“The intense pretentious snobbishness of the age has something to do with the mysterious manner in which many men, blushing, own that they have been out with harriers. In the first place, as a rule, harriers are slow; although there are days when, with a stout, well-fed, straight-running hare, the best men will have enough to do to keep their place in the field: over the dinner-table that is always an easy task; but in this fast, competitive age, the man who can contrive to stick on a good horse can show in front without having the least idea of the meaning of hunting. To such, harriers afford no amusement. Then again, harrier packs are of all degrees, from the perfection of the Blackmoor Vale, the Brookside, and some Devon or Welsh packs with unpronounceable names, down to the little scratch packs of six or seven couple kept among jovial farmers in out-of-the-way places, or for the amusement of Sheffield cutlers running afoot. The same failing that makes a considerable class reverently worship an alderman or a city baronet until they can get on speaking terms with a peer, leads others to boast of fox-hunting when the Brighton harriers are more than they can comfortably manage.”
The greater number of what are called harriers now-a-days are dwarf fox-hounds, or partake largely of fox-hound blood.
If Leicestershire is the county for “swells,” Devonshire is the county of sportsmen; for although there is very little riding to hounds as compared with the midland counties, there is a great deal of hunting. Every village has its little pack; every man, woman, and child, from the highest to the humblest, takes an interest in the sport; and the science of hunting is better understood than in the hard-riding, horse-dealing counties. To produce a finished fox-hunter, I would have him commence his studies in Devonshire, and finish his practice in Northamptonshire. On the whole, I should say that a student of the noble science, whose early education has been neglected, cannot do better than go through a course of fox-hunting near Oxford, in the winter vacation, where plenty of perfect hunters are to be hired, and hounds meet within easy reach of the University City, six days in the week, hunting over a country where you may usually be with them at the finish without doing anything desperate, if content to come in with the ruck, the ponies, and the old farmers; or where, if so inclined, you may have more than an average number of fast and furious runs, and study the admirable style of some of the best horsemen in the world among the Oxfordshire and Berkshire squires.
Stag-hunting from a cart is a pursuit very generally contemned in print, and very ardently followed by many hundred hard-riding gentlemen every hunting day in the year. A man who can ride up to stag-hounds on a straight running day must have a perfect hunter, in first-rate condition, and be, in the strongest sense of the term, “a horseman.” But it wants the uncertainties which give so great a charm to fox-hunting, where there are any foxes. There is no find, and no finish; and the checks generally consist in whipping off the too eager hounds. As a compensation, when the deer does not run cunning, or along roads, the pace is tremendous.
The Surrey stag-hounds, in the season of 1857, had some runs with the Ketton Hind equal in every respect to the best fox-hunts on record; for she repeatedly beat them, was loose in the woods for days, was drawn for like a wild deer, and then, with a burning scent, ran clear away from the hounds, while the hounds ran away from the horsemen. But, according to the usual order of the day, the deer begins in a cart, and ends in a barn.
But stag-hunting may be defended as the very best mode of obtaining a constitutional gallop for those whose time is too valuable to be expended in looking for a fox. It is suited to punctual, commercial, military, or political duties. You may read your letters, dictate replies, breakfast deliberately, order your dinner, and invite a party to discuss it, and set off to hunt with the Queen’s, the Baron’s, or any other stag-hound pack within reach of rail, almost certain of two hours’ galloping, and a return by the train you fixed in the morning.
There are a few hints to which pupils in the art of hunting may do well to attend.
“Don’t go into the field until you can sit a horse over any reasonable fence. But practice at real fences, for at the leaping-bar only the rudiments of fencing are to be learned by either man or horse. The hunting-field is not the place for practising the rudiments of the art. Buy a perfect hunter; no matter how blemished or how ugly, so that he has legs, eyes, and wind to carry him and his rider across the country. It is essential that one of the two should perfectly understand the business in hand. Have nothing to say to a puller, a rusher, or a kicker, even if you fancy you are competent; a colt should only be ridden by a man who is paid to risk his bones. An amateur endangers himself, his neighbours, and the pack, by attempting rough-riding. The best plan for a man of moderate means—those who can afford to spend hundreds on experiments can pick and choose in the best stables—is to hire a hack hunter; and, if he suits, buy him, to teach you how to go.
“Never take a jump when an open gate or gap is handy, unless the hounds are going fast. Don’t attempt to show in front, unless you feel you can keep there. Beginners, who try to make a display, even if lucky at first, are sure to make some horrid blunder. Go slowly at your fences, except water and wide ditches, and don’t pull at the curb when your horse is rising. In ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, the horse will be better without your assistance than with it. Don’t wear spurs until you are quite sure that you won’t spur at the wrong time. Never lose your temper with your horse, and never strike him with the whip when going at a fence; it is almost sure to make him swerve. Pick out the firmest ground; hold your horse together across ploughed land; if you want a pilot, choose not a scarlet and cap, but some well-mounted old farmer, who has not got a horse to sell: if he has, ten to one but he leads you into grief.