Alas! alas! the art of equitation will soon be a lost one.
Fifteen minutes racing pace takes the nonsense out of all. The fox turns sharply down-wind, and the huntsman—who has been riding carefully and quietly—knows they have overrun it. Not one word does he say, letting his hounds swing their own cast. As they do not recover the line, he is compelled to give them a bit of assistance.
With such a scent, he can go a little fast; so, at a sharp trot, he makes his cast back, his whip putting the hounds on to him. No noise nor rating, such as is only too frequently heard. An ugly black-and-white brute hits the scent down a hedgerow. He cheers the pack to him, well knowing it was not the lack of beauty that caused the old dog to be where he is.
Now, stand back and see them hunt, with nothing to mar your pleasure in watching the wonderful instinct of a high-bred foxhound, except the chatter of the male and female thrusters, describing to each other the wonderful leaps they have severally surmounted.[ [5]5]
The fox now runs the road for a quarter of a mile. Whatever you do, keep off them, and give hounds room to turn.[ [6]6]
The chase continues down-wind. How they swing and try. Look how they drive as they hit the scent, then spread themselves like a fan, only to fly together again as a trusted comrade speaks to the line.
"All this comes of condition," as my old gentleman says.
Hark! a holloa forward.
Do you think a sensible man will lift them?
No; so long as they can carry on, he knows they will go quicker than he can take them.