CHAPTER XIII.
THE BRAESIDE HARRIERS.
The Braeside Harriers can hardly be called a "crack" pack ofhounds. Lord Hautboy had been right in saying that they were alwaysscrambling through ravines, and that they hunted whatever theycould find to hunt. Nevertheless, the men and the hounds were inearnest, and did accomplish a fair average of sport under difficultcircumstances. No "Pegasus" or "Littlelegs," or "Pigskin," ever sentaccounts of wondrous runs from Cumberland or Westmoreland to thesporting papers, in which the gentlemen who had asked the specialPigskin of the day to dinner were described as having been "in"at some "glorious finish" on their well-known horses Banker orBuff,--the horses named being generally those which the gentlemenwished to sell. The names of gorses and brooks had not becomehistoric, as have those of Ranksborough and Whissendine. Trains werenot run to suit this or the other meet. Gentlemen did not get out offast drags with pretty little aprons tied around their waists, likegirls in a country house coming down to breakfast. Not many perhapswore pink coats, and none pink tops. One horse would suffice forone day's work. An old assistant huntsman in an old red coat, withone boy mounted on a ragged pony, served for an establishment. Thewhole thing was despicable in the eyes of men from the Quorn andCottesmore. But there was some wonderful riding and much constantsport with the Braeside Harriers, and the country had given birth tocertainly the best hunting song in the language;--
Do you ken John Peel with his coat so gay; Do you ken John Peel at the break of day; Do you ken John Peel when he's far, far away With his hounds and his horn in the morning.
Such as the Braeside Harriers were, Lord Hampstead determined tomake the experiment, and on a certain morning had himself drivento Cronelloe Thorn, a favourite meet halfway between Penrith andKeswick.
I hold that nothing is so likely to be permanently prejudicial tothe interest of hunting in the British Isles as a certain flavour oftip-top fashion which has gradually enveloped it. There is a pretenceof grandeur about that and, alas, about other sports also, which is,to my thinking, destructive of all sport itself. Men will not shootunless game is made to appear before them in clouds. They will notfish unless the rivers be exquisite. To row is nothing unless you canbe known as a national hero. Cricket requires appendages which aretroublesome and costly, and by which the minds of economical fathersare astounded. To play a game of hockey in accordance with the timesyou must have a specially trained pony and a gaudy dress. Racquetshave given place to tennis because tennis is costly. In all thesecases the fashion of the game is much more cherished than the gameitself. But in nothing is this feeling so predominant as in hunting.For the management of a pack, as packs are managed now, a huntsmanneeds must be a great man himself, and three mounted subordinates arenecessary, as at any rate for two of these servants a second horseis required. A hunt is nothing in the world unless it goes out fourtimes a week at least. A run is nothing unless the pace be that of asteeplechase. Whether there be or be not a fox before the hounds isof little consequence to the great body of riders. A bold huntsmanwho can make a dash across country from one covert to another, andwho can so train his hounds that they shall run as though game werebefore them, is supposed to have provided good sport. If a fox can bekilled in covert afterwards so much the better for those who like totalk of their doings. Though the hounds brought no fox with them, itis of no matter. When a fox does run according to his nature he isreviled as a useless brute, because he will not go straight acrosscountry. But the worst of all is the attention given by men to thingsaltogether outside the sport. Their coats and waistcoats, their bootsand breeches, their little strings and pretty scarfs, their saddlesand bridles, their dandy knick-knacks, and, above all, their flasks,are more to many men than aught else in the day's proceedings. Ihave known girls who have thought that their first appearance inthe ball-room, when all was fresh, unstained, and perfect from themilliner's hand, was the one moment of rapture for the evening. Ihave sometimes felt the same of young sportsmen at a Leicestershireor Northamptonshire meet. It is not that they will not ride whenthe occasion comes. They are always ready enough to break theirbones. There is no greater mistake than to suppose that dandyism isantagonistic to pluck. The fault is that men train themselves to carefor nothing that is not as costly as unlimited expenditure can makeit. Thus it comes about that the real love of sport is crushed undera desire for fashion. A man will be almost ashamed to confess thathe hunts in Essex or Sussex, because the proper thing is to go downto the Shires. Grass, no doubt, is better than ploughed land to rideupon; but, taking together the virtues and vices of all huntingcounties, I doubt whether better sport is not to be found in whatI will venture to call the haunts of the clodpoles, than among thepalmy pastures of the well-breeched beauties of Leicestershire.
Braeside Harriers though they were, a strong taste for foxes hadlately grown up in the minds of men and in the noses of hounds. Blankdays they did not know, because a hare would serve the turn if thenobler animal were not forthcoming; but ideas of preserving hadsprung up; steps were taken to solace the minds of old women who hadlost their geese; and the Braeside Harriers, though they had kepttheir name, were gradually losing their character. On this occasionthe hounds were taken off to draw a covert instead of going toa so-ho, as regularly as though they were advertised among thefox-hounds in _The Times_. It was soon known that Lord Hampstead wasLord Hampstead, and he was welcomed by the field. What matter that hewas a revolutionary Radical if he could ride to hounds? At any rate,he was the son of a Marquis, and was not left to that solitude whichsometimes falls upon a man who appears suddenly as a stranger amongstrangers on a hunting morning. "I am glad to see you out, my lord,"said Mr. Amblethwaite, the Master. "It isn't often that we getrecruits from Castle Hautboy."
"They think a good deal of shooting there."
"Yes; and they keep their horses in Northamptonshire. Lord Hautboydoes his hunting there. The Earl, I think, never comes out now."
"I dare say not. He has all the foreign nations to look after."
"I suppose he has his hands pretty full," said Mr. Amblethwaite. "Iknow I have mine just at this time of the year. Where do you thinkthese hounds ran their fox to last Friday? We found him outsideof the Lowther Woods, near the village of Clifton. They took himstraight over Shap Fell, and then turning sharp to the right, wentall along Hawes Wall and over High Street into Troutbeck."
"That's all among the mountains," said Hampstead.
"Mountains! I should think so. I have to spend half my time among themountains."
"But you couldn't ride over High Street?"
"No, we couldn't ride; not there. But we had to make our way round,some of us, and some of them went on foot. Dick never lost sight ofthe hounds the whole day." Dick was the boy who rode the ragged pony."When we found 'em there he was with half the hounds around him, andthe fox's brush stuck in his cap."
"How did you get home that night?" asked Hampstead.
"Home! I didn't get home at all. It was pitch dark before we got therest of the hounds together. Some of them we didn't find till nextday. I had to go and sleep at Bowness, and thought myself very luckyto get a bed. Then I had to ride home next day over Kirkstone Fell.That's what I call something like work for a man and horse.--There'sa fox in there, my lord, do you hear them?" Then Mr. Amblethwaitebustled away to assist at the duty of getting the fox to break.
"I'm glad to see that you're fond of this kind of thing, my lord,"said a voice in Hampstead's ear, which, though he had only heardit once, he well remembered. It was Crocker, the guest at thedinner-party,--Crocker, the Post Office clerk.
"Yes," said Lord Hampstead, "I am very fond of this kind of thing.That fox has broken, I think, at the other side of the cover." Thenhe trotted off down a little lane between two loose-built walls,so narrow that there was no space for two men to ride abreast. Hisobject at that moment was to escape Crocker rather than to look afterthe hounds.
They were in a wild country, not exactly on a mountain side, butamong hills which not fa
r off grew into mountains, where cultivationof the rudest kind was just beginning to effect its domination overhuman nature. There was a long spinney rather than a wood stretchingdown a bottom, through which a brook ran. It would now cease,and then renew itself, so that the trees, though not absolutelycontinuous, were nearly so for the distance of half a mile. Theground on each side was rough with big stones, and steep in someplaces as they went down the hill. But still it was such thathorsemen could gallop on it. The fox made his way along the wholelength, and then traversing, so as to avoid the hounds, ran a ringup the hillside, and back into the spinney again. Among the horsemenmany declared that the brute must be killed unless he would make uphis mind for a fair start. Mr. Amblethwaite was very busy, huntingthe hounds himself, and intent rather on killing the fox fairly thanon the hopes of a run. Perhaps he was not desirous of sleeping outanother night on the far side of Helvellyn. In this way the sportsmengalloped up and down the side of the wood till the feeling arose, asit does on such occasions, that it might be well for a man to standstill awhile and spare his horse, in regard to the future necessitiesof the day. Lord Hampstead did as others were doing, and in a momentCrocker was by his side. Crocker was riding an animal which hisfather was wont to drive about the country, but one well known inthe annals of the Braeside Harriers. It was asserted of him thatthe fence was not made which he did not know how to creep over. Ofjumping, such as jumping is supposed to be in the shires, he knewnothing. He was, too, a bad hand at galloping, but with a shambling,half cantering trot, which he had invented for himself, he could goalong all day, not very quickly, but in such fashion as never to beleft altogether behind. He was a flea-bitten horse, if my readersknow what that is,--a flea-bitten roan, or white covered with smallred spots. Horses of this colour are ugly to look at, but are veryseldom bad animals. Such as he was, Crocker, who did not ride muchwhen up in London, was very proud of him. Crocker was dressed in agreen coat, which in a moment of extravagance he had had made forhunting, and in brown breeches, in which he delighted to displayhimself on all possible occasions. "My lord," he said, "you'dhardly think it, but I believe this horse to be the best hunter inCumberland."
"Is he, indeed? Some horse of course must be the best, and why notyours?"
"There's nothing he can't do;--nothing. His jumping is mi--raculous,and as for pace, you'd be quite surprised.--They're at him again now.What an echo they do make among the hills!"
Indeed they did. Every now and then the Master would just touch hishorn, giving a short blast, just half a note, and then the soundwould come back, first from this rock and then from the other, andthe hounds as they heard it would open as though encouraged by themusic of the hills, and then their voices would be carried round thevalley, and come back again and again from the steep places, and theywould become louder and louder as though delighted with the effectof their own efforts. Though there should be no hunting, the concertwas enough to repay a man for his trouble in coming there. "Yes,"said Lord Hampstead, his disgust at the man having been quenched forthe moment by the charm of the music, "it is a wonderful spot forechoes."
"It's what I call awfully nice. We don't have anything like that upat St. Martin's-le-Grand." Perhaps it may be necessary to explainthat the Post Office in London stands in a spot bearing that poeticname.
"I don't remember any echoes there," said Lord Hampstead.
"No, indeed;--nor yet no hunting, nor yet no hounds; are there, mylord? All the same, it's not a bad sort of place!"
"A very respectable public establishment!" said Lord Hampstead.
"Just so, my lord; that's just what I always say. It ain't swell likeDowning Street, but it's a deal more respectable than the CustomHouse."
"Is it? I didn't know."
"Oh yes. They all admit that. You ask Roden else." On hearing thename, Lord Hampstead began to move his horse, but Crocker was at hisside and could not be shaken off. "Have you heard from him, my lord,since you have been down in these parts?"
"Not a word."
"I dare say he thinks more of writing to a correspondent of thefairer sex."
This was unbearable. Though the fox had again turned and gone up thevalley,--a movement which seemed to threaten his instant death, andto preclude any hope of a run from that spot,--Hampstead felt himselfcompelled to escape, if he could. In his anger he touched his horsewith his spur and galloped away among the rocks, as though his objectwas to assist Mr. Amblethwaite in his almost frantic efforts. ButCrocker cared nothing for the stones. Where the lord went, he went.Having made acquaintance with a lord, he was not going to waste theblessing which Providence had vouchsafed to him.
"He'll never leave that place alive, my lord."
"I dare say not." And again the persecuted nobleman rodeon,--thinking that neither should Crocker, if he could have his will.
"By the way, as we are talking of Roden--"
"I haven't been talking about him at all." Crocker caught the tone ofanger, and stared at his companion. "I'd rather not talk about him."
"My lord! I hope there has been nothing like a quarrel. For thelady's sake, I hope there's no misunderstanding!"
"Mr. Crocker," he said very slowly, "it isn't customary--"
At that moment the fox broke, the hounds were away, and Mr.Amblethwaite was seen rushing down the hill-side, as thoughdetermined on breaking his neck. Lord Hampstead rushed after him ata pace which, for a time, defied Mr. Crocker. He became thoroughlyashamed of himself in even attempting to make the man understandthat he was sinning against good taste. He could not do so withoutsome implied mention of his sister, and to allude to his sister inconnection with such a man was a profanation. He could only escapefrom the brute. Was this a punishment which he was doomed to bear forbeing--as his stepmother was wont to say--untrue to his order?
In the mean time the hounds went at a great pace down the hill. Someof the old stagers, who knew the country well, made a wide sweepround to the left, whence by lanes and tracks, which were known tothem, they could make their way down to the road which leads alongUlleswater to Patterdale. In doing this they might probably not seethe hounds again that day,--but such are the charms of hunting in ahilly country. They rode miles around, and though they did again seethe hounds, they did not see the hunt. To have seen the hounds asthey start, and to see them again as they are clustering round thehuntsman after eating their fox, is a great deal to some men.
On this occasion it was Hampstead's lot--and Crocker's--to do muchmore than that. Though they had started down a steep valley,--downthe side rather of a gully,--they were not making their way outfrom among the hills into the low country. The fox soon went upagain,--not back, but over an intervening spur of a mountain towardsthe lake. The riding seemed sometimes to Hampstead to be impossible.But Mr. Amblethwaite did it, and he stuck to Mr. Amblethwaite. Itwould have been all very well had not Crocker stuck to him. If theold roan would only tumble among the stones what an escape therewould be! But the old roan was true to his character, and, to giveevery one his due, the Post Office clerk rode as well as the lord.There was nearly an hour and a-half of it before the hounds raninto their fox just as he was gaining an earth among the bushes andhollies with which Airey Force is surrounded. Then on the slopingmeadow just above the waterfall, the John Peel of the hunt draggedout the fox from among the trees, and, having dismembered himartistically, gave him to the hungry hounds. Then it was that perhapshalf-a-dozen diligent, but cautious, huntsmen came up, and heard allthose details of the race which they were afterwards able to give, ason their own authority, to others who had been as cautious, but notso diligent, as themselves.
"One of the best things I ever saw in this country," said Crocker,who had never seen a hound in any other country. At this moment hehad ridden up alongside of Hampstead on the way back to Penrith. TheMaster and the hounds and Crocker must go all the way. Hampsteadwould turn off at Pooley Bridge. But still there were four miles,during which he would be subjected to his tormentor.
"Yes, indeed. A very good thing, as I wa
s saying, Mr. Amblethwaite."