About such details as earth-stoppers and their duties, however, the merry sportsmen who throng the midland shires concern themselves only when a brilliant burst is brought to a premature end by the cunning fox slipping into a drain that has been overlooked. Hunting the dray of a wild rover from his midnight foraging grounds to some distant lair is also a tedious detail of woodcraft in which the Meltonian would disdain to take part, even if he could tear himself from his bed at the chill hour when our grandfathers’ sport began. There are not many countries nowadays so scantily stocked that this preliminary to a find need be resorted to, but in some very provincial corners of the land, and notably among Welsh mountains and Cumberland fells, the custom is still pursued. Fashionable midland fields would dwindle to very small proportions indeed if half a dozen coverts were drawn blank, and the ardor of thirsting youths would ooze away if they had to watch hounds patiently puzzling out a cold scent for an hour or two before the fun, fast and furious, began. Yet their languid regard for creature comforts is only a harmless affectation after all. The first note of horn or hound sends the hot blood tingling through their veins, and when once they have thrown off the cloak of conventional unconcern, it must be a formidable obstacle that can balk them, and a long run that takes the keen edge off their rivalry.
If we elect to throw in our lot with glorious Tom Firr and the Quorn; to meet Will Goodall with his Pytchley bitches at Weedon or Crick; Frank Gillard and his bright Belvoir tans at Piper Hole, where the “partickler purty landscape” of Belvoir Vale unfolds a pleasant prospect before us; or Gillson and the Cottesmore at Langham’s far-famed Ranksborough gorse, there will be nearly the same brilliant galaxy of sporting celebrities, only with a different setting. Let us make for ourselves, then, an imaginary fixture at some centre that is surrounded by the most characteristic features of all these favored countries, and watch the gay cavalcades from different points converge at the trysting-place.
A few farmers, well mounted, neatly attired in black coats and workmanlike cords, and bearing about them no visible signs of depression, are first to appear at the meet. Then follow rough-riders of the Dick Christian order, on raw young ones, qualifying for hunters’ certificates, or queer-tempered animals that need some schooling yet, though the season is far spent, and many a hard run ought to have taken the devil out of them. The Leicestershire rough-rider is sui generis, and his exact counterpart is not to be found in any other hunting country that I know of. Long training has made him amenable to every form of discipline exacted by the M. F. H., and he is never out of his proper place, no matter what other people may be doing. He betakes himself now to a quiet out-of-the-way corner where hounds are not likely to come within reach of his restive horse’s heels, and whenever the rush for a start may begin, he will display marvelous tact in getting clear of the ruck to cut out a line for himself. His nether limbs have been battered out of all shapeliness by frequent fractures, so that he seems to have no grip of the saddle, and his hands look too rigid to yield the fraction of an inch in play; but somehow he has the knack of sitting like a jackanapes, never off, and he can squeeze the veriest jade over a stiff line of country.
There is a blaze of scarlet along the lane yonder, and flashes of white between the thorn fences as the hounds are brought up, followed by groups of gorgeously arrayed gallants. The huntsman and his whips are turned out in the perfection of neatness, their breeches spotless, and every item of equipment scrupulously bright. The twenty couples of hounds have the glossy bloom of faultless condition, as if this were only the beginning instead of the fag end of a hard season. And now the throng grows denser every minute. The master threads his way through a maze of vehicles and a mass of horsemen, exchanging courteous greetings with friends or strangers alike. Four-in-hands, tandems, and smart buggies come in quick succession to choke the crowded highway. Covert-hacks are dexterously exchanged for hunters. Fair damsels throw aside wraps and newmarkets to appear in all the bewitching simplicity of dainty habits, or the more pronounced combinations of masculine cut, with open coats, snowy vests, folded cravats, masher collars, and all the latest triumphs of sartorial ingenuity. There is mounting in hot haste, for the word has been given to draw a favorite gorse brake not two miles away, and that is a sure find. The February sun-shine is screened by soft clouds, “the wind in the east most forbiddingly keen,” and all the conditions favorable to a brilliant run, if only a stout traveler can be induced to lead pursuers across the fair pastures that stretch far away to a hazy line of coverts yonder. The keen-faced huntsman, lithe, wiry and active as a boy yet, gets his hounds through the thicket of restless heels with quiet coolness which no confusion can ruffle. Then begins an eager rush for short cuts to the covert-side, only restrained by the master’s imperative “Hold hard, gentlemen! Let hounds go first, if you please.” A Yorkshire dealer, who has been extolling the young horse he bestrides as a wonderful fencer who does not “jump from here to there, but from here to yonder,” begins looking already by way of putting these exceptional leaping powers to the proof, but he will have quite enough of that in the legitimate course of things before the day is over.
“IT IS THE HORSE IN AND THE MAN ON THE RIGHT SIDE.”
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LARGER IMAGE
At length the foremost squadrons are marshaled quietly, in compact order, beside a five-acre brake—all keeping a little down wind so that the fox may be forced to break covert towards that inviting stretch of verdant pastures with its heavy thorn fences, tall bullfinches, stiff oxen and gleaming brook, brimful from recent rains. If kindly fortune should take us that way, how soon the field will be squandered, the faint-hearted follower stopped, and the reckless brought to grief! There is little danger that hounds will chop their fox before he can get well away. He must be a sound sleeper indeed if the tramp of five hundred horses and the voices of his foes have not roused him to alert action before our huntsman’s “Loo in yoi, wind him, bo-oys!” gives peremptory notice to quit.
“AND TOPS THE NEXT GATE.”