Is Foxhunting Doomed?
The above question, though not a very cheerful one to mention near the commencement of the hunting season, is one which has nevertheless to be faced by all hunting men, with whom the answer must chiefly rest. The reply, as to most complex questions, must be both “yes” and “no.” Geographically and in the very nature of things, hunting is doomed in the ever-increasing black countries of mines and factories, of bricks and mortar, of railways and canals, and with the modern innovation of light railways even crossing our fields.
When even Salisbury Plain has become a military camp, who can say that Dartmoor and Exmoor will not in another generation re-echo the sound of bugle and trumpet instead of the horn of the hunter?
Still, where estates are large, the Master of Foxhounds, patient and realising the changed conditions of modern hunting and fox preserving, and the farmers long-suffering, as they will still be if properly treated, foxhunting may yet survive for another century at least.
What hunting men must realise and acknowledge is that, now that the feudal system is as extinct as the dodo, and scarcely one applicant for a vacant farm can be found where we used to have twenty, hunting can only be carried on through the goodwill of the occupier of the land which is ridden over, whether landowner or tenant farmer. In the good old times, before the disastrous season of 1879 and the extension of foreign competition, when farmers were rich and the “fields” were small and consisted chiefly of his own friends and neighbours, the farmer as depicted in Punch might be the first to ignore the warning cry of “’ware wheat!” on his own farm, but now that times are permanently bad but few farmers can afford to hunt, and railway facilities—and now that modern Juggernaut the motor car (patronised even by masters of foxhounds who will probably soon adopt a motor-hound van)—bring strangers by the hundred who know not wheat from grass nor seeds from bare stubble, and care less, and spend nothing in the neighbourhood, no wonder the crushed farmer turns, and some even insist on their undoubted legal right of warning off the trespasser, and if necessary protecting their own property vi et armis (with a pitchfork). Hunting, formerly arising out of the absolute rights of the lord over his serf, continued through the mutual good feeling between landlord and tenant, but now that many landlords are absentees and scarcely know a single tenant by sight, they cannot expect to let their land while still retaining it for sporting purposes without compensating the tenant or recognising the sacrifices which he endures for sport. One who was “blooded” by that best of sportsmen, the late Sir Charles Slingsby, half a century ago, at the early age of six years, and has had a life-long experience of every phase of country life both as landowner and farmer, while equally keen on both hunting and shooting, can see a good deal of both sides of this question.
To begin at the top, though the Master of Foxhounds, especially nowadays, has of all men the most need of tact and the patience of Job, how many are there in possession of those estimable qualities?
Although James Pigg had his prototype, dear old Jorrocks must be regarded as somewhat of a caricature; but Lord Scamperdale and his bully, Jack Spraggon, were taken from real characters, and the race, I fear, is not now altogether extinct. I have known a master, an old country squire and no ignorant upstart, abuse as a vulpicide another poor crippled squire in his carriage before the whole field, with the not unnatural result that he who for fifty years had preserved foxes throughout his vast extent of coverts solely for the benefit of others, as he could never hunt himself, went home and ordered every fox on his estate to be killed for two years as an object lesson; thereby quite ruining one day in every week. One cannot approve of such wholesale punishing of the innocent with the guilty, but cannot wonder at it. The same master, before throwing off, abused publicly on his own doorstep at a meet another landowner from whose five-acre covert I had myself had the satisfaction of holloaing away no less than seven foxes while shooting the week before. Another Master of Foxhounds in my hearing slanged the best of sportsmen and a keen fox preserver because he himself in a fit of temper had drawn blank at a hard gallop two hundred acres of coverts from which, to my own knowledge, five foxes at least had been halloaed away. My own Master of Foxhounds, a real good sort and an intimate friend, once received me, until I laughed him out of it instead of taking offence myself, with unaccountable coolness at Peterborough Hound Show; though I think he might have guessed that the unpleasing present which he had that morning received of the pads of a litter of cubs was scarcely likely to be sent by a keen preserver of foxes for twenty years with the well-known postmark of his own parish. Obviously I myself was the most injured as well as insulted party. Still, happily, these cases are exceptions in an experience of some scores of masters in every part of England, and I may especially mention the courtesy shown to a stranger in days of old in the Croome and Blackmore Vale countries.
It is vain for a Master of Foxhounds, not himself a landowner, to state that foxes do no harm to game, to me who have counted eighteen nests, say one hundred brace of partridges, destroyed around a single field; not that one grudged it, but one likes sometimes to have one’s sacrifices a little appreciated. We feel well repaid for the hundreds of rabbits consumed in the summer if only one of the right sort is found in our coverts when needed, and the master cheerily shouts as he dashes past, “I knew we could always depend on you, old chap.” Again, masters and fields, especially non-subscribers from towns, do not recognise the difficulty of showing foxes when needed. A good fox is not like a hand-reared pheasant, a tame animal to come when whistled for, but a wild animal going far afield and lying out in turnips or taking refuge in the tops of pollard trees; coverts may have been lately shot, timber may have been felled, a strange dog may have hunted them; worst of all, a fox may have been chopped there, or a score of things happened of which the grumblers are ignorant. A reputed millionaire Master of Foxhounds in a grass country brought his oats, hay and straw from abroad, losing hundreds of pounds of goodwill from the aggrieved farmers for every ten pounds saved. And now for the average man, who hunts to ride, or often only to sport pink at dinners or balls, and actually seems to believe himself that he confers a favour on the poor farmer by ruining his crops and breaking his fences and leaving his gates open, and whom he will sometimes curse incontinently if he is the least slow in throwing open his gates to the trespasser, to whom in rare cases he may throw a copper as to a beggar, contemptuously. Such an one buys everything at a distance, not only clothes, boots, saddlery and horse clothing, and stable utensils, but hay, corn and straw, while he buys his horses from the London dealer and not from the farmer. The chief reason of this is not only thoughtlessness but the fact that too many masters are morally the slaves of the servants who rob them, and who, with an ignorant, timid, or indifferent master, will often represent local goods as inferior, and even make them so to secure the commissions, as the cook does with eggs, poultry, meat, &c. It always puzzles me, too, why hunting men will pay two to three hundred guineas to a London dealer for a pig in a poke rather than buy a hunter from the breeder and trainer whose animal they can see day after day doing an excellent performance with hounds, and of which they may have any reasonable practical trial in the field before buying. The grooms can make the purchase a failure if they do not get substantial “regulars,” and their master is a duffer, and many men explain that with dealers they can swap and change, forgetting that it is the dealer and not themselves who is sure to benefit by each exchange.
It astonishes me as a practical breeder how valuable studs can be reared as well as herds of pedigree cattle and flocks of sheep in the Shires, where on every day in the week, Sundays only excepted, any one of half a dozen packs may stampede the lot, causing laming, staking and slipping, or casting their young; for it is trouble and risk enough with horses alone to have to round up and shut up all one’s brood mares and young stock rather than have them excited and dispersed over the adjoining parish through gaps and gates left open. It is not the fliers of the hunt who do the most damage, as experience teaches them to ride at the post or stiffest part of a fence that a horse will clear, instead of blundering through, but the ignoble army of skirters, who will tear down any fence in their efforts to regain the safety of the hard high road. Fortunately, the boastful thruster who shows off by turning a somersault through a new gate when hounds are not running is rare. Much might be done by reducing the quantity and improving the quality of the second horsemen, especially in the crowded Shires.
To sum up; the hunting man would do well in his own interest to show appreciation of the self-denial of the farmer by buying horses, forage and all that he can in the country which he affects, and avoid as far as possible all injury to growing crops, especially when hounds are not running or scent is bad—the days are only too few and choice when one must go straight and fast or go home—and then little harm results. Fences need seldom be broken nor gates left open where stock is, and any man who can afford to hunt can afford to pay a good subscription to enable the Hunt to compensate the farmer by removing and replacing the barbed wire, or, better still, supplying timber for fencing instead, and tactfully recouping Mrs. Farmer for loss of her just perquisite, poultry, even if, with the privilege of her sex, she sometimes opens her mouth a little widely and loudly. I have heard masters of hounds explaining to those who, like myself, have seen “bold Reynard” (see Sponge) carrying off fowls in broad daylight, that foxes do not injure poultry. Unfortunately the vulpine instinct is to prepare for a rainy day, and though we are assured that foxes leave home preserves alone as a reserve fund, it makes little difference whether neighbours or “travellers” clear off and bury the feathered contents of our henroost for future use, whether hungry or not, as the best fed dog will do with a number of bones.
RETURNING FROM MARKET, 1838.
(From Sir Walter Gilbey’s paper on “Farms and Small Holdings.” Live Stock Journal Almanac 1906.)
Photo by W. Shayer, Senr.
Still, fortunately, Mr. and Mrs. Farmer are a good sort, the former with an innate love of sport and the latter not impervious to soft sawder if laid on judiciously; and if game preservers will unselfishly remember the lines, even if exaggerated, that
“One fox upon foot more enjoyment will bring
Than twice twenty thousand pheasants on wing;”
and if each Master of Foxhounds will spend as much of the needful as he can locally, and remember that in the twentieth century men do not come out to be d——d; and those who take part in the pleasures of the chase, would subscribe to the great and increasing expenses of the packs which they favour (?) with their presence, observe the courtesy which they would show when “standing down,” and show some consideration for farmers and their gates, fences and crops, I have no fear but that the farmer will do his part as he has hitherto done in the more prosperous past; and to the question as to whether hunting is doomed to extinction or not, we may hopefully and confidently respond, in the words of the good old song:
Oh, perish the thought, may the day never come
When the gorse is uprooted, the foxhound is dumb.
J. J. D. J.