If so fortunate as to view him, and near enough to distinguish that it is the hunted fox, think twice before you holloa. More time will be lost than gained by getting their heads up, if the hounds are still on the line, and even when at fault, it is questionable whether they do not derive less assistance than excitement from the human voice. Much depends on circumstances, much on the nature of the pack. I will not say you are never to open your mouth, but I think that if the inmates of our deaf and dumb asylums kept hounds, these would show sport above the average, and would seldom go home without blood. Noise is by no means a necessary concomitant of the chase, and a hat held up, or a quiet whisper to the huntsman, is of more help to him than the loudest and clearest view-holloa that ever wakened the dead “from the lungs of John Peel in the morning.”
We have hitherto supposed that you are riding a good horse, in a good place, and have been so fortunate as to meet with none of those reverses that are nevertheless to be expected on occasion, particularly when hounds run hard and the ground is deep. The best of hunters may fall, the boldest of riders be defeated by an impracticable fence. Hills, bogs, a precipitous ravine, or even an unlucky turn in a wood may place you at a mile’s disadvantage, almost before you have realised your mistake, and you long for the wings of an eagle, while cursing the impossibility of taking back so much as a single minute from the past. It seems so easy to ride a run when it is over!
But do not therefore despair. Pull yourself well together, no less than your horse. Keep steadily on at a regulated pace, watching the movements of those who are with the hounds, and ride inside them, every bend. No fox goes perfectly straight—he must turn sooner or later—and when the happy moment arrives be ready to back your luck, and pounce! But here, again, I would have your valour tempered with discretion. If your horse does not see the hounds, be careful how you ride him at such large places as he would face freely enough in the excitement of their company. Not one hunter in fifty is really fond of jumping, and we hardly give them sufficient credit for the good-humour with which they accept it as a necessity for enjoyment of the sport. Avoid water especially, unless you have reason to believe the bottom is good, and you can go in and out. Even under such favourable conditions, look well to your egress. There is never much difficulty about the entrance, and do not forget that the middle is often the shallowest, and always the soundest part of a brook. When tempted therefore to take a horse, that you know is a bad water-jumper, at this serious obstacle; you are most likely to succeed, if you only ask him to jump half-way. Should he drop his hind-legs under the farther bank, he will probably not obtain foothold to extricate himself, particularly with your weight on his back.
We are all panic-stricken, and with reason, at the idea of being submerged, but we might wade through many more brooks than we usually suppose. I can remember seeing the Rowsham, generally believed to be bottomless, forded in perfect safety by half-a-dozen of the finest and heaviest bullocks the Vale of Aylesbury ever fattened into beef. This, too, close to a hunting-bridge, put there by Baron Rothschild because of the depth and treacherous nature of the stream!
A hard road, however, though to be avoided religiously when enjoying a good place with hounds, is an invaluable ally on these occasions of discomfiture and vexation, if it leads in the same direction as the line of chase. On its firm, unyielding surface your horse is regaining his wind with every stride. Should a turnpike-gate bar your progress, chuck the honest fellow a shilling who swings it back and never mind the change. We hunt on sufferance; for our own sakes we cannot make the amusement too popular with the lower classes. The same argument holds good as to feeing a countryman who assists you in any way when you have a red coat on your back. Reward him with an open hand. He will go to the public-house and drink “fox-hunting” amongst his friends. It is impossible to say how many innocent cubs are preserved by such judicious liberality to die what Charles Payne calls “a natural death.”
And now your quiet perseverance meets its reward. You regain your place with the hounds and are surprised to find how easily and temperately your horse, not yet exhausted, covers large flying fences in his stride. A half-beaten hunter, as I have already observed, will “lob over” high and wide places if they can be done in a single effort, although instinct causes him to “cut them very fine,” and forbids unnecessary exertion; but it is “the beginning of the end,” and you must not presume on his game, enduring qualities too long.
The object of your pursuit, however, is also mortal. By the time you have tired an honest horse in good condition the fox is driven to his last resources, and even the hounds are less full of fire than when they brought him away from the covert. I am supposing, of course, that they have not changed during the run. You may now save many a furlong by bringing your common sense into play. What would you do if you were a beaten fox, and where would you go? Certainly not across the middle of those large pastures where you could be seen by the whole troop of your enemies without a chance of shelter or repose. No; you would rather lie down in this deep, overgrown ditch, sneak along the back of that strong, thick bullfinch, turn short in the high, double hedgerow, and so hiding yourself from the spiteful crows that would point you out to the huntsman, try to baffle alike his experienced intelligence and the natural sagacity of his hounds. Such are but the simplest of the wiles practised by this most cunning beast of chase. While observing them, you need no further distress the favourite who has carried you so well than is necessary to render the assistance required for finishing satisfactorily with blood; and here your eyes and ears will be far more useful than the speed and stamina of your horse.
Who-whoop! His labours are now over for the day. Do not keep him standing half-an-hour in the cold, while you smoke a cigar and enlarge to sympathising ears on his doings, and yours, and theirs, and those of everybody concerned. Rather jog gently off as soon as a few compliments and congratulations have been exchanged, and keep him moving at the rate of about six miles an hour, so that his muscles may not begin to stiffen after his violent exertions, till you have got him home. Jump off his honest back, to walk up and down the hills with him as they come. He well deserves this courtesy at your hands. If you ever go out shooting you cannot have forgotten the relief it is to put down your gun for a minute or two. And even from a selfish point of view, there is good reason for this forbearance in the ease your own frame experiences with the change of attitude and exercise. If you can get him a mouthful of gruel, it will recruit his exhausted vitality, as a basin of soup puts life into a fainting man; but do not tarry more than five or six minutes for your own luncheon, while he is sucking it in, and the more tired he seems, remember, the sooner you ought to get him home.
If he fails altogether, does not attempt to trot, and wavers from side to side under your weight, put him into the first available shelter, and make up your mind, however mean the quarters, it is better for him to stay there all night than in his exhausted condition to be forced back to his own stable. With thorough ventilation and plenty of coverings, old sacks, blankets, whatever you can lay hands on, he will take no harm. Indeed, if you can keep up his circulation there is no better restorative than the pure cold air that in a cow-shed, or out-house, finds free admission, to fill his lungs.
You will lose your dinner perhaps. What matter? You may even have to sleep out in “the worst inn’s worst room,” unfed, unwashed, and without a change of clothes. It is no such penance after all, and surely your first duty is to the gallant generous animal that would never fail you at your need, but would gallop till his heart broke, for your mere amusement and caprice.