Experience teaches us that happiness is unattainable without reciprocity. I do not mean that in all our actions we are to look out for an equivalent; reason and Scripture equally denounce such selfishness; but if in our amusements and recreations we are partially dependent on others, some attention must inevitably be paid to the feelings and predilections of our fellow-mortals. The galling yoke of feudalism is long ago removed; and it is better to be loved than dreaded. The rod of iron may chastise, but cannot win the affections, nor repress resentment; which, if not cancelled by kindness will, sooner or later, burst forth with the devastating fury of an avalanche. When a perfect understanding is established between sportsmen and farmers, game is seldom wanting, and every facility is afforded in following the hounds. A more harmonious feeling of unanimity and respect I never beheld, than at a hunting feast the other day at the house of Mr Froude, the master of a crack pack of harriers in the North of Devon. I may say the crack pack; in which Nimrod will, I think, agree, as he has signalised some of the hounds in your magazine, particularly old Guilty. We need not refer to Buffon for arguments to prove the sagacity of the canine species, as old Guilty has given abundant proof of it. The efficient number of the pack is about twenty-five couples; the hunting days are Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays: Guilty, though kept at a farmhouse nearly three miles distant from the kennel, always attended of her own accord on hunting mornings. If too late, one of the servants had only to point to her the direction the hounds went, and she invariably joined them without the aid of a compass.
At the end of a hunting season it is a custom with many masters of hounds to invite the yeomen and farmers over whose land they hunt, to dinner, thereby verifying the old adage, finis coronat opus. The other day I was present at one of those dinners or hunting feasts given by Mr Froude, where there were from fifty to sixty persons enjoying the good things of life, and where
“The story ran in such familiar strains,
With so much humour and so little pains.”
On such occasions particular customs are strictly observed. The host resigns his domestic sovereignty into the hands of his guests, who appoint a Tapster from their own body, a Sword to enforce fines, and a Judge to settle disputes and to keep up ancient customs, who, in this instance, executed his office with the impartiality of a Rhadamanthus, particularly in seeing that his Sword performed his duty with justice in the sconcing department. On a table were huge flagons of foaming old October, with four magnums, or, as the classics say, magna, of spirits, surrounded with drinking cups, horns, and glasses, marked with hunting devices. Among other toasts, “the King” was drunk, while standing, at one draught, in tolerably large tumblers: and those who were not particular in doing so were fined, as his Judgeship said, for cutting His Majesty in two—such being the established rule handed down from their forefathers. At all events the toast was a loyal one, and I wonder King Charles had it not inserted among his golden rules. Youngsters on their first introduction had to pledge the Judge in a glass of neat spirits; and after this matriculating ceremony was over they were considered as efficient members. One of the initiated gave us a hunting song; and his memory having failed him in three or four instances, the inexorable Judge fined him a wineglassful of brandy for each omission; and ere he finished his melody, his head reclined on the mahogany, and he softly reposed himself in the arms of Morpheus. I was excused fines, not being a member of the club.
“It always has been thought discreet
To know the company you meet;
And sure there may be secret danger
In talking much before a stranger.
Agreed: what then? then drink your ale,
I’ll pledge you, and repeat my tale.”
His Lordship the Judge now stood up to propose the toast—viz., “Success to the merry harriers and their worthy master! Whoever does not preserve game, and allow him to follow his hounds wherever he pleases, is a craven, et cetera, et cetera!”—(what the et ceteras are I must beg leave to be silent)—which was received with tumultuous applause. The contents of the cups disappeared with such a magic rapidity that Macbeth’s words, “Damn’d be he who first cries hold! enough!” would have been an exceedingly appropriate motto. I did not see the finale; but I saw quite enough to convince me that a little attention timely applied has gained Mr Froude the goodwill of all his neighbours. Our English yeomen are composed of too tough materials to be driven; they require as much management as a restive horse; however, with a little tact they can be easily led. A rough, generous, and hospitable yeoman is a perfect epitome of John Bull. Who can read Sir W. Scott’s description of Dandy Dinmont without a feeling of admiration? The neighbouring poor also partook of the entertainment; and the day is always looked upon as a jubilee by the villagers.
Mr Froude is generally allowed to be one of the first hare-hunters in the West of England. One glance of his is sufficient to find out the good and bad points of a dog. His first instructions he received at the hands of the late Mr Karslake, and it may be justly said of him that he was bred up at the feet of Gamaliel. The moment his leading-strings were thrown aside, he set about organising a pack of harriers, to which he has ever since devoted the greater part of his time. Hounds are kept by many for the sake of effect and parade, by way of getting a name in the Sporting World; but it cannot be said so in this instance. Sportsmen being so few in the neighbourhood of Knowstone, the field mostly consists of persons staying at the Vicarage, a few surrounding friends, and an occasional wandering lover of the chase, attracted by the fame of the Knowstone pack. The hounds, in size, shape, and colour, bear a wonderful similarity to each other. I recollect once, on meeting the Tivy-side Hunt on the Welsh Hills, my remarking that one of the hounds bore a strong similarity to Mr Froude’s breed of hounds, which I found on inquiry came from Devonshire—so strong is the family likeness through the whole pack. When a man’s principal attention has for years been devoted to the breed of hounds, it must ultimately arrive at the maximum of perfection, particularly if the person, like Mr Froude, understands his business well. The prominent points of his hounds are:—height nineteen inches, considerable length of back, immense strong loins, with firm and well-shaped haunches, productive of speed and durability: they are particularly quick in all their movements: one should have the flying arrow of Ababis to follow them; and their note is sharp and cutting. A friend of mine used to say that “a deep-mouthed Southern hound” sounded well in poetry, but it always reminded him of a cathedral bell. The deep and solemn tone of Great Tom is very well at Lincoln; but the sharp and cheering cry of harriers is much more invigorating to the spirits on a raw and cold morning on the bleak hills of Devonshire.
Had Nimrod time during his Devonshire Tour to call on Mr Froude, he would have had many amusing anecdotes. One of those whose minds are chiefly devoted to the admiration of their pretty selves happened once to join the Knowstone pack, and kept on in spite of hints, though pointedly given, clearing banks and furze bushes to the manifest danger of the dogs’ lives. A hare at last was started; off went the parson and the dandy side by side until they came to the margin of a bog. His reverence instantly tightened one of his bridle-reins, and continued to spur his nag, which gave it the appearance of shying. The dandy went in neck and crop; and thus the nuisance was got rid of by “his own act and deed,” as the lawyers say. However, he was soon landed, and had every attention paid him. This I had from the late poor Jack Harvey, who was a tolerable master of the laconic style. The late Marsh, Fauntleroy & Company used to be his bankers. I recollect when he wanted the needful to go to Warwickshire, his addressing Mr Marsh thus: “Dear Agent, send me some coin. I am yours, etc.” When his house in Devon was burnt, he acquainted his guardian with the accident thus: “Dear Nunky, I have no domus: ditto is burnt.” His brother, who was then studying at St John’s, Cambridge, offered him his purse: for his kind offer he was answered thus: “Dear George, I thank you for your Balm of Gilead letter; send me fifty pounds.” Coulton himself could not have improved on this.
Mr Froude has hunted the fox more frequently for the last two years than he used to do, and has bred two couples of hounds out of a favourite harrier bitch of his own by a clever foxhound from the celebrated blood of George Templar, Esq.: these are reserved expressly to go with the harriers, when drawing for a fox, to keep them steady to the varmint. Here instinct is clearly shown on the drag; and when the pack is well settled to the line of scent, the quickness and vivacity of the merry harrier are quickly apparent. They have this season, I hear, had some brilliant runs, an animated account of which has been given in our provincial papers by a gentleman from the neighbourhood of Exeter, attracted to visit the pack by common fame, like the Queen of Sheba, when she paid a visit to Solomon.
The hunting season is now over; the horn is replaced in its case; the whip is suspended from the nail, denoting a suspension of field sports. The fox and the hare are allowed to revel unmolestedly over hill and dale, secure from the thrilling “tally-ho” and “gone away” of the keen and determined sportsman. A straggling hound may now and then steal unperceived to remind them of their implacable foes. However, the period will arrive