HARRIERS—ON THE BRIGHTON DOWNS.
Long before hunting sounds are to be heard, except the early morning cub-hunters routing woodlands, and the autumn stag-hunters of Exmoor, harrier packs are hard at work racing down and up the steep hillside and along the chalky valleys of Brighton Downs, preparing old sportsmen for the more earnest work of November—training young ones into the meaning of pace, the habit of riding fast down, and the art of climbing quickly, yet not too quickly, up hill—giving constitutional gallops to wheezy aldermen, or enterprizing adults fresh from the riding-school—affording fun for fast young ladies and pleasant sights for a crowd of foot-folks and fly-loads, halting on the brows of the steep combs, content with the living panorama.
The Downs and the sea are the redeeming features of Brighton, considered as a place of change and recreation for the over-worked of London. Without these advantages one might quite as well migrate from the City to Regent Street, varying the exercise by a stroll along the Serpentine. To a man who needs rest there is something at first sight truly frightful in the townish gregariousness of Brighton proper, with its pretentious common-place architecture, and its ceaseless bustle and rolling of wheels. But then comes into view first the sea, stretching away into infinite silence and solitude, dotted over on sunny days with pleasure-boats; and next, perpetually dashing along the league of sea-borded highway, group after group of gay riding-parties of all ages and both sexes—Spanish hats, feathers, and riding-habits—amazones, according to the French classic title, in the majority. First comes Papa Briggs, with all his progeny, down to the little bare-legged imitation Highlander on a shaggy Shetland pony; then a riding-master in mustachios, boots, and breeches, with a dozen pupils in divers stages of timidity and full-blown temerity; and then again loving pairs in the process of courtship or the ecstasies of the honeymoon, pacing or racing along, indifferent to the interest and admiration that such pairs always excite. Besides the groups there are single figures, military and civil, on prancing thorough-bred hacks and solid weight-carrying cobs, contrasted with a great army of hard-worked animals, at half-a-crown an hour which compose the bulk of the Brighton cavalry, for horse-hiring at Brighton is the rule, private possession the exception; nowhere else, except, perhaps, at Oxford, is the custom so universal, and nowhere do such odd, strange people venture to exhibit themselves “a-horseback.” As Dublin is said to be the car-drivingest, so is Brighton the horse-ridingest city in creation; and it is this most healthy, mental and physical exercise, with the summer-sea yacht excursions, which constitute the difference and establishes the superiority of this marine offshoot of London over any foreign bathing-place. Under French auspices we should have had something infinitely more magnificent, gay, gilded, and luxurious in architecture, in shops, in restaurants, cafés, theatres, and ball-rooms; but pleasure-boat sails would have been utterly unknown, and the horse-exercise confined to a few daring cavaliers and theatrical ladies.
It is doubtless the open Downs that originally gave the visitors of Brighton (when it was Brighthelmstone, the little village patronised by the Prince, by “the Burney,” and Mrs. Thrale) the habit of constitutional canters to a degree unknown in other pleasure towns; and the traditional custom has been preserved in the face of miles of brick and stucco. With horses in legions, and Downs at hand, a pack of hounds follows naturally; hares of a rare stout breed are plentiful; and the tradesmen have been acute enough to discover that a plentiful and varied supply of hunting facilities is one of the most safe, certain, and profitable attractions they can provide. Cheltenham and Bath has each its stag-hounds; Brighton does better, less expensively, and pleases more people, with two packs of harriers, hunting four days (and, by recent arrangements, a pack of fox-hounds filling up the other two days) of the week; so that now it may be considered about the best place in the country for making sure of a daily constitutional gallop from October to March at short notice, and with no particular attention to costume and a very moderate stud, or no stud at all.
With these and a few other floating notions of air, exercise, and change of scene in my head—having decided that, however tempting to the caricaturist, the amusement of hundreds was not to be despised—I took my place at eight o’clock, at London-bridge station, in a railway carriage—the best of hacks for a long distance—on a bright October morning, with no other change from ordinary road-riding costume than one of Callow’s long-lashed, instead of a straight-cutting, whips, so saving all the impediments of baggage. By ten o’clock I was wondering what the “sad sea waves” were saying to the strange costumes in which it pleases the fair denizens of Brighton to deck themselves. My horse, a little, wiry, well-bred chestnut, had been secured beforehand at a dealer’s, well known in the Surrey country.
The meet was the race-course, a good three miles from the Parade. The Brighton meets are stereotyped. The Race-course, Telscombe Tye, the Devil’s Dyke, and Thunders Barrow are repeated weekly. But of the way along the green-topped chalk cliffs, beside the far-spreading sea, or up and down the moorland hills and valleys, who can ever weary? Who can weary of hill and dale and the eternal sea?
To those accustomed to an inclosed country there is something extremely curious in mile after mile of open undulating downs lost in the distant horizon. My day was bright. About eleven o’clock the horsemen and amazones arrived in rapidly-succeeding parties, and gathered on the high ground. Pleasure visitors, out for the first time—distinguished by their correct costume and unmistakably hired animals—caps and white breeches, spotless tops and shining Napoleons—were mounted on hacks battered about the legs, and rather rough in the coat, though hard and full of go; but trousers were the prevailing order of the day. Medical men were evident, in correct white ties, on neat ponies and superior cobs; military in mufti, on pulling steeplechasers; some farmers in leggings on good young nags for sale, and good old ones for use. London lawyers in heather mixture shooting-suits and Park hacks; lots of little boys and girls on ponies—white or cream-coloured being the favourites; at least one master of far distant fox-hounds pack, on a blood-colt, master and horse alike new to the country and to the sport. Riding-masters, with their lady pupils tittupping about on the live rocking-horses that form the essential stock of every riding-master’s establishment, with one or two papas of the pupils—“worthy” aldermen, or authorities of the Stock Exchange, expensively mounted, gravely looking on, with an expression of doubt as to whether they ought to have been there or not; and then a crowd of the nondescripts, bankers and brewers trying to look like squires, neat and grim, among the well and ill dressed, well and ill mounted, who form the staple of every watering-place,—with this satisfactory feature pervading the whole gathering, that with the exception of a few whose first appearance it was in saddle on any turf, and the before-mentioned grim brewers, all seemed decidedly jolly and determined to enjoy themselves.
The hounds drew up; to criticise them elaborately would be as unfair, under the circumstances, as to criticise a pot-luck dinner of beans and bacon put before a hungry man. They are not particularly handsome—white patches being the prevailing colour; and they certainly do not keep very close; but they are fast enough, persevering, and, killing a fair share of hares, show very good sport to both lookers-on and hard riders. The huntsman Willard, who has no “whip” to help him, and often more assistance than he requires, is a heavy man, but contrives, in spite of his weight, to get his hounds in the fastest runs.
The country, it may be as well to say for the benefit of the thousands who have never been on these famous mutton-producing “South Downs,” is composed of a series of table-lands divided by basin-like valleys, for the most part covered with short turf, with large patches of gorse and heather, in which the hares, when beaten, take refuge. Of late years, high prices and Brighton demand, with the new system of artificial agriculture, have pushed root crops and corn crops into sheltered valleys and far over the hills, much to the disgust of the ancient race of shepherds.
It is scarcely necessary to observe, that on Brighton Downs there are no blank days, but the drawing is a real operation performed seriously until such a time as the company having all assembled, say at half-past seven o’clock, when, if the unaided faculties of the pack have not brought them up to a form, a shepherd appears as the Deus ex machinâ. In spite of all manner of precautions, the hounds will generally rush up to the point without hunting; loud rises the joyful cry; and, if it is level ground, the whole meet—hacks, hobbie-horses, and hunters—look as if their riders meant to go off in a whirlwind of trampling feet. There is usually a circle or two with the stoutest hare before making a long stretch; but, on lucky days like that of our first and last visit, the pace mends the hounds settle, the riding-masters check their more dashing pupils, the crowd gets dispersed, and rides round, or halts on the edges, or crawls slowly down the steep-sided valleys; while the hard riders catch their nags by the head, in with the spurs, and go down straight and furious, as if they were away for ever and a day; but the pedestrians and constitutional cob-owners are comforted by assurances that the hare is sure to run a ring back. But, on our day, Pussy, having lain perdu during a few minutes’ check, started up suddenly amid a full cry, and rather too much hallooing. A gentleman in large mustachios and a velvet cap rode at her as if he meant to catch her himself. Away we all dashed, losing sight of the dignity of fox-hunters—all mad as hatters (though why hatters should be madder than cappers it would be difficult to say). The pace becomes tremendous; the pack tails by twos and threes; the valleys grow steeper; the field lingers and halts more and more at each steeper comb; the lads who have hurried straight up the hillsides, instead of creeping up by degrees blow their horses and come to a full stop; while old hands at Devonshire combs and Surrey steeps take their nags by the head, rush down like thunder, and slily zigzag up the opposite face at a trot; and so, for ten minutes, so straight, that a stranger, one of three in front, cried, “By Jove, it must be a fox!” But at that moment the leading hounds turned sharp to the right and then to the left—a shrill squeak, a cry of hounds, and all was over. The sun shone out bright and clear; looking up from the valley on the hills, nine-tenths of the field were to be seen a mile in the distance, galloping, trotting, walking, or standing still, scattered like a pulk of pursuing Cossacks. The sight reminded me that, putting aside the delicious excitement of a mad rush down hill at full-speed, the lookers-on, the young ladies on ponies, and old gentlemen on cobs, see the most of the sport in such a country as the Brighton Downs; while in a flat inclosed, or wooded country, those who do not ride are left alone quite deserted, five minutes after the hounds get well away.
We killed two more hares before retiring for the day, but as they ran rings in the approved style, continually coming back to the slow, prudent, and constitutional riders, there was nothing to distinguish them from all other hare-hunts. After killing the last hare there was ample time to get back to Brighton, take a warm bath, dress, and stroll on the Esplanade for an hour in the midst of as gay and brilliant crowd, vehicular, equestrian, and pedestrian, as can be found in Europe, before sitting down to a quiet dinner, in which the delicious Southdown haunch was not forgotten. So ended a day of glorious weather and pleasant sport, jolly—if not in the highest degree genteel.
Tempted to stay another day, I went the next morning six miles through Rottingdean to Telscombe Tye, to meet the Brookside; and, after seeing them, have no hesitation in saying that every one who cares to look at a first-rate pack of harriers would find it worth his while to travel a hundred miles to meet the Brookside, for the whole turnout is perfection. Royalty cannot excel it.
A delicious ride over turf all the way, after passing Rottingdean, under a blue sky and a June-like sun, in sight of the sea, calm as a lake, brought us to the top of a hill of rich close turf, enveloped in a cloud of mist, which rendered horses and horsemen alike invisible at the distance of a few yards; and when we came upon three tall shepherds, leaning on their iron-hooked crooks, in the midst of a gorse covert, it was almost impossible to believe that we were not in some remote Highland district instead of within half an hour of a town of 70,000 inhabitants.
The costumes of the field, more exact than the previous day, showed that the master was considered worthy of the compliment; and when, the mist clearing, the beautiful black-and-tan pack, all of a size, and as like as peas, came clustering up with Mr. Saxby, a white-haired, healthy, fresh-coloured, neat-figured, upright squire, riding in the midst on a rare black horse, it was a picture that, taking in the wild heathland scenery, the deep valleys below, bright in sun, the dark hills beyond it, was indeed a bright page in the poetry of field sports.
The Brookside are as good and honest as they are handsome; hunting, all together, almost entirely without assistance. If they have a fault they are a little too fast for hare-hounds. After killing the second hare, we were able to leave Brighton by the 3.30 P.M. train. Thus, under modern advantages, a man troubled with indigestion has only to order a horse by post the previous day, leave town at eight in the morning, have a day’s gallop, with excitement more valuable than gallons of physic, and be back in town by half-past five o’clock. Can eight hours be passed more pleasantly or profitably?