“TALLY-HO!
“Fox-hunting, I maintain, is entitled to be considered one of the fine arts, standing somewhere between music and dancing. For ‘Tally-ho!’ like the favourite evening gun of colonising orators, has been ‘carried round the world.’ The plump mole-fed foxes of the neutral ground of Gibraltar have fled from the jolly cry; it has been echoed back from the rocky hills of our island possessions in the Mediterranean; it has startled the jackal on the mountains of the Cape, and his red brother on the burning plains of Bengal; the wolf of the pine forests of Canada has heard it, cheering on fox-hounds to an unequal contest; and even the wretched dingoe and the bounding kangaroo of ‘Australia have learned to dread the sound.
“In our native land ‘Tally-ho!’ is shouted and welcomed in due season by all conditions of men; by the ploughman, holding hard his startled colt; by the woodman, leaning on his axe before the half-felled oak; by bird-boys from the tops of leafless trees; even Dolly Dumpling, as she sees the white-tipped brush flash before her market-cart in a deep-banked lane, stops, points her whip and in shrill treble screams ‘Tally-ho!'
“And when at full speed the pink, green, brown, and black-coated followers of any of the ninety packs which our England maintains, sweep through a village, with what intense delight the whole population turn out! Young mothers stand at the doors, holding up their crowing babies; the shopkeeper, with his customers, adjourns to the street; the windows of the school are covered with flattened noses; the parson, if of the right sort, smiles blandly, and waves his hand from the porch of the vicarage to half-a-dozen friends; while the surgeon pushes on his galloway and joins for half-an-hour; all the little boys holla in chorus, and run on to open gates without expecting sixpence. As for the farmers, those who do not join the hunt criticise the horseflesh, speculate on the probable price of oats, and tell ‘Missis’ to set out the big round of beef, the bread, the cheese, and get ready to draw some strong ale,—‘in case of a check, some of the gentlemen might like a bit as they come back.
“It is true, among the five thousand who follow the hounds daily in the hunting season, there are to be found, as among most medleys of five thousand, a certain number of fools and brutes—mere animals, deaf to the music, blind to the living poetry of nature. To such men hunting is a piece of fashion or vulgar excitement, but bring hunting in comparison with other amusements, and it will stand a severe test. Are you an admirer of scenery, an amateur or artist? Have you traversed Greece and Italy, Switzerland and Norway, in search of the picturesque? You do not know the beauties of your own country, until, having hunted from Northumberland to Cornwall, you have viewed the various counties under the three aspects of a fox-hunter’s day—the ‘morning ride,’ ‘the run,’ and ‘the return home.’
“The morning ride, slowly pacing, full of expectation, your horse as pleased as yourself; sharp and clear in the gray atmosphere the leafless trees and white farmhouses stand out, backed by a curtain of mist hanging on the hills in the horizon. With eager eyes you take all in; nothing escapes you; you have cast off care for the day. How pleasant and cheerful everything and everyone looks! Even the cocks and hens, scratching by the road-side, have a friendly air. The turnpike-man relaxes, in favour of your ‘pink,’ his usual grimness. A tramping woman, with one child at her back and two running beside her, asks charity; you suspect she is an impostor, but she looks cold and pitiful; you give her a shilling, and the next day you don’t regret your foolish benevolence. To your mind the well-cultivated land looks beautiful. In the monotony of ten acres of turnips, you see a hundred pictures of English farming life, well-fed cattle, good wheat crops, and a little barley for beer. Not less beautiful is the wild gorse-covered moor—never to be reclaimed, I hope—where the wiry, white-headed, bright-eyed huntsman sits motionless on his old white horse, surrounded by the pied pack—a study for Landseer.
“But if the morning ride creates unexecuted cabinet pictures and unwritten sonnets, how delightful ‘the find,’ ‘the run’ along brook-intersected vales, up steep hills, through woodlands, parks, and villages, showing you in byways little gothic churches, ivy-covered cottages, and nooks of beauty you never dreamed of, alive with startled cattle and hilarious rustics.
“Talk of epic poems, read in bowers or at firesides, what poet’s description of a battle could make the blood boil in delirious excitement, like a seat on a long-striding hunter, clearing every obstacle with firm elastic bounds, holding in sight without gaining a yard on the flying pack, while the tip of Reynard’s tail disappears over the wall at the top of the hill!
“And, lastly,—tired, successful, hungry, happy,—the return home, when the shades of evening, closing round, give a fantastic, curious, mysterious aspect to familiar road-side objects! Loosely lounging on your saddle, with half-closed eyes, you almost dream—the gnarled trees grow into giants, cottages into castles, ponds into lakes. The maid of the inn is a lovely princess, and the bread and cheese she brings (while, without dismounting, you let your thirsty horse drink his gruel), tastes more delicious than the finest supper of champagne, with a pâté of tortured goose’s liver, that ever tempted the appetite of a humane, anti-fox hunting, poet-critic, exhausted by a long night of opera, ballet, and Roman punch.
“Are you fond of agriculture?—You may survey all the progress and ignorance of an agricultural district in rides across country; you may sound the depth of the average agricultural mind while trotting from cover to cover. Are you of a social disposition?—What a fund of information is to be gathered from the acquaintances made, returning home after a famous day, ‘thirty-five minutes without a check.’ In a word, fox-hunting affords exercise and healthy excitement without headaches, or heartaches, without late hours, without the ‘terrible next morning’ that follows so many town amusements. Fox-hunting draws men from towns, promotes a love of country life, fosters skill, courage, temper; for a bad-tempered man can never be a good horseman.
“To the right-minded, as many feelings of thankfulness and praise to the Giver of all good will arise, sitting on a fiery horse, subdued to courageous obedience for the use of man, while surveying a pack of hounds ranging an autumnal thicket with fierce intelligence, or looking down on a late moorland, broken up to fertility by man’s skill and industry, as in a solitary walk by the sea-shore or over a Highland hill.”
Oh, give me the man to whom nought comes amiss,
One horse or another—that country or this;
Through falls and bad starts who undauntedly still
Bides up to this motto, “Be with them I will!”
And give me the man who can ride through a run,
Nor engross to himself all the glory when done;
Who calls not each horse that o’ertakes him a screw;
Who loves a run best when a friend sees it too.
Warburton of Arley Hall.
[202-*] The late Sir Richard Sutton, Master of the Quorn, used to say that he liked “to stick to the band and keep hold of the bridle,” that is to say, make his pack hold to the line of the fox as long as they could; but there were times when he could not resist the temptation of a sure “holloa,” and off he would start at a tremendous pace, for he was always a bruising rider, with a blast or two upon his “little merry-toned horn” which he had the art of blowing better than other people. To his intimate friends he used to excuse himself for these occasional outbreaks by quoting a saying of his old huntsman Goosey (late the Duke of Rutland’s)—for whose opinion on hunting matters he had a great respect—“I take leave to say, sir, a fox is a very quick animal, and you must make haste after him during some part of the day, or you will not catch him.”—Letter from Captain Percy Williams, Master of the Rufford Hounds, to the Editor.
CHAPTER XIII.
THE ORIGIN OF FOX-HUNTING.
The origin of modern fox-hunting is involved in a degree of obscurity which can only be attributed to the illiterate character of the originators, the Squire Westerns, who rode all day, and drank all the evening. We need the assistance of the ingenious correspondent of Notes and Queries:—
“It is quite certain that the fox was not accounted a noble beast of chase before the Revolution of 1688; for Gervase Markham classes the fox with the badger in his ‘Cavalrie, or that part of Arte wherein is contained the Choice Trayning and Dyeting of Hunting Horses whether for Pleasure or for Wager. The Third Booke. Printed by Edw. Allde, for Edward White; and are to be sold at his Shop, neare the Little North Door of St. Paule’s Church, at the signe of the Gun. 1616.’ He says:—
“‘The chase of the foxe or badger, although it be a chase of much more swiftness (than the otter), and is ever kept upon firm ground, yet I cannot allow it for training horses, because for the most part it continues in woody rough grounds, where a horse can neither conveniently make foorth his way nor can heed without danger of stubbing. The chase, much better than any of these, is hunting of the bucke or stag, especially if they be not confined within a park or pale, but having liberty to chuse their waies, which some huntsmen call “hunting at force.” When he is at liberty he will break forth his chase into the winde, sometimes four, five, and six miles foorth right: nay, I have myself followed a stag better than ten miles foorth right from the place of his rousing to the place of his death, besides all his windings, turnings, and cross passages. The time of the year for these chases is from the middle of May to middle of September.’ He goes on to say, ‘which being of all chases the worthiest, and belonging only Princes and men of best quality, there is no horse too good to be employed in such a service; yet the horses which are aptest and best to be employed in this chase is the Barbary jennet, or a light-made English gelding, being of a middle stature.’ ‘But to conclude and come to the chase which is of all chases the best for the purpose whereof we are now entreating; it is the chase of the hare, which is a chase both swift and pleasant, and of long endurance; it is a sport ever readie, equally distributed, as well to the wealthie farmer as the great gentleman. It hath its beginning contrary to the stag and bucke; for it begins at Michaelmas, when they end, and is out of date after April, when they first come into season.’
“This low estimate of the fox, at that period, is borne out by a speech of Oliver St. John, to the Long Parliament, against Strafford, quoted by Macaulay, in which he declares—‘Strafford was to be regarded not as a stag or hare, but as a fox, who was to be snared by any means and knocked on the head without pity.’ The same historian relates that red deer were as plentiful on the hills of Hampshire and Gloucestershire, in the reign of Queen Anne, as they are now in the preserved deer-forests of the Highlands of Scotland.
“When wild deer became scarce, the attention of sportsmen was probably turned to the sporting qualities of the fox by the accident of harriers getting upon the scent of some wanderer in the clicketing season, and being led a straight long run. We have more than once met with such accidents on the Devonshire moors, and have known well-bred harriers run clear away from the huntsmen, after an on-lying fox, over an unrideable country.
“Fox-hunting rose into favour with the increase of population attendant on improved agriculture. In a wild woodland country, with earths unstopped, no pack of hounds could fairly run down a fox.
“I have found in private records two instances in which packs of hounds, since celebrated, were turned from hare-hounds to fox-hounds. There are, no doubt, many more. The Tarporley, or Cheshire Hunt, was established in 1762 for Hare-hunting, and held its first meeting on the 14th November in that year. ‘Those who kept harriers brought them in turn.’ It is ordered by the 8th Rule, ‘that if no member of the society kept hounds, or that it were inconvenient for masters to bring them, a pack be borrowed at the expense of the society.’
“The uniform was ordered to be ‘a blue frock with plain yellow mettled buttons, scarlet velvet cape, and double-breasted flannel waistcoat. The coat sleeve to be cut and turned. A scarlet saddle-cloth, bound singly with blue, and the front of the bridle lapt with scarlet.’ The third rule contrasts oddly with our modern meets at half-past ten and half-past eleven o’clock:—‘The harriers shall not wait for any member after eight o’clock in the morning.’
“As to drinking, it was ordered ‘that three collar bumpers be drunk after dinner, and the same after supper; after that every member might do as he pleased in regard to drinking.’
“By another rule every member was ‘to present on his marriage to each member of the hunt, a pair of well-stitched leather breeches,’[213-*] then costing a guinea a pair.
“In 1769, the club commenced Fox-hunting. The uniform was ordered to be changed to ‘a red coat, unbound, with small frock sleeve, a green velvet cape, and green waistcoat, and that the sleeve have no buttons; in every other form to be like the old uniform; and the red saddle-cloth to be bound with green instead of blue, the fronts of the saddles to remain the same.’
“At the same time there was an alteration in regard to drinking orders—‘That instead of three collar bumpers, only one shall be drunk, except a fox be killed above ground, and then one other collar glass shall be drunk to “Fox-hunting.” Among the names of the original members in 1762, we recognise many whose descendants have maintained in this generation their ancestral reputation as sportsmen. For instance, Crewe, Mainwaring, Wilbraham, Smith, Barry, Cholmondeley, Stanley, Grosvenor, Townley, Watkin Williams Wynne, Stanford. But, although the Tarporley Hunt Club has been maintained and thriven through the reigns of George III., George IV., William IV., and Victoria, the pack of hounds, destroyed or removed by various accidents, have been more than once renewed. But the Brocklesby pack has been maintained in the family of the present Earl of Yarborough more than 130 years without break or change of blood; and a written pedigree of the pack has been kept for upwards of 100 years; and it is now the oldest pack in the kingdom. The Cottesmore, which was established before the Brocklesby, has been repeatedly dispersed and has long passed out of the hands of the family of the Noels—by whom it was first established 200 years ago.”
By the kindness of Lord Yarborough, I was permitted to examine all the papers connected with his hounds. Among them is a memorandum dated April 20, 1713: it is agreed “between Sir John Tyrwhitt, Charles Pelham, Esq., and Robert Vyner, Esq. (another name well known in modern hunting annals), that the foxhounds now kept by the said Sir John Tyrwhitt and Mr. Pelham shall be joyned in one pack, and the three have a joint interest in the said hounds for five years, each for one-third of the year.” And it was agreed that the establishment should consist of “sixteen couple of hounds, three horses, and a huntsman and a boy.” So apparently they only hunted one day a week. It would seem that, under the terms of the agreement, the united pack soon passed into the hands of Mr. Pelham, and down to the present day the hounds have been branded with a P. I also found at Brocklesby a rough memoranda of the kennel from 1710 to 1746; after that date the Stud Book has been distinctly kept up without a break. From 1797 the first Lord Yarborough kept journals of the pedigree of hounds in his own handwriting; and since his time by the father, the grandfather, and great-grandfather of the present huntsman.
In the time of the first Lord Yarborough, his country extended over the whole of the South Wold country, part of the now Burton Hunt, and part of North Nottinghamshire; and he used to go down into both those districts for a month at a time to hunt the woodlands. There were, as he told his grandson when he began hunting, only three or four fences between Horncastle and Brigg, a distance of at least thirty miles.
Sir Thomas Tyrwhitt kept harriers at his Manor House of Aylsby, at the foot of the Lincolnshire Wolds, before he turned them into fox-hounds. A barn at Aylsby was formerly known as the “Kennels.” The Aylsby estate has passed, in the female line, into the Oxfordshire family of the Tyrwhitt Drakes, who are so well known as masters of hounds, and first-rate sportsmen; while a descendant of Squire Vyner, of Lincolnshire, has, within the last twenty years, been a master of fox-hounds in Warwickshire and Worcestershire. Mr. Meynell, the father of modern fox-hunting, and founder of the Quorn Hunt, formed his pack chiefly of drafts from the Brocklesby.
Between the period that fox-hunting superseded hare-hunting in the estimation of country squires, and that when the celebrated Mr. Meynell reduced it to a science, and prepared the way for making hunting in Leicestershire almost an aristocratic institution, a great change took place in the breed of the hounds and horses, and in the style of horsemanship. Under the old system, the hounds were taken out before light to hunt back by his drag the fox who had been foraging all night, and set on him as he lay above his stopped-earth, before he had digested his meal of rats or rabbits. The breed of hounds partook more of the long-eared, dew-lapped, heavy, crock-kneed southern hound, or of the bloodhound. Well-bred horses, too, were less plentiful than they are now.
But the change to fast hounds, fast horses, and fast men, took place at a much more distant date than some of our hard-riding young swells of 1854 seem to imagine. A portrait of a celebrated hound, Ringwood, at Brocklesby Park, painted by Stubbs, the well-known animal painter in 1792, presents in an extraordinary manner the type and character of some of the best hounds remotely descended from him, although the Cheshire song says:—
“When each horse wore a crupper, each squire a pigtail,
Ere Blue Cap and Wanton taught greyhounds to scurry,
With music in plenty—oh, where was the hurry?”
But it is more than eighty years since Blue Cap and Wanton ran their race over Newmarket Heath, which for speed has never been excelled by any modern hounds.
And it is a curious fact, that although Somerville, the author of The Chase, died in 1742, his poem contains as clear and correct directions for fox-hunting, with few exceptions, as if it were written yesterday. So that the art must have arrived at perfection within sixty or seventy years. In the long reign of George III. the distinction between town and country was much broken down, and the isolation in which country squires lived destroyed. Packs of hounds, kept for the amusement of a small district, became, as it were, public property. At length the meets of hounds began to be regularly given in the country newspapers.
With every change sportsmen of the old school have prophesied the total ruin of fox-hunting. Roads and canals excited great alarm to our fathers. In our time every one expected to see sport entirely destroyed by railroads; but we were mistaken, and have lived to consider them almost an essential auxiliary of a good hunting district.
Looking back at the manner in which fox-hunting has grown up with our habits and customs, and increased in the number of packs, number of hunting days, and number of horsemen, in full proportion with wealth and population, one cannot help being amused at the simplicity with which Mrs. Beecher Stowe, who comes from a country where people seldom amuse themselves out of doors (except in making money), tells in her “Sunny Memories,” how, when she dined with Lord John Russell, at Richmond, the conversation turned on hunting; and she expressed her astonishment “that, in the height of English civilisation, this vestige of the savage state should remain.” “Thereupon they only laughed, and told stories about fox-hunters.” They might have answered with old Gervase Markham, “Of all the field pleasures wherewith Old Time and man’s inventions hath blessed the hours of our recreations, there is none so excellent as the delight of hunting, being compounded like an harmonious concert of all the best partes of most refined pleasures, as music, dancing, running and ryding.”
Mrs. Stowe’s distinguished countryman, Washington Irving, took a sounder view of our rural pleasures; for he says in his charming “Sketch Book:”—
“The fondness for rural life among the higher classes of the English has had a great and salutary effect upon national character. I do not know a finer race of men than the English gentlemen. Instead of the softness and effeminacy which characterizes the men of rank of most countries, they exhibit a union of elegance and strength, of robustness of frame and freshness of complexion, which I am inclined to attribute to their living so much in the open air, pursuing so eagerly the invigorating recreations of the country.”
[213-*] I think this is a mistake. In a copy of the rules forwarded to me by a Cheshire squire, one of the hereditary members of the club, it is a pair of gloves. But in the notes, the songs and ballads by R. Egerton Warburton, Esq., of Arley Hall, it is printed “breeches.”
CHAPTER XIV.
THE WILD PONIES OF EXMOOR.
In England there are so few wild horses, that the following description of a visit I made to Exmoor a few years ago in the month of September, may be doubly interesting, since Mr. Rarey has shown a short and easy method of dealing with the principal produce of that truly wild region.
The road from South Molton to Exmoor is a gradual ascent over a succession of hills, of which each descent, however steep, leads to a still longer ascent, until you reach the high level of Exmoor. The first six miles are through real Devonshire lanes; on each side high banks, all covered with fern and grass, and topped with shrubs and trees; for miles we were hedged in with hazels, bearing nuts with a luxuriance wonderful to the eyes of those accustomed to see them sold at the corners of streets for a penny the dozen. In spring and summer, wild flowers give all the charms of colour to these game-preserving hedgerows; but a rainy autumn had left no colour among the rich green foliage, except here and there a pyramid of the bright red berries of the mountain ash.
So, up hill and down dale, over water-courses—now merrily trotting, anon descending, and not less merrily trudging up, steep ascents—we proceed by a track as sound as if it had been under the care of a model board of trustees—for the simple reason that it rested on natural rock. We pushed along at an average rate of some six miles an hour, allowing for the slow crawling up hills; passing many rich fields wherein fat oxen of the Devon breed calmly grazed, with sheep that had certainly not been bred on mountains. Once we passed a deserted copper-mine; which, after having been worked for many years, had at length failed, or grown unprofitable, under the competition of the richer mines of Cuba and South Australia. A long chimney, peering above deserted cottages, and a plentiful crop of weeds, was the sole monument of departed glories—in shares and dividends—and mine-captain’s promises.
At length the hedges began to grow thinner; beeches succeeded the hazels; the road, more rugged and bare showed the marks where winter’s rains had ploughed deep channels; and, at the turn of a steep hill, we saw, on the one hand, the brown and blue moor stretching before and above us; and on the other hand, below, like a map, the fertile vale lay unrolled, various in colour, according to the crops, divided by enclosures into every angle from most acute to most obtuse. Below was the cultivation of centuries; above, the turnip—the greatest improvement of modern agriculture—flourished, a deep green, under the protection of fences of very recent date.
One turnpike, and cottages at rare intervals, had so far kept up the idea of population; but now, far as the horizon extended, not a place of habitation was to be seen; until, just in a hollow bend out of the ascending road, we came upon a low white farm-house, of humble pretensions, flanked by a great turf-stack (but no signs of corn; no fold-yard full of cattle), which bore, on a board of great size, in long letters, this imposing announcement, “The Poltimore Arms.” Our driver not being of the usual thirsty disposition of his tribe, we did not test the capabilities of the one hostelry and habitation on Lord Poltimore’s Moorland Estate, but, pushing on, took the reins while our conductor descended to open a gate in a large turf and stone wall. We passed through—left Devon—entered Somerset; and the famous Exmoor estate of 20,000 acres, bounded by a wall forty miles in length, the object of our journey, lay before us.
Very dreary was this part of our journey, although, contrary to the custom of the country, the day was bright and clear, and the September sun defeated the fogs, and kept at a distance the drizzling rains which in winter sweep over Exmoor. We had now left the smooth, rocky-floored road, and were travelling along what most resembled the dry bed of a torrent: turf banks on each side seemed rather intended to define than to divide the property. As far as the eye could reach, the rushy tufted moorland extended, bounded in the distance by lofty, round-backed hills. Thinly scattered about were horned sheep and Devon red oxen. For about two miles we jolted gently on, until, beginning to descend a hill, our driver pointed in the valley below to a spot where stacks of hay and turf guarded a series of stone buildings, saying, “There’s the Grange.” The first glance was not encouraging—no sheep-station in Australia could seem more utterly desolate; but it improved on closer examination. The effects of cultivation were to be seen in the different colours of the fields round the house, where the number of stock grazing showed that more than ordinary means must have been taken to improve the pasture.
We started on Exmoor ponies to ride to Simon’s Bath.
Exmoor, previous to 1818, was the property of the Crown, and leased to Sir Thomas Dyke Acland, who has an estate of a similar character close adjoining. He used its wild pasture (at that time it was without roads) for breeding ponies and feeding Exmoor sheep. There are no traces of any population having ever existed on this forest since Roman times. The Romans are believed to have worked iron-mines on the moor, which have recently been re-opened.
Exmoor consists of 20,000 acres, on an elevation varying from 1000 to 1200 feet above the sea, of undulating table-land, divided by valleys, or “combes,” through which the River Exe—which rises in one of its valleys—with its tributary, the Barle, forces a devious way, in the form of pleasant trout-streams, rattling over and among huge stones, and creeping through deep pools—a very angler’s paradise. Like many similar districts in the Scotch Highlands, the resort of the red deer, it is called a forest, although trees—with the exception of some very insignificant plantations—are as rare as men. After riding all day with a party of explorers, one of them suddenly exclaimed, “Look, there is a man!” A similar expression escaped me when we came in sight of the first tree—a gnarled thorn, standing alone on the side of a valley.
The sides of the steep valleys, of which some include an acre, and others extend for miles, are usually covered with coarse herbage, heather, and bilberry plants, springing from a deep black or red soil: at certain spots a greener hue marks the site of the bogs which impede, and at times almost engulph, the incautious horseman. These bogs are formed by springs, which, having been intercepted by a pan of sediment, and prevented from percolating through the soil, stagnate, and cause, at the same time, decay and vicious vegetation. They are seldom deep, and can usually be reclaimed by subsoiling or otherwise breaking the pan, and so drying the upper layers of bog. Bog-turf is largely employed on Exmoor as fuel. On other precipitous descents, winter torrents have washed away all the earth, and left avalanches of bare loose stones, called, in the western dialect, “crees.” To descend these crees at a slapping pace in the course of a stag-hunt, requires no slight degree of nerve; but it is done, and is not so dangerous as it looks.
Exmoor may be nothing strange to those accustomed to the wild, barren scenery. To one who has known country scenes only in the best-cultivated regions of England, and who has but recently quitted the perpetual roar of London, there is something strangely solemn and impressive in the deep silence of a ride across the forest. Horses bred on the moors, if left to themselves, rapidly pick their way through pools and bogs, and canter smoothly over dry flats of natural meadow; creep safely down the precipitous descents, and climb with scarcely a puff of distress these steep ascents; splash through fords in the trout-streams, swelled by rain, without a moment’s hesitation, and trot along sheep-paths, bestrewed with rolling stones, without a stumble: so that you are perfectly at liberty to enjoy the luxury of excitement, and follow out the winding valleys, and study the rich brown and purple herbage.
It was while advancing over a great brown plain in the centre of the moor, with a deep valley on our left, that our young quick-eyed guide suddenly held up his hand, whispering, “Ride on without seeming to take notice; there are the deer.” A great red stag, lying on the brown grass, had sprung up, and was gazing on our party—too numerous and too brightly attired to be herdsmen, whom he would have allowed to pass without notice. Behind him were clustered four hinds and a calf. They stood still for some minutes watching our every movement, as we tried to approach them in a narrowing circle. Then the stag moved off slowly, with stately, easy, gliding steps, constantly looking back. The hinds preceded him: they reached the edge of the valley, and disappeared. We galloped up, and found that they had exchanged the slow retreat for a rapid flight, clearing every slight or suspicious obstacle with a grace, ease, and swiftness it was delightful to witness. In an incredibly short time they had disappeared, hidden by undulations in the apparently flat moor.
These were one of the few herds still remaining on the forest. In a short time the wild deer of Exmoor will be a matter of tradition; and the hunt, which may be traced back to the time of Queen Elizabeth, will, if continued, descend to the “cart and calf” business.
A sight scarcely less interesting than the deer was afforded by a white pony mare, with her young stock—consisting of a foal still sucking, a yearling, and a two-year-old—which we met in a valley of the Barle. The two-year-old had strayed away feeding, until alarmed by the cracking of our whips and the neighing of its dam, when it came galloping down a steep combe, neighing loudly, at headlong speed. It is thus these ponies learn their action and sure-footedness.
It was a district such as we had traversed—entirely wild, without inclosures, or roads, or fences—that came into the hands of the father of the present proprietor. He built a fence of forty miles around it, made roads, reclaimed a farm for his own use at Simon’s Bath, introduced Highland cattle on the hills, and set up a considerable stud for improving the indigenous race of ponies, and for rearing full-sized horses. These improvements, on which some three hundred thousand pounds were sunk, were not profitable; and it is very doubtful whether any considerable improvements could have been prosecuted successfully, if railways had not brought better markets within reach of the district.
Coming from a part of the country where ponies are the perquisites of old ladies and little children, and where the nearer a well-shaped horse can be got to sixteen hands the better, the first feeling on mounting a rough little unkemped brute, fresh from the moor, barely twelve hands (four feet) in height, was intensely ridiculous. It seemed as if the slightest mistake would send the rider clean over the animal’s head. But we learned soon that the indigenous pony, in certain useful qualities, is not to be surpassed by animals of greater size and pretensions.
From the Grange to Simon’s Bath (about three miles), the road, which runs through the heart of Exmoor proper, was constructed, with all the other roads in this vast extra-parochial estate, by the father of the present proprietor, F. Knight, Esq., of Wolverly House, Worcestershire, M.P. for East Worcestershire (Parliamentary Secretary of the Poor Law Board, under Lord Derby’s Government). In the course of a considerable part of the route, the contrast of wild moorland and high cultivation may be found only divided by the carriage-way.
At length, descending a steep hill, we came in sight of a view—of which Exmoor and its kindred district in North Devon affords many—a deep gorge, at whose precipitous base a trout-stream rolled along, gurgling and plashing, and winding round huge masses of white spar. The far bank sometimes extended out into natural meadows, where red cattle and wild ponies grazed, and sometimes rose precipitously. At one point, where both banks were equally steep and lofty, the far side was covered by a plantation with a cover of under-wood; but no trees of sufficient magnitude to deserve the name of a wood. This is a spot famous in the annals of a grand sport that soon will be among things of the past—Wild Stag Hunting. In this wood more than once the red monarch of Exmoor has been roused, and bounded over the rolling plains beyond, amid the shouts of excited hunters and the deep cry of the hounds, as with a burring scent they dashed up the steep breast of the hill.
But there was no defiant stag there that day; so on we trotted on our shaggy sure-footed nags, beneath a burning sun—a sun that sparkled on the flowing waters as they gleamed between far distant hills, and threw a golden glow upon the fading tints of foliage and herbage, and cast deep shadows from the white overhanging rocks.
Next we came to the deep pool that gives the name to Simon’s Bath, where some unhappy man of that name, in times when deer were more plentiful than sheep, drowned himself for love, or in madness, or both—long before roads, farms, turnip crops, a school, and a church were dreamed of on Exmoor. Here fences give signs of habitation and cultivation. A rude, ancient bridge, with two arches of different curves, covered with turf, without side battlements or rails, stretches across the stream, and leads to a small house built for his own occupation by the father of Mr. Knight, pending the completion of a mansion of which the unfinished walls of one wing rise like a dismantled castle from the midst of a grove of trees and ornamented shrubs.
A series of gentle declivities, plantations, a winding, full-flowing stream, seem only to require a suitable edifice and the hand of an artist gardener to make, at comparatively trifling expense, an abode unequalled in luxuriant and romantic beauty. We crossed the stream—not by the narrow bridge, but by the ford; and, passing through the straggling stone village of Simon’s Bath, arrived in sight of the field where the Tattersall of the West was to sell the wild and tame horse stock bred on the moors. It was a field of some ten acres and a half, forming a very steep slope, with the upper path comparatively flat, the sloping side broken by a stone quarry, and dotted over with huge blocks of granite. At its base flowed an arm of the stream we had found margining our route. A substantial, but, as the event proved, not sufficiently high stone fence bounded the whole field. On the upper part, a sort of double pound, united by a narrow neck, with a gate at each end, had been constructed of rails, upwards of five feet in height. Into the first of these pounds, by ingenious management, all the ponies, wild and tame, had been driven. When the sale commenced, it was the duty of the herdsmen to separate two at a time, and drive them through the narrow neck into the pound before the auctioneer. Around a crowd of spectators of every degree were clustered—‘squires and clergymen, horse-dealers and farmers, from Northamptonshire and Lincolnshire, as well as South Devon, and the immediate neighbourhood.
These ponies are the result of crosses made years ago with Arab, Dongola, and thorough-bred stallions, on the indigenous race of Exmoors, since carefully culled from year to year for the purpose of securing the utmost amount of perfection among the stallions and mares reserved for breeding purposes. The real Exmoor seldom exceeds twelve hands; has a well-shaped head, with very small ears; but the thick round shoulder peculiar to all breeds of wild horses, which seem specially adapted for inclemencies of the weather; indeed, the whole body is round, compact, and well ribbed. The Exmoor has very good quarters and powerful hocks; legs straight, flat, and clean; the muscles well developed by early racing up and down steep mountain sides while following their dams. In about forty lots the prevailing colours were bay, brown, and gray; chestnuts and blacks were less frequent, and not in favour with the country people, many of whom seemed to consider that the indigenous race had been deteriorated by the sedulous efforts made and making to improve it—an opinion which we could not share after examining some of the best specimens, in which a clean blood-like head and increased size seemed to have been given, without any diminution of the enduring qualities of the Exmoor.
The sale was great fun. Perched on convenient rails, we had the whole scene before us. The auctioneer rather hoarse and quite matter-of-fact; the ponies wildly rushing about the first enclosure, were with difficulty separated into pairs to be driven in the sale section; when fairly hemmed in through the open gate, they dashed and made a sort of circus circuit, with mane and tail erect, in a style that would draw great applause at Astley’s. Then there was the difficulty of deciding whether the figures marked in white on the animal’s hind-quarters were 8 or 3 or 5. Instead of the regular trot up and down of Tattersall’s, a whisk of a cap was sufficient to produce a tremendous caper. A very pretty exhibition was made by a little mare, with a late foal about the size of a setter dog.[228-*]
The sale over, a most amusing scene ensued: every man who had bought a pony wanted to catch it. In order to clear the way, each lot, as sold, as wild and nearly as active as deer, had been turned into the field. A joint-stock company of pony-catchers, headed by the champion wrestler of the district—a hawk-nosed, fresh-complexioned, rustic Don Juan—stood ready to be hired, at the moderate rate of sixpence per pony caught and delivered. One carried a bundle of new halters; the others, warmed by a liberal distribution of beer, seemed as much inspired by the fun as the sixpence. When the word was given, the first step was to drive a herd into the lowest corner of the field in as compact a mass as possible. The bay, gray, or chestnut, from that hour doomed to perpetual slavery and exile from his native hills, was pointed out by the nervous anxious purchaser. Three wiry fellows crept cat-like among the mob, sheltering behind some tame cart-horses; on a mutual signal they rushed on the devoted animal; two—one bearing a halter—strove to fling each one arm round its neck, and with one hand to grasp its nostrils—while the insidious third, clinging to the flowing tail; tried to throw the poor quadruped off its balance. Often they were baffled in the first effort, for with one wild spring the pony would clear the whole lot, and flying with streaming mane and tail across the brook up the field, leave the whole work to be recommenced. Sometimes when the feat was cleverly performed, pony and pony-catchers were to be seen all rolling on the ground together; the pony yelling, snorting, and fighting with his fore feet, the men clinging on like the Lapithæ and the Centaurs, and how escaping crushed ribs or broken legs it is impossible to imagine. On one occasion a fine brown stallion dashed away, with two plucky fellows hanging on to his mane: rearing, plunging, fighting with his fore feet, away he bounded down a declivity among the huge rocks, amid the encouraging cheers of the spectators: for a moment the contest was doubtful, so tough were the sinews, and so determined the grip of Davy, the champion; but the steep bank of the brook, down which the brown stallion recklessly plunged, was too much for human efforts (in a moment they all went together into the brook), but the pony, up first, leaped the opposite bank and galloped away, whinnying in short-lived triumph.
After a series of such contests, well worth the study of artists not content with pale copies from marbles or casts, the difficulty of haltering these snorting steeds—equal in spirit and probably in size to those which drew the car of Boadicea—was diminished by all those uncaught being driven back to the pound; and there, not without furious battles, one by one enslaved.
Yet even when haltered, the conquest was by no means concluded. Some refused to stir, others started off at such a pace as speedily brought the holder of the halter on his nose. One respectable old gentleman, in gray stockings and knee-breeches, lost his animal in much less time than it took him to extract the sixpence from his knotted purse.
Yet in all these fights there was little display of vice; it was pure fright on the part of the ponies that made them struggle so. A few days’ confinement in a shed, a few carrots, with a little salt, and gentle treatment, reduces the wildest of the three-year-olds to docility. When older they are more difficult to manage. It was a pretty sight to view them led away, splashing through the brook—conquered, but not yet subdued.
In the course of the evening a little chestnut stallion, twelve hands, or four feet in height, jumped, at a standing jump, over the bars out of a pound upward of five feet from the ground, only just touching the top rail with his hind feet.
We had hoped to have a day’s wild stag hunting, but the hounds were out on the other side of the country. However, we had a few runs with a scratch pack of harriers after stout moorland hares. The dandy school, who revel in descriptions of coats and waistcoats, boots and breeches, and who pretend that there is no sport without an outfit which is only within the reach of a man with ten thousand a year, would no doubt have been extremely disgusted with the whole affair. We rose at five o’clock in the morning and hunted puss up to her form (instead of paying a shilling to a boy to turn her out) with six couples, giving tongue most melodiously. Viewing her away we rattled across the crispy brown moor, and splattered through bogs with a loose rein, in lunatic enjoyment, until we checked at the edge of a deep “combe.” Then—when the old yellow Southerner challenged, and our young host cheered him with “Hark to Reveller, hark!”—to hear the challenge and the cheer re-echoed again from the opposite cliff; and—as the little pack in full cry again took up the running, and scaled the steep ascent—to see our young huntsman, bred in these hills, go rattling down the valleys, and to follow by instinct, under a vague idea, not unmixed with nervous apprehensions of the consequences of a slip, that what one could do two could, was vastly exciting, and amusing, and, in a word, decidedly jolly. So with many facts, some new ideas, and a fine stock of health from a week of open air, I bade farewell to my hospitable hosts and to romantic Exmoor.
[228-*] According to tradition, the Exmoor ponies are descended from horses brought from the East by the Phœnicians, who traded there with Cornwall for metals.
POSTSCRIPT.
THE HUNTING MAN’S HEALTH.
Without health there can be no sport. A man at the commencement of the hunting often requires condition more than his horse, especially if engaged in sedentary occupations, and averse to summer riding or walking. Of course the proper plan is to train by walking or riding. I remember, some years ago, when three months of severe mental occupation had kept me entirely out of the saddle, going out in Northamptonshire, fortunately admirably mounted, when the hounds were no sooner in cover than they were out of it, “running breast high,” five minutes after I had changed from my seat in a dog-cart to the saddle. We had thirty-five minutes’ sharp run, without a check, and for the latter part of the run I was perfectly beaten, almost black in the face, and scarcely able to hold my horse together. I did not recover from this too sudden exertion for many days. Those who are out of condition will do well to ride, instead of driving to cover.
In changing from town to country life, between the different hours of rising and hearty meals—the result of fresh air and exercise—the stomach and bowels are very likely to get out of order. It is as well, therefore, to be provided with some mild digestive pills: violent purges are as injurious to men as to horses, and more inconvenient.
The enema is a valuable instrument, which a hunting man should not be without, as its use, when you are in strong exercise, is often more advisable than medicine.
But one of the most valuable aids to the health and spirits of a hard-riding man is the Sitz Bath, which, taken morning and evening, cold or tepid, according to individual taste, has even more advantageous effects on the system than a complete bath. It braces the muscles, strengthens the nerves, and tends to keep the bowels open. Sitz baths are made in zinc, and are tolerably portable; but in a country place you may make shift with a tub half-filled with water. In taking this kind of bath, it is essential that the parts not in the water should be warm and comfortable. For this end, in cold weather, case your feet and legs in warm stockings, and cover your person and tub with a poncho, through the hole of which you can thrust your head. In default of a poncho, a plaid or blanket will do, and in warm weather a sheet. If you begin with tepid water, you will soon be able to bear cold, as after the first shock the cold disappears. The water must not reach higher than your hips, rather under than over. The time for a Sitz bath varies from ten to twenty minutes, not longer, during which you may read or smoke; but then you will need sleeves, for it is essential that you should be covered all the time. I often take a cup of coffee in this bath, it saves time in breakfasting. In the illustration, the blanket has been turned back to show the right position.