The Sportswoman's Library, Vol. 2 of 2

by Unknown

One thing in hunting the red deer impresses people very strongly who have only seen foxhunting, and that is the way hounds tail on the moor. Several explanations of this are given. One is that the deer running in a straighter line than the fox, the fastest hound gets in front and stays there, others say that it is easier to get through the heather in a string, and again some hold that the scent of a deer being very sweet, hounds run one behind another to get it all. When they do carry a head, the sight of the big hounds, none under twenty-four-and-a-half inches and all unrounded, racing over the heather, is a very fine one. Deer almost invariably die in the water, either in one of the numerous streams or rivers, or going to sea. In the last case they have to be followed by boatmen, and are brought to shore and killed. This is the greatest drawback to stag hunting, but it is no good being sentimental about it. The deer do an immense amount of damage to the farmer's crops, and if they were not killed in the chase they would very soon be shot, and stag hunting would be no more, so that my advice to those who cry out about the cruelty to "the poor dear stag," when they see him being ignominiously towed to shore, is to stay at home, so that their feelings may not be hurt by the sight.

It is wonderful how the more ignorant portion of the large field of strangers, who condescend to honour Exmoor with their presence in the stag-hunting season, grumble unceasingly at the sport. The country, Master, hounds, and hunt servants, all come in for scathing criticism. One has a great longing to let them try and hunt a deer themselves, to convince them that it is not such A B C work as they seem to think. Also, should the Master persist in remaining in a covert to hunt the big deer he knows to be there, instead of laying on to the four-year-old which has just broken away over a tempting line on the forest, there is a chorus of discontented ones, "Oh, what rot this is; why can't he go after a decent deer?" The malcontents, either forgetting or not knowing that it is the fat old sinner now doing his utmost to save his skin by turning out his younger relations, which gorges himself nightly on the farmer's best turnips and corn, and that it will be a poor consolation to the latter if hounds pursue a young deer twenty odd miles and then lose him, while the author of the mischief is left, possibly with a keener appetite than ever, after his unwonted exertions.

There is always a hope that a big fat stag may be run up and killed, should his whereabouts be a certainty, in time to lay on to another, and I have often seen two deer killed in one day. A fat stag which is merely blown and not exhausted, will waste a lot of valuable time beating up and down the water, too out of breath to breast the hill and give a gallop, and too strong to be pulled down. This gentleman is a most unpleasant customer to tackle, as in fact is any deer at bay. A stag is a grand looking beast when he stands with his back against a rock, in one of the picturesque streams that abound on Exmoor, with his lovely head well up, and great, sad, frightened eyes, the pack baying round him and not daring to come within striking distance of those death-dealing horns. The sooner then the huntsman, or one of the willing farmers always at hand and ready to assist, can slip behind the beast and lasso him, the better for everyone.

The head and slots of stags are the Master's perquisite, the skin and inside and the hinds' heads belong to the huntsman, who generally shares the liver with the farmers. The carcase is distributed amongst the farmers on whose land the deer was found, and who highly appreciate a bit of venison. The Master alone never gets any, and to speak for myself I have only tasted hunted stag once. This was when my mother was sent, by a kind neighbour, a haunch of a five-year old deer, which had given us a run of nearly thirty miles, and very excellent it was. I have never seen a more vicious stag either than this one, for though he had run from Cloutsham to within five miles of my mother's home,[2] he fought desperately and severely injured two hounds before he was taken. I always remember that gallop too on account of the marvellous way the puppies worked, with hardly any old hounds to help them, my father[3] having saved the older hounds for the next day, when he was meeting in a close woodland country, where he thought the inevitable crowded field would work less havoc among the older and more sensible hounds than on the puppies, many of which were hardly way-wise.

There is one delusion that strangers labour under who meditate a few days with the Devon and Somerset Staghounds, and this is, that it is absolutely necessary to ride "the horse of the country," as they term it. I think this is quite a mistake. Any horse that looks where he is going, and doesn't go yawing about with his head in the air, will go well on Exmoor, at any rate after a time or two, but horses accustomed to the country certainly get less frightened in soft ground than strangers. In fact, a moor-bred animal wont go into a bog at all. I have ridden all sorts and conditions of horses, and I think I would choose animals that stand about 15.1 or 15.2., short-legged and strong backed and with good shoulders, for though I have seen a little straight-shouldered Exmoor pony canter down a hill without a false step, when most people have been leading down it, yet I never think it gives you a comfortable sensation to be sitting almost on your horse's ears. Two things are absolute necessities, blood and condition, without these one cannot hope to get to the end of a long moorland gallop with comfort to either man or beast. I know no more hopeless-looking objects than a poor underbred and underfed hireling, floundering through the wet ground, remorselessly urged on by an ambitious but ignorant tripper, whose pedigree will probably bear even less looking into than his unfortunate steed's. For a very light weight with extravagant ideas, polo ponies would be ideal mounts, being in the height of condition, after the close of the season at Hurlingham, and very fast and handy on their legs, but it is not everyone who can afford or would care to risk valuable animals on such broken ground. Some people hold that big horses are better than small ones, but I cannot say I agree with them. A large horse shakes himself and his rider to pieces galloping down the hills, and if you would see a long run well, you must gallop down hills, and take it easy up them; he also does not recover himself so quickly should he make a mistake over the rough ground, and is more liable to strains and over-reaches in the boggy land, to say nothing of the fact that he can frighten you to death in the tiny narrow paths through the woods, where a false step means rolling into the river many feet below. A small horse may be quite as dangerous, but I don't think he feels so clumsy, and again, a small horse undoubtedly comes to time again sooner after a hard day. One thing I specially dislike on the moor, and that is a hard puller. People say, "what does it matter, when there's heaps of room." This is all very well on a racecourse, but when you are on the verge of almost a precipice intersected with ruts, peat holes and other trifles, with either a bog or a river waiting for you at the bottom, it is very poor fun to be hardly able to steady your horse, much less hold him, and I have seen some very nasty falls resulting from the inability of an unhappy sportsman to control his mount.

PRINCESS, IRISH MARE.

(Property of Mrs. Lewis Mackenzie.)

You can also have a nasty fall if you try and descend the steep combes sideways. It is a golden rule to ride a horse straight down. At the worst then he can but sit down, but if you are half cantering, half shambling down a hill sideways, and your mount puts a foot wrong, a horrible fall is the probable result. It is a wonder to me, looking at the crowd of people riding, most of them ignorant of the first principles of horsemanship, why there are not more bad falls than there are on Exmoor. Now and then it is true a man gets his face cut, or a rib broken or something of that sort, but really bad accidents are most rare. I suppose that the sweet little cherub that sits up aloft, looks after the welfare of the bold tripper, or perhaps the softness of the ground has more to do with it.

I think Exford is the best centre for stag-hunting, that is if you do not mind having absolutely nothing to do on the off days, or have enough horses to go out with the foxhounds or harriers. Some people like Minehead, others prefer Dulverton. Personally I prefer Porlock, as it is quite close to the Moor meets, and is far and away the prettiest place to stop in. Accommodation is good and moderate, hirelings are to be obtained there and at Minehead, and are generally very good animals, though I would advise anyone with a couple or more well-bred horses in condition, to bring them down. The difference in comfort, especially in the long distances hacking home, is great.