indeed there be anything to say against hunting, from the point of view of the fox and the hare, as there certainly is against some of the methods of man used in the chase, to the hound it is pure, unmixed enjoyment. As a lover of animals I hate to think of any unnecessary suffering caused in the hunting field. But when the excitement of the uncertain issue is over, the death, if it comes, is merciful and sudden, and though I have never but once actually seen the end—and then when I was surprised out of power of turning away—I was astounded at the instantaneous despatch of the hunted fox. That every man, and above all every woman, should set their faces sternly against the faintest touch of cruelty, I have no doubt at all. The most brilliant run of the season would be dearly bought if fox and hound were not pitted in fair and open warfare, and every one worthy the name of sportsman should blush to take an unfair advantage of the creature whose wiles it will tax all the intelligence of his followers, human and canine, to unravel.
Our very soul revolts from the tales of cruel maiming of which we have heard a good deal of late. That these are true of the practice of any but a few scattered countries, I do not believe. But, on the other hand, that they undoubtedly occur in some hunts is beyond question. Sport has to be shown; the followers at all costs must be given that for which they have come out. If hounds do not taste blood, they will become slack, and lose their interest in the chase. The hunt servants come from a class of which some members are incapable of understanding the sufferings of a lower order of life than their own. If they realised the agony of the broken or maimed limb with which the quarry is sometimes sent to make his last gallant bid for life, they would no more give the secret wrench that makes their own success assured than would the man whose wider outlook enables him to grasp the depth of suffering inflicted. In saying this, I would not for a moment imply that all, or nearly all, our hunt servants have the callous indifference to pain that such a course implies. On the contrary, the love of their hounds, so plainly shown both in the kennel and in the field, and their own innate love of all animal life, are a sufficient testimony to the humanity of the great body of those who show us sport. As a rule our huntsmen are of a far higher level of intelligence than others of their own class, or they would never have risen to the place they hold. But the danger comes from those who have the mental gifts without the moral background. With these the brilliant execution of their own work is everything; the rights of the lower creatures to humane treatment at their hands are non-existent. And this, as I have said, is because they do not, and cannot from their very nature, enter into the feelings of another order of beings.
But as the huntsman and his underlings are the servants of the Master, the responsibility for unsportsmanlike conduct in the field must ultimately rest with him. Not many, when spoken to on such a matter, will give the callous answer, worthy of a stage of civilisation left long ages behind, that one M. F. H. did: “I don’t care what they do, so long as they show sport, and don’t tell me how they do it.” But that such a view can be held, and that a man of such a type may have those under his orders who will be prompt to take advantage of the implied permission, is a direct danger to hunting, and one against which all true lovers of the sport should be on their guard. A careless master, and still more an indifferent one, may bring discredit on the national pastime that gives health and happiness to thousands of its followers, and causes the fox to be treated throughout his life as a favoured partner in the chase instead of as a noxious beast of prey.
About one thing there is no doubt. Any man or woman who continues to hunt in a country where cruelty is practised makes himself or herself responsible for what is done there. The reason of the cruelty is the desire to show sport, and the only check that can be imposed is that of public opinion. To this, Masters of Hounds and Hunt servants alike are peculiarly sensitive, the reputation of both, and the very livelihood of the latter, depending on it. If then such deeds of cruelty are passed over, or ignored as not being the business of those in whose interests they are done, the future of fox hunting will suffer from a deadly peril. If indeed the hunting field cannot be cleared from the reproach that must cling to it while cruelty in any form is practised, and the fight is not a fair and open one between hounds and their quarry, our many enemies will have a powerful weapon to use against us.
I am indeed far from thinking that Ruskin’s advice to gentlemen “to mow their own fields instead of riding over other people’s” can be followed. The words could only have been penned by one who was at once ignorant of the health-giving joys of the hunting-field, and of the natural sequence of country occupations. But though I lay myself open to the charge of cruelty from those who only see in hunting a relic of a bygone barbarism, and on the other hand may rouse the anger of those whose tastes I share, by pointing to the dark spots that tarnish the glories of our national pastime, I must e’en take a stand with the hounds in hoping for a continuance of their joy in sport, and with the fox in pleading that a fair and open fight is allowed him.
With the hounds, then, who at least are in no wise responsible for deeds of darkness done in secret, let us return to the field. The results of beneficent rule in the kennels is seen in their manner of hunting. If the huntsman and his whippers-in have won their confidence and love, the hounds have, beyond their own keenness in the chase, the desire to please those to whom they look as their natural guides and rulers. The hunt servants, and above all the huntsman, take the place of the old tribal leader, whose will was imposed on his followers. We all know how hounds when they have failed to recover the line of their hunted fox, will look up to the huntsman with an inquiring expression of countenance, that says as plainly as any words could tell us, they are asking him to help them: “We have done our part. Now it is your turn to come to our assistance.”
And how much the hounds will do for themselves, and how clearly the individual characteristics of each member of the pack is brought out in their common work! The hounds that are deferred to in the kennel will generally take the lead in the chase. Some naturally take the first place, and others as naturally follow. If we glance for a moment at the riders behind them, shall we not see exactly the same thing taking place? The man and woman whose observation is keen, decision prompt, and whose will is fearless, will be seen in front, while those of lesser gifts of courage and insight will follow in their wake. There is, of course, yet another partner in the chase, whose character and powers have to be reckoned with, but, even so, a bad horse will be at his best, or a good horse at his worst, according to the way in which he is handled. Certain I am that no stupid man or hound will ever lead in a good hunt.
But let us watch the hounds at work. No sooner does one touch the scent than he waves his stern and signals to the others. As he lashes his sides, those who are near enough to see the sign crowd round him; and each one, partly in emulation and partly in sympathy, works hard to find and identify the scent. Then an eager, exultant note comes from one of them, and now is the time when we shall learn much of the character the speaker bears. The other hounds will raise their heads quickly, but if the note comes from one whom they do not trust, they will resume their quest quietly and take no further notice of his call. But if the hound is one who is looked up to and respected, his fellow workers will fly to him from all parts of the covert, and a chorus of eager voices will corroborate his opinion and show that their trust was not misplaced.
They run on close together till once more they lose the scent, and there is a check. Now again we learn much of the dispositions and characters of the workers. The pack spreads out like a fan, and each hound works by and for himself. But not all in the same way. The slack and careless hound will gallop round aimlessly and then wait to see what the others do. The steady, persevering hound will, with a painstaking sense of duty, try every blade of grass. The hound of thoughtful mind will go to all the more likely places first; and the wise old hound, whose business has been fully mastered, will gallop unhesitatingly back to the place where he last had the scent. How often the rest are put right by such a leader! He gallops back to the gateway, through which he had been swept by the common impulse that will carry the best hound over the line sometimes. But as soon as he has time to think, he pauses. He knows he has not smelt fox since he came through the gate, and he knows, too, that a fox will often turn short under a wall or fence. So he goes back, turns up by the hedge, and hits off the line, and both hounds and huntsmen follow at his call.
Few more wonderful instances of reasoning power are, I suppose, ever shown in the field than by the stag-hounds when they have brought a wild stag to bay. Though I have never ridden with the Devon and Somerset, some of the most picturesque and thrilling moments of sport I have ever experienced have been with them. The stag, after bounding down the precipitous sides of a rocky combe, will plunge into the quick-flowing stream that divides the wooded depths of the valley. The hounds are close behind, but not within view. As they, too, reach the water, they divide, some following the stream on one side, some on the other, while others take to the bed of the water itself. The huntsman, it may be, has not yet threaded his way between the boulders and thickly planted trees that have impeded his progress. But the hounds work up to their stag, which stands at bay where the current is running strongest. Now the older hounds come to the front, with the wisdom learned of former encounters. They trot up the bank, past the spot where the stag is standing. Then they take to the water, and are carried almost without effort to him. If they had entered the stream sooner, they could not have reached him, for they were powerless to breast the current; and as the young hounds watch their strategy, they too learn the lesson they will put in practice later. Here, then, we have evidence of the natural lead of superior intelligence, and of the willingness of the younger and less experienced to learn from the example of their elders.
But the foundation of the powers of combination that show such an infinite variety in the field is laid in kennel life. The better the discipline and the greater the influence of the huntsman over his pack, the more readily will they work together. No better or quainter example of this was ever given than that of John Press, whose fame as a successful huntsman spread far and wide from the Blackmore Vale country. Here I will quote again from a book, with which my connection gives me the means of vouching for the absolute truth of its statements. It is Miss Serrell, one of the keenest of sportswomen and hound lovers, who tells the story.[3]
“A ... wonderful instance of perfect kennel discipline was that I once witnessed with terriers and foxhounds in the Blackmore Vale kennels. One day, not long before Press retired, I rode over to the kennels, and being told by the kennelman that Press was in the orchard with the hounds, I dismounted and went in search of him. The sight that met my eyes as I opened the gate I shall never forget. There was Press in his kennel coat, with only a slim white willow in his hands, surrounded by both packs of hounds, and seated on a low stool with his favourite little hound, Miranda, on his knees, while he was encouraging some nine or ten terriers to scratch at the rat-holes round an old apple-tree. Not one of the hounds ventured to interfere as they stood round watching the terriers’ efforts, and it was enough for Press to lift his little stick if one essayed to go too near them. Seating myself on a handy stump, I watched the performance, while the old man related anecdotes of his favourites, and assured me he could never have done what he did with them except for their home training. It was a common saying of his that you could teach more in kennel than out, and with this opinion I cordially agree.
“Perhaps the most curious part of that orchard scene was to come, for Press after a time rose and passed slowly back to the kennels, with the hounds following. Throwing open one of the doors, he turned, and, eyeing the hounds sternly, he raised his hand, and to my great amusement exclaimed in his gruff voice, ‘Ladies first!’ At this signal every ‘lady,’ with a little wave of her stern, trotted forward and went in; and as soon as all had disappeared the door was shut, not a dog-hound in the meantime offering to follow. As he threw open the other door, Press called out, ‘Now, then, gentlemen!’ and the dog-hounds marched majestically in.”
If slackness prevail in their home, hounds will be as ready to take advantage of it as are our own children. Some hounds are more inclined to mischief than others, but if one breaks out there is danger that all the others may follow. How often, again, is the counterpart seen in our playing-field or classroom. Idleness in all cases is the beginning of vice. Many of us know the story of the wild young hounds that once led a whole pack—and a good one—on the line of a donkey. It is said that for long afterwards the huntsman and whippers-in of these hounds regarded the very word “donkey,” uttered in their presence, as a personal insult.
That discipline must be tempered with affection, the conduct of hounds in the field shows clearly. For a man who is harsh to them, who is too ready with lash and hard words, hounds will have much the same relation that a schoolboy has to the tutor he detests, or the soldier to the officer he does not respect. The main-spring of good work is love, not harshness.
If every one from hunt servants to the master would take their duties in the way that one M. F. H. did, there would be no danger of unnecessary harshness, still less cruelty, being used towards any of our partners of the chase. The Master of whom I am speaking never overlooked a fault of this kind with any of his servants. If a man was too ready with the whip, or in any way too severe in the correction of kennel faults, he was sent away at once, without a character. As he was not fitted to have the care of animals, the Master would not help him to another situation. It is only by following such a line of conduct that unsuitable hunt servants can be kept from jeopardising the fair fame of those to whose good offices every hunting man and woman in the country owe so many of the pleasantest hours of their life.