Comet In Moominland

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Comet In Moominland

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.
and few things try the temper more than to have worked hard to
show sport, and then to see yourself defeated, and the enjoyment of
your field spoiled by some individual act of thoughtlessness,
ignorance, or idiocy. I am always much more struck by the patience
and forgiving disposition of masters than by their rough words. It is
hard for the eager and impetuous, with every desire to give room to
hounds, to have his forbearance rewarded by seeing some less
scrupulous rider take his place. It is hard sometimes on a tearing
flyer to get him pulled in at a moment’s notice. But a follower of
hounds knows when he has done wrong, and seldom does a man
catch it without deserving it; and if he is a sportsman, whose zeal
only has outrun its discretion, he may be sure of forgiveness.
This is not the time to debate whether fox-hunting has a long life
before it in crowded little England. Its existence depends on its
popularity. As long as an Englishman loves a horse and a hound, as
long as hunting-men maintain the principles of equality and
fraternity in the hunting-field, are generous to those who afford
them the sport, are willing to give when they take, are considerate
and kindly in their behaviour to all and every class with whom they
associate—so long will the country be proud of its packs, and its
people enjoy the sight of the scarlet coats coming by road and
bridle-path, and public opinion will check the gin and gun of those
who have a vulpicidal tendency. Like all the best amongst our
institutions, fox-hunting is secure so long as it is broad based upon
the people’s will.
 VII
CUB-HUNTING

From a Sketch by the Late Sir Frank Lockwood.

VII

T
HERE hangs in the drawing-room of Skelton Castle, in Cleveland,
a picture of Heywood Hardy’s, which illustrates to the full that
artist’s wonderful power in combining the life and colour of a
sporting subject with the poetry of English scenery. We are
accustomed to many varieties of hunting pictures, but how few are
worthy of the painter’s art. There is a dreadful family likeness
amongst them—so many pink-faced sportsmen in tall hats and
vermilion coats, so many white pairs of breeches, and so many tri-
colour hounds. Sometimes we have these objects arranged standing
at a meet, as if to be photographed. As we gaze, we are sad to think
that they will continue to stand till time rots the canvas, and how
long time will be about it; that those wooden hounds will never be
thrown into cover; that the pink-faced huntsman in the scarlet coat
will never get the horn, which he clutches in his dog-skinned hand,
to his mouth; and that all those straight-limbed, clean-legged horses
will never dash a speck of mud on to those spotless boots and
awfully white breeches! But a more ambitious artist, wrestling with
his difficult but popular subject, will make his red-coats leap over
insignificant or impossible fences; he will have his hounds flying out
of the picture to meet you as they dash over a rail or thread a fence;
and will create not only a remarkable study in foreshortening of
hounds, but one that fills the onlooker with amazement at the
courage of the artist who, in order to make his study, must have
placed himself and his canvas betwixt fox and hound, and braved
the rush and charge of the yelling pack. The fox is often introduced
upon the scene, that fox we so frequently hear about, “dead beat,
with his tongue hanging out,” but so beautifully clean that one
wonders where is that mudless country in which, instead of dashing
at a draggled fox with his back up, the hounds follow this galloping
and cleanly animal, with his mouth wide open and, of course, his
tongue hanging; out. How different is the artist’s treatment of his
subject in the picture at Skelton Castle. There is no fox, there is not
a fence, there is not a covert, there is not even a picturesque top-
hat or top-boot. The picture is called “A Summer’s Day in Cleveland,”
and the scene is on the beach,—hounds swimming, splashing, and
dashing out of a tidal pool on a sunny morning, accompanied by the
old squire on a pony, the young squire (master and huntsman), and
two servants in pink exercising coats, the picture combining the
beautiful animation of the hounds with a wonderful harmony of
colour and poetry of scene. Behind, the sparkling splash and spray,
in the foreground are the breakers, whose white foam fades into the
deeper grey of the North Sea and then into the pale blue of a
summer sky, while beyond loom the rugged rocks of Huntcliffe Nab.
As an admirer of the study, I can look long at this wonderful
example of catching and fixing for ever the prettiness of a scene of a
summer’s morning; but as a sportsman I begin to get impatient with
the sun, and to wish that the hounds will be done splashing and
“come on out of that”; that the master would change his straw hat
(which certainly is better in the picture than a splash of black velvet)
for his cap, and let us get up from the beach and go and find a fox.
As August draws to a close, we know that, now the reapers are
silent and the stubbles are bare, we shall soon be once more astride
of our equine companions in the chase, that we shall see the covert
quivering and shaking, and sterns waving among the whins. Cub-
hunting is a most excellent and pleasant introduction to the serious
business of the season. We all—foxes, hounds, horses, and men—
require the preparation and the bustling about that the early hours
of September and October place within our reach. Much of the
season’s success depends on how the pack is used during these two
months. A pack, as someone has said, is made or marred in cub-
hunting. After the 1st November there is comparatively little
opportunity for educating either cubs or puppies.
A man does not go to covert side in September to ride across
country; he goes to realise with his own eyes and ears the delightful
fact that another hunting-season has begun, to inhale the fresh air
of the early morning, to exercise his unconditioned horse, and to join
those choice spirits who love the cry of hounds better than their
pillows. He knows that it will be “Tally-ho back! tally-ho back!” all the
morning, and if, by a lucky chance, a cub is followed into the open
air for ten minutes, and he gets a gallop, it is but a hors d’œuvre to
whet his appetite for better and more substantial things to follow,
and to serve as a reminder to his horse, when blind ditches entrap
him, that a good hunter must take care where he puts his feet, and
jump big when the boundary between fence and field is undefined.
A master is seldom hampered by an unwieldy “field” when he meets
at six o’clock. Those who are out at that time are likely to be
sportsmen, and able to appreciate the fact that all are there for
educational purposes.
Those who, when the season is in full swing, are crowding and
watching for a get away and a good start, and causing throughout
the day untold anxiety to the huntsmen, are now in shooting-caps
and leggings, chatting and indulging in gossip and chaff in a manner
that would be regarded as unprofessional when in tall hats and top-
boots. Probably nothing exasperates a hunting-man more than
when, on the tip-toe of expectancy, as hounds speak in covert, he is
compelled to listen to some bore who thinks the occasion suitable
for airing his views on local or Imperial politics, or for relating his
own exploits of valour the day you were not out. Business and
politics should never be permitted as subjects of conversation in the
hunting-field, not even during cub-hunting, when any other topic
may certainly be tolerated, if not encouraged. One of the secondary
pleasures of the chase is social intercourse, the cementing of
friendships, and the opportunities of better acquaintance with
neighbours which it affords.
These opportunities are not always taken advantage of, for though
we all can point to fields where most of the regular followers are on
such terms as to make it almost a happy family circle, we probably
all know one or more hunts where jealousy, pride, or pure
foolishness spoil much of the comfort and pleasure of all. In most
fields there is, however, at least one individual whom all agree in
desiring to avoid,—some cad, some snob,—to escape whom we
hang back in covert, jump some appalling place, or, if in a crowd,
endeavour to get our worst enemy or most unselfish friend between
him and us. If one of these objectionable persons, or well-meaning
bores, comes out cub-hunting, we are at his mercy; he can get at
us, and the music of the hounds is mingled with his ceaseless
jabber; our only escape is the road home to breakfast. Oh, gentle
reader, have you not often, at covert side, endeavoured to stay the
torrent of “shop” poured into your ear, by assenting to any opinion,
acquiescing in every view put forward, no matter at what violation to
conscience and conviction? Have we not all, in the dread that an
objection or divergent view, however gently expressed, might open
another floodgate, been false to our creeds, and thrown our most
cherished prejudices overboard? I wonder if Egerton Warburton had
some particular man in his eye when he wrote the following stanza
in his famous song, “Quaesitum Meritis.” I am certain that many a
man who has sung this verse has thought of some one to whom the
words particularly applied—

“For coffee-house gossip some hunters come out,

Of all matters prating save that they’re about;
From scandal and cards they to politics roam,
They ride forty miles, head the fox, and go home.
Such sportsmen as these we good fellows condemn,
And I vow we’ll ne’er drink a quaesitum to them.”

The master, huntsman, and servants are, during the cub hunting-
season, free from many of the annoyances that a large and mixed
field too often brings in its train, but they have need of the liberty
which a small following and early hours afford. Some M.F.H.’s do not
make known their intentions as to when and where they hunt, and
small blame to them, for at the very beginning of the season the
fewer there are out the better, as thirty, forty, or more couple of
hounds, including entering puppies, will require their undivided
attention. Yet if they meet at 5.30 or 6 a.m. there is little to fear; for
the men who hunt to ride, the men who follow the ladies rather than
the hounds, the men who come out to display their attire, and even
the horse-breakers who like to educate their young ones at the
expense of the hounds, are all most likely still in their earths. A
kindly Master who takes a pleasure in seeing the schoolboy on his
pony, and a pride in seeing these youngsters enter well, will give
them a chance to put in a day or two before the summer holidays
end, and will let every regular and trusted member of the hunt have
an opportunity of being present. It is to the genuine Nimrod a
pleasant thing to get up in the dark, and, after a light breakfast,
hastily swallowed, to mount in the dawn and once more find himself
jogging beside the hounds along the road on an autumn morning.
His mind is easy and his temper unruffled by struggles to get into
leathers and top-boots, or by the memory of letters unanswered on
his table; any clothes will do, and he will be home again in time to
attend to pressing matters of business. There are no lurking fears as
to whether his mount is equal to the task before him; there is no
waiting at the meet, and hounds are busy in the covert as soon as it
is reached. The sound of the horn, the opening pack, the view-halloo
from the whipper-in, the crack of the men’s whips, and the rattling
and rustling in the gorse, are pleasanter because of the interval that
has passed since last they woke the woodlands, and for the stillness
of the outside world at this early hour. Soon after the first brace of
cubs have been killed, and hounds are being taken to the next cover,
the labourer going to the field and the horses to the plough remind
him how young the day still is; and a little later the sun on his back,
and the “had enough” appearance of the five or six couple of hounds
trailing behind the huntsman, tell him that it is still only cub-hunting,
and time for all to be going home. There are, on these days,
reminders that one year has gone and another begun, and you miss
some of the old veterans with grizzled and scarred muzzles, and
hear that a few of those you welcome, as you have welcomed them
for half a dozen seasons, when work with cubs began, are there only
till the young ’uns have been entered; and you see the new entry,
with their as yet unfamiliar forms, answering to unfamiliar names. In
October many a run takes place that would do credit to the open
season, and these fast spins across the country, when the ground is
hard and fences and ditches horribly blind, can test the mettle of
horse and rider, and make any man feel very comfortably satisfied
with his performance, if, by luck or good management, he negotiates
the hidden dangers that lurk on one side or the other of most
October fences. In a run at this time of the year, gates are as yet
fastened up, the gaps of a past season are undiscoverable, the weak
places and the strong blackthorn branches are covered with the leaf
and bramble. The fastest twenty-five minutes I ever saw was run on
a certain 14th October, hounds getting away together in a bunch
from Seamer Whin, and killing their fox in ground now covered by
the suburbs of smoky Middlesborough. It was not cub-hunting, yet
one of those delightful “things” that is the well-earned reward of the
constant follower, the envy of the absent one, and ten times more
enjoyed for being unexpected.
Countries vary so much in the proportion of woodland they contain,
and in the stock of foxes that may be depended upon, that the
circumstances of each district influence the character of cub-hunting.
Where coverts are extensive and numerous, and litters abound,
cubbing may mean the deliberate killing down of a great number of
cubs in the interests of the sport that is to follow, and far beyond
what is required for blooding hounds. When foxes are well
preserved, and in plenty, a Master does well to kill a large number,
for there is this amount of truth in the saying, “The more foxes you
kill, the more you will have,” that owners of game coverts and non-
hunting proprietors are unwilling very often to encourage foxes or to
have litters on their places if a fair proportion are not killed. In such
a country as this, even when, owing to an early harvest or absence
of arable land, a start is made in August, cub-hunting may be cub-
hunting and cub-killing all the time up to the end of October. In
other hunts, after a week or two’s cubbing, hunting may be very
much the same as after the opening day, the scarlet coat and top-
boot alone marking the transition. The conduct of the huntsman will
not be so much actuated by blood-thirstiness, as by the wish to
discover where there are foxes, to give the cubs a little instruction in
going away, and hounds a few lessons of how to behave in the
open. He will not, or need not, ask every time whether a fox is an
old one or not, and many a run that would be considered good in
the winter can be enjoyed in October in such a country as this. But
for the great majority of hunting-men, these early days are but the
time for getting their studs together, their horses and themselves
into condition; and custom and tradition has consecrated the first
hunting-day in November as the New Year for a follower of hounds.
 VIII
THE GREATEST RUN
I EVER SAW
 Incidents With the Cambridge University Drag.
From a sketch by C. M. Newton.

VIII

I
F anyone were to ask me which was the best run I ever saw, I
should say the great run with the Cleveland hounds on Monday,
January 9, 1882. Probably many, if not most, hunting-men would
turn up their noses at it if they saw the country over which the most
extraordinary fox in my experience took us, for I admit that nothing
but the fact of having been bred in such a wild hunting country
would make it in the widest sense a rideable one. I must further
confess that the fact of being sole survivor of it makes its memory all
the dearer, though I regret to this day that I had no companion
during the last twenty-five minutes to support my evidence, or to
discuss with me in after years its wonders. I trust that in attempting
to describe it, if I seem to be utterly devoid of modesty and to be
blowing loud blasts on my own horn, it will be remembered that
every man has some day in a long life, in which he is conscious that
he has had the best of it. This was my day, and I certainly felt at the
end of it that it would have been worth risking one’s life for; it gave
me the sensation that comes now and again in every life, of not
having lived in vain. The following account is for the most part from
my diary, written while I was still stiff from the previous day’s
exertions.
Monday, 9th January 1882.—Hounds met at Ayton, where there was
breakfast at the Buck. This was the most extraordinary day I ever
had. I rode Queen Mab in the morning till she got an overreach,
when I changed on to Faraway, on which horse I finished the first,
and was there when Bob Brunton took the fox from the hounds in
Hell Gill. I state this to correct the press accounts, which describe
my getting my second horse in the great run—not to save my own
credit, but to preserve the record of my horse’s marvellous
performance. The first was a ringing run, fairly fast, on the hills
between Roseberry Topping and Guisborough Banks, and for forty
minutes I rode Faraway up and down the hills, over the moors, and
in and out of the gills before we found the second and ever-
memorable fox. My brother Jack did not have a second horse, but
rode his mount (a blood Irish hunter called Sligo, that cost two
hundred and fifty guineas, and was worth every sixpence of the
money) all day, and “let him have it” in the first run. If we had both
started from scratch, he might have taken first honours; as it was,
he took the second place in a numerous field, as the sequel will
show. I have no doubt that the competition between us ministered
to my success, for we generally rode a trifle jealous, but were always
best pleased when we could share the honours.
I must for a moment depart from my diary, and say a word about
Faraway. He was an Irish thoroughbred, by Fairyland, purchased at
Tattersall’s in 1880, from the stud of chestnuts sent up by Captain
Amcotts, of the 5th Dragoon Guards. He was knocked down to me
for fifty guineas. I followed him back to his box, and when I asked
the groom why he had only two old shoes on, and what was wrong
with the brute, he said, “Sure, he’s a grand hunter, and nothing
wrong wid him; but ye can’t shoe him, clip him, or physic him.”
Some years after I found that he had killed a blacksmith just before
I bought him; he was quite capable of killing any number of that
profession or any other—yet it was not temper, but fear and nerves,
that made him dangerous. Fast as the wind, hard as nails, wild as a
hawk, are all expressions that fitted him. His little failings were
discourtesy—for he met strangers visiting his box on his hind-legs
and sparred at them—and buck-jumping, at which he could beat
anything I ever saw at the Wild West Show, refusing to let anyone
hold his bridle or to stand still while being mounted. One great fault
he had—he would not, when hounds ran, allow you to open a gate,
always managing, if you did succeed in getting your hand out to
reach the catch, to dive under your arm and whip round; while, if
anyone opened the gate for you, he went through it like a bullet. But
when once I had become familiar with his eccentricities, and
abandoned all attempts to differ with his methods and manners, I
found him one of the most delightful mounts I ever got across—all
life, liberty, and whalebone, and impossible to tire. I counted him
among the most precious of my possessions, till after a bad fall he
nearly killed me, breaking a few of my bones, and making me
literally sit up and spit blood. I then yielded to the solicitations of my
friends, and sold him to Mr. James Darrell, who told me he had gone
well in Leicestershire in other hands.
To return to my diary. After the first fox had been broken up, and
the brush presented to the Hon. A. Sidney, of Ingleby, the head
being attached to my own saddle, we went to Highcliff, where we
found the real old Cæsar, a great grey-hound fox. He broke over the
moor at once, and we raced across to Bethel Slack. They drove
down Wiley Gill, making the ravine ring again, as far as Slapewath,
and then he again took the open for a short time, till he got level
with Cass Rock. He then took along Guisborough Banks to where we
found him, hounds running hard all the way. He now tried a change
of tactics, and took a line that was to astonish all and to make most
cry “capevi!” [4] breaking on to Guisborough Moor. Hounds followed
at a terrific pace, leaving all but the blood horses far behind. By
Sleddale he turned west and crossed the great bog. My brother (who
was level with, or in front of me here) and I went straight at it, our
only chance of getting near the now flying pack being to take
everything as it came. In we went, both together, he getting to the
other side with a frantic struggle; Faraway, mad with being thus
checked, rolled, plunged, and kicked, so that I could not recover the
reins after I had got on to my feet. After a minute’s delay, that
seemed an eternity, we bucketed up the hill, while below us were
others in the bog, looking in vain for a crossing. When I reached the
sky-line, nothing could I see or hear. One moment of agonising
anxiety, and I caught a glimpse of my brother’s hat, bobbing up as
he rose a distant hill. As hard as I could take my horse, I made for
this ever-blessed top-hat, and came up with him near the Piggeries,
as he rode at the tail of the now almost silent pack, streaming in a
file along the moor road. They ran as if it were a drag; it was real
business. A mile like this on the straight, and then a swift, sure
swing over the wall to the right, and they were flying over the
Kildale Valley—my brother and I, in our glory, taking every wall and
fence as it met us. A left turn, and in a minute we were going up the
valley to the moors above Baysdale. Here were sheep pastures
enclosed with hideous walls, wire on most, and all uphill. Sligo takes
a line of barricaded gaps; Faraway goes slap-bang through the first
gate, and then takes the timber decently and in order. Another bog,
another stream, a few more fences, and then the open moor. How
much longer can a horse go this pace? It is too serious a business to
speak to each other as we pound down into Baysdale, the hounds
getting the better of us. As we cross the enclosures by Baysdale
Abbey, the one solitary ploughman in the out-of-the-world valley
stops in his work to look at the rare spectacle.
“Have you seen him?” I shout.
“Ay! a gurt grey-hound fox.”
“How long since?”
“Seven minutes.”
Seven minutes, and hounds racing like this! Will they never check?—
no, they never will, and some will never return to the kennel again.
The Abbey is passed in one hour and twenty minutes from the find,
with only one momentary check, and the mountain beyond looks
impossible to negotiate. I cross the stream, and begin the ascent
with a few tail hounds. They have shot their bolt, and are struggling
on with bloodshot eyes, dropping into my wake as I pass them.
“Come on, Jack! You must do it.”
“I can’t. Look at Sligo.”
Sligo was standing rocking at the foot of the hill, with his back up
and staring eye—he was completely done. Could I get up to that
sky-line where the last trailing hounds were disappearing? It looked
desperate, but Faraway did it, and now I must give him a minute. I
had dismounted the last twenty yards to pull him up the top edge of
the scar. I could see about eleven couple filing away along the ridge
of the moor half a mile ahead. Absolutely nothing but range after
range of barren moors was now in sight! Where was this strange fox
bound for? I was astonished to find my horse still full of going, as I
got on to the ridge and on to sound ground, and in a few minutes I
was alongside the leading seven couple. Hounds now bore along for
the Farndale head moors, and one by one the stragglers gave up the
chase. Now and then one of these would pull up all at once. I saw
the veteran Hermit roll into the heather, where he was found cold
and dead next day. Still the leading bunch held on, and Wrangle
(from the Oakley) is driving away first, followed closely by
Statesman, Bajazet, Rascal, and Ringwood. As they crossed a boggy
slack, I strained my eyes to see this terrible fox; it was impossible he
could stand up many minutes more. I felt for my knife—but the end
is not to be yet. The thought uppermost in my mind is, what a
wonder my horse is! Is it possible for any animal to survive this? and
yet he is going strong. The moors look endless; I can see, even in
the fast-deepening dusk, miles of desolation in front.
A turn to the right, and we reach the edge of the hillside above
Ingleby. Down the rocks and the cliff-side dash the now only seven
couple, and once more open into cry. The pace on the moor was too
great for much speaking. I cannot get down there. I make a
despairing effort to cross a bog at the top—I cannot do it. The north
wind is blowing a cloud of spray from the dripping bog at the edge
of the cliff, and the stars are coming out. I see beyond me an
abandoned workman’s shanty, and my mind is made up. The door is
locked; a good kick and it is open. In the inside there is just room
for my horse. The ceiling is low, but so is now his head. I shut the
door and run as fast as top-boots will allow along the edge of the
cliff to the top of Midnight Crags. Here I hear the hounds still
running some hundred of feet below me in the darkness. I labour
on, till, exhausted, I sit down above the pass into Bilsdale. I can still
hear them occasionally, in spite of the wind howling up the gully, and
then all is still. I wait some minutes, then halloo with all my might.
They have either killed or run to ground, but wherever it is, I cannot
reach them.
Eventually five and a half couples came to me, and I floundered and
blundered over the moor to my horse. I had not a match, so as to
examine the mouths of the hounds, but, as far as I could judge,
they had not killed. I could find no blood—perhaps if they had run
into him they had not managed to do more than just kill. I drained
my flask, and led my horse down the Ingleby incline, reaching at
length Ingleby village.
When I got to the inn, to my surprise, there was Bob Brunton, who,
having lost all trace of us in Kildale, whither he had tracked us, had
ridden on here with Richard Spink of the Bilsdale, where, night
overtaking them, they had sought shelter and refreshment. Bob, on
seeing me, literally hugged me, and swore I ought to be knighted.
We got the hounds bedded in a barn and fed, and my horse
gruelled, and then I jogged home—but sleep was banished by
aching limbs, and the excitement of the day. All night I saw the
whole scene enacted over again. The streaming ten couple always
tearing and racing on as if for ever over valley and lonely moor. I felt
my horse floundering through the bogs again; myself clambering up
and down those gills under the stars—each wall and stream, gate
and stile were jumped a dozen times. I could see again the
straggling hounds, run out, sitting in the heather, and hear their
dismal howling as they realised they were “done” and “lost.”
Now this run was an extraordinarily long one; it cannot be made less
than 19 miles, and is more like 21. It was 11 miles from point of find
to Ingleby Landslip; but where I think it tops the record is the pace.
I believe the whole run to have occupied 1 hour and 45 minutes—1
hour and 20 minutes to Baysdale, and 25 on to the landslip. I know
that it will not be credited by most hunting-men, but it must be
remembered that it was mostly over open moorland, with few
obstacles to check hounds, and, except the solitary ploughman in
Baysdale, no sign of humanity all the way. Three hounds died of
exhaustion, and the other lost ones were only got back by degrees
during the week following.
In connection with this run I think the following performance of Bob
Brunton’s worth recording. He had hunted all day, being at the meet
at Ayton some miles from his home, and I found him at Ingleby at
night. He remounted after he had attended to the hounds, and rode
to Guisborough, say 8 miles, where he looked in at a political
meeting which was being held; he rode on the same night to the
Kennels at Warrenby, 8 miles more, and found the huntsman sitting
up disconsolate and refusing to go to bed without his hounds. He
started before daybreak (3 a.m.), and, riding the same horse,
accompanied the huntsman, Will Nicoll, to Ingleby (12 miles); hence
he helped to collect the lost hounds on the moor and in Bilsdale; and
the following afternoon I met him, still on the same horse, now
more like a gigantic grey-hound than anything else, escorting the
hounds back to Warrenby from Ingleby (16 miles); and when this
was accomplished, he rode home to Marton (7 miles); so that if we
put down 40 miles for the long hard day’s hunting, we have
To the meet and two long runs, and to Ingleby 40
Ingleby to Guisborough 8
Guisborough to Warrenby 8
Warrenby to Ingleby 16
Collecting hounds 10
Ingleby to Warrenby 16
Warrenby to Marton 7
―
105
―

a total of 105 miles, 65 of which were undoubtedly ridden after the

day’s hunting by Mr. Brunton on the same horse that he had ridden
hard (for he was among the hardest riders ever seen in Cleveland)
during the longest and severest day the Cleveland hounds have had
in my lifetime.
As for the horses, Faraway was at covert side again within three
weeks. Sligo, with whom it appeared to be a case for an anxious
hour or so, came up to time as well.
Finally, a few words about the hounds that led the van. Two couple
were to the front the whole time, and Wrangle led throughout.
1. Wrangle was a powerful bitch
that Mr. Wharton, now master
of the Cleveland, brought
from the Oakley. She was by the
Milton Wrangler, out of
Oakley Flora. She was 5 years
old at the time of this run,
and was on the list of the
 running hounds till 1885,
and at the great age of 9, for a
hunting-hound, could still
hold her place. From this bitch
are descended many of the
best hounds in the Cleveland
kennel.
2. Ringwood, by Lord
Fitzwilliam’s Champion, out of
his
Roguish, was 7 years old.
3. Bajazet, by Milton Bajazet, out
of their Scornful, was 6
years old.
4. Rascal, by the Milton Ransack,
out of Lord Zetland’s
Careless, was 5 years old.
5. Statesman, by the Belvoir
Saffron, out of their Redcap,
was 6 years old.
The following were the remainder of the leading bunch as they ran
into the darkness:—
6. General, by Major Brown’s
Chorister, out of his Gracious,
7 years old.
7. Songstress, by Cleveland
Jovial, out of Cleveland
Symmetry, 7 years old.
8. Arthur, by Lord Yarborough’s
Ranger, out of his South
Durham Actress, 5 years
old.
9. Gertrude, by Cleveland
General, out of Cleveland
Careless,
5 years old.
10. Novelty, by Cleveland
Nelson, out of Cleveland
Friendly,
3 years old.
11. Merryman, by Cleveland
 Senator, out of Cleveland
Maypole,
3 years old.
The surviving hounds were thus—
Hounds 7 years old 3
" 6 " " 2
" 5 " " 4
" 3 " " 2
" " " " ―
" " " " 5½ couple.
" " " " ―

It is a little painful to confess that other blood than Cleveland made

this run the memorable one it is. But so it was that in a chase that
tested the pace, stamina, and endurance of hounds to their utmost
limit, the Milton blood showed best in front. I have placed the ages
of these hounds on record as being evidence of the value of mature-
seasoned hounds, and in the hope that it may discourage the
tendency of many M.F.H.’s, in these days, when stoutness is so often
sacrificed for appearance, to yield to the temptation of replacing
hounds in their prime by a big entry of promising and shapely
puppies. I shall ever maintain that the proved hounds of from 4 to 6,
or even 7 years old, should form the main body of a pack, and I
firmly believe that there would be more straight-necked foxes and
good runs satisfactorily finished were this the rule. As it is, there are
generally twice, or even three times, the number of hounds 1, 2, or
3 years, than of older ones. [5]
Since this day I have seen many a good run, over every variety of
country, and each hunting morning that I ride out I start hoping for
such another; but as the seasons slip away and years roll on, the
hope grows fainter and fainter, and I begin to think that as long as
life lasts I shall never again see anything like it. Like others, as they
begin to get grey, I become laudator temporis acti, and ask, Where
are now the hounds that could do this? Where is there another fox
like old Cæsar? And, worst of all, I doubt if I or any horse of mine
could struggle to the end if such an opportunity should ever return.
There have, of course, been many more remarkable runs than this
one recorded. One of my father’s tenants, who recently died, told
me he remembered, when a boy, Ralph Lambton coming into Bishop
Auckland on foot, with one and a half couple of hounds and a fox
dead beat a few yards in front, calling through the streets, “Hoick to
Jingler!” The fox lay down in the main street, and the hounds, quite
done and unable to tackle him, lay down beside him. The master
gave them a few minutes to kill him, but as they could not, he had
the fox attended to, and turned down again in his native covert in
the Sedgefield country.

Footnotes
[4] Mr. John Jorrocks’s Latin.
[5] On Thursday, 19th November 1776, the Duke of
Beaufort’s hounds had an extraordinary day, from Lyde Green
head, Bristol, two rings in the Vale (15 miles), then to the
hills, first to Sir William Codrington’s woods at Doddington,
then to the Duke’s wood at Didmarston, Hanbury, Upton,
Killcott, and killed between Killcott and Forcester—found at
7.30 and killed at 4. All the field thrown out, and six couple
out of seventeen in at the death. They were found lying on
their bellies, with Reynard in their midst. “Estimated distance,
50 miles,” and “the largest fox seen in these parts.”
 IX
BADGER-HUNTING

IX

T
HE badger is of such a shy and self-effacing disposition that he
seems likely to retire altogether from amongst us, unless the
sportsman’s interest in him can be revived. The badger’s love of
seclusion and natural instinct to avoid observation will become more
and more difficult for him to gratify, unless his kind receive special
protection in most parts of England. The humane Act that rendered
the brutal pastime of badger-baiting illegal no doubt has encouraged
his destruction and extinction in many districts. The demand for
badgers ceased; the supply diminished. We would gladly believe, in
a more merciful age, that, apart from legality or illegality, men
nowadays do not generally regard badger-drawing out of boxes or
tubs as a reputable sport. All genuine sportsmen have something of
the naturalist in their composition, but where this instinct is not
developed, the average sportsman is unlikely to trouble himself
about an animal that is seldom en evidence, who selects the night
for his appearance, and whose invasions into man’s sphere are of so
unobtrusive a character. The fox, the otter, and other beasts of chase
keep themselves before the public by their crimes, but the self-
renouncing modesty of the badger has led him to be neglected or
despised. Yet, apart from shaving brushes, a badger has his uses.
He is a destroyer of wasps and small vermin, and an excellent maker
of fox-earths. In countries where mange in foxes has become a
scourge, the preservation of badgers would do much to rid fox-
hunters of this plague—for they are wonderful cleansers of earths,
cleaning those they frequent in the most thorough manner; and,
unless very numerous, they encourage foxes, as their “sets” are the
fox’s favourite resort. The badger may live in our midst, almost at
the threshold of our doors, and yet leave us ignorant of his
presence. I once asked a Cornish farmer if there were badgers about
his place; he not only answered there were none, but that he had
never heard of or seen any during the many years he had lived on
the farm. Within ten minutes from receiving this information, one of
my terriers had “found” in a culvert that ran at the back of his barn,
causing intense astonishment. His scepticism, however, did not
finally give way to conviction till two badgers were unearthed, after
a night of toil, at five o’clock in the morning. Once, when travelling
on the Great Western Railway, I overheard the following
conversation between two gentlemen:—
First well-informed gent: “Seen this in the papers about badgers
being caught in Essex?”
Second: “No. How interesting!”
First: “Yes. Very curious, isn’t it?”
Second: “By the way, what is a badger like?”