The Eton College hunt

by Anthony Crommelin Crossley

But let us describe a day’s sport with beagles, starting with the supposition that the master is sufficiently energetic to be up and at it by six o’clock on a beautiful October morning; for not only are hares scarce in the district over which he proposes to hunt, the consequence being that he will have a better chance of a find by getting on the trail, but he also desires to give his young entry the lesson for which running a hare’s trail up to her form is so admirably adapted.

There has been rain, but it passed away on the previous afternoon, and after a brilliant night the ground is covered with a heavy dew. Our huntsman is wise to begin operations thus early, for now scent is probably good; whereas when the sun has reached any height the atmospheric conditions will, as a rule, become less favourable.

Let us linger for a moment by the gate, where hounds are clustered round their huntsman, some jumping up at him, and others making an unprofessional use of their tuneful voices, a transgression which, however, elicits but a faint-hearted rate, for our huntsman loves his hounds intensely, and feels almost inclined to encourage a breach of etiquette which only enhances his already keen sense of enjoyment.

It is a charming scene. A country roadside which forms the boundary between some rough grass meadows leading down to a stream on the one side, and a heather common on the other, gently undulating towards a piece of water, to which the wild duck are just coming in from the stream where they have spent the night. Even now a few duck are to be seen overhead, the whistle of their wings first making us aware of their presence. They are circling high above us, not daring to pitch, and will probably take a fresh flight to another and larger sheet of water about three miles further on.

We must, however, return to the pack. The Master is moving off, and as he waves the pack over a bank into the heather any hound throwing his tongue will be severely dealt with if the whipper-in can only get near enough to administer one cut, accompanied by “Ware riot, Melody!” for business has begun.

Ten couple of hounds there are in all, and two couple of them are unentered. Melody is one of these, and while there must be no question of sparing the rod, we have a fellow-feeling for her exuberance of spirits. The delinquent already has her stern up once more (it was momentarily lowered on receipt of the whipper-in’s practical rebuke), and is as busy as any of them, flinging here and there, and pushing her way into a cluster of hounds which look remarkably busy, for, yes! they have already struck a line, no doubt of a hare returning from feeding in the grass meadows adjoining the common.

The huntsman maintains a masterly inactivity, merely rating any hound which shows an inclination to dwell on the line. Now they are running quite merrily across the heather, but come to a stop where the hare has taken to one of the paths which abound hereabouts. She has run the path for quite eighty yards, and only the older hounds can carry the line along it, the body of the pack casting about, and showing a slight inclination to run heel. The huntsman, however, holds them forward, walking quietly along the path, well in rear of those hounds who are carrying the line.

These tactics result in a pretty hit, for, although the hare has run the road for eighty yards, she has run her foil for at least twenty-five before flinging off, so that the body hit the line out of the path while the old hounds are still picking out the scent further along; but these at once go to cry, and the whole pack flings briskly forward. The huntsman allows them very ample room, knowing that puss has very likely made her form not far away. See! they have overrun the scent, and, as they spread back fan-like to recover the line, up jumps the hare and off they go, running in view for a short distance, and then taking up the line with a chorus which at once proclaims a scent.

The whipper-in is lying wide, and succeeds in turning the hare out of a broad sandy path which would otherwise undoubtedly have caused a check; and away they go over the open heather at a pace which tries our wind terribly. The pack head straight for a sort of island farm which lies on a hill side in the middle of the heather, cross it, and, emerging once more at the top of the hill, run beautifully over the heathery flat until they come to a main road, where they check long enough to enable the huntsman to get up to them.

A pretty picture is displayed! A fine stretch of heather extending for some miles, through which the old main road from London to Portsmouth runs, with now and again considerable stretches of fir woods forming a dark fringe to the view, whilst over the fir tops the sun, just emerging, adds a sparkling brightness to the landscape, which would be alone sufficient to repay the early start. The busy pack makes a beautiful foreground, flinging here and there in search of the momentarily vanished clue. Mark that veteran of the pack, well known for his wide and independent casts; the huntsman’s eye is on him, and he moves quietly in his direction, without, however, so much as whistling to his hounds.