Ladies on Horseback / Learning, Park-riding, and Hunting, with Hints Upon Costume, and Numerous Anecdotes

by Mrs. Power O'Donoghue

PART IV.

HUNTING IN IRELAND.

There is at present a mighty outcry in our poor land. Not against "battle, murder, and sudden death," landlord-killing, and "Boycotting," but against our royal pastime—hunting. The tenant-farmers are uproarious in their opposition to it; and, with a headstrong determination which cannot be too strongly condemned, refuse to listen to the voice of the reasoner. We are but in the beginning of our season, yet is our prospect marred and our pleasure spoilt by the blind idiotcy, not of the few, but, unfortunately, of the many.

They have but one cry, "You are ruining our grass-lands!" A more egregious error could not possibly exist. Is it wilful blindness or merely the desire to banish landlordism from the country which induces this senseless outcry? If the latter, there is unhappily every probability that the outcriers will succeed; if the former, there may be some hope of ultimately unclosing their sealed eyelids.

A body of horsemen galloping over grassland during the hunting season can never occasion injury; it is simply an absurdity to endeavour to maintain a contrary theory. A great friend of mine and a most practical gentleman, who possesses a large common attached to his grounds, upon which he can, if desirable, exercise his horses, always prefers doing so throughout the winter upon his finest grass-land. He maintains, and correctly, that they do it an immensity of good, and once offered (to prove the correctness of his judgment) to give the use of the said land to the colonel of a cavalry regiment stationed in his vicinity—to do all his work upon throughout the winter months. The offer, after some demur, was accepted, and proved to be most advantageous to the land-owner.

Being an enthusiastic follower of the Ward Union stag-hounds, I am enabled to state that I have galloped with them, in company with at least two hundred other riders, across the Ward Country and over the Fairyhouse lands, which are—as is well known—of a singularly wet and holding nature; and this not once, but many times throughout the season. Yet, so early as April, at which date the famous Fairyhouse races take place, no track or footmark can be seen upon the luxuriant grass. Again, when riding in winter through Phœnix Park, I have been struck by the state of mud to which it has been reduced through the frequent galloping of horses over its surface; yet, in summer it grows the finest grass, and is as smooth as a billiard-table. One day in June, three years ago, a grand Review was held there in honour of the Queen's birthday. A terrible shower came down—one of those mighty floods which can, in a few moments, transform a beauteous green sward into a hideous mass of unsightly mire and dirt. Those on foot ploughed patiently through it, sinking ankle-deep at every step; those upon horseback, myself included, churned it beneath their horses' feet, until not a trace was visible of the emerald carpet, which, one short hour before, had afforded firm footing for many thousands of spectators. Three weeks later, I rode through that park again; the velvety turf was green and fresh as ever, nor was there visible one trace of the countless feet which had, as it were, waded over it so short a time before. The day upon which St. Stephen's Park was, through the princely generosity of Lord Ardilaun, opened to the public, was a wet, or at least a damp one, and thousands upon thousands of roughly-shod feet cut up the grassy sward; yet, in a few brief days, it was rich and verdant as before. Nor do I think there is in our noble Phœnix Park a more luxuriant stretch of grass-land than is "the nine acres" upon which polo players continually assemble.

Having thus, then, endeavoured to prove that the galloping of horses is in no way injurious to pasture lands, I shall proceed to the consideration of other matters connected with the subject in question.

If hunting in Ireland were abolished, then indeed might the cries of her children ascend heavenward, for I know not what would become of her! The gentry who are now resident landlords, maintaining large and costly establishments, would migrate to other countries and more genial climes. Servants would seek in vain for employment. Boot-makers, clothiers, saddlers, harness-makers, would find no custom. The farmer would sigh vainly for a price for his corn. Hay and straw would be a drug in the market. Hunting-lodges would remain unlet, growing mouldy with time and damp. Butchers, bakers, poulterers, butter-makers would be alike involved in one common ruin; for the houses of the gentry would be empty, and desolation would overspread the land! No buyers then for high-priced hunters and promising colts, which now command so high a figure; no merging of grades and mingling of classes in that happy contact which the hunting-field so well engenders; none of that delicious feeling of equality which the peer and the peasant seem alike to acknowledge whilst participating side by side in the dangers and excitement of the chase. All would be stillness, solitude, and gloom!

Suffer me, then, to implore my countrymen and countrywomen to do all in their power to promote the pleasures of hunting. It must immensely benefit even those who do not actually participate in the sport, inasmuch as it brings rich and poor into happy contact, and causes a vast amount of money to be circulated, which enriches the pockets of the poorer classes, and brings grist to many a mill which would otherwise stand desolate, with disused and motionless wheel. To us who do participate in it, there is no need for speech. Which of us does not know the pleasures of preparing for the glorious sport? the early rousing up from slothful slumber, the anxious outward glance at the weather, that fitful tyrant which makes or mars our enjoyment; the donning of hunting garments, the packing of sandwich boxes, the filling of flasks with whisky, or better, far better, with strong cold tea; the cheery drive to the meet, the many happy faces assembled there, the greetings amongst friends, the praisings of the pack, the trot to the covert, the dashing of the hounds into the gorse, the sweet music which proclaims that Reynard is at home, the joyous sound of the "Gone away!" the hurry-scurry to be first and foremost in their wake, the anathemas hurled against those who are over-riding them, the tumbling at the fences, the picking up again, the drowning in the rivers, the fishing out by the wreckers, the maddening excitement of traversing an intricate country, the wild desire to be in at the death, the saving of our horses over holding lands, the riding of them up to their bridles where the going is good, the last mighty effort, the final fence cleared, and the canter up to where the huntsman is holding aloft the brush and mask, and the hounds are breaking up their fox! Who that has ever experienced these joys will be likely to forget them, or will fail to promote, by every means in his power, so health-giving and enlivening a sport?