Hunting Sketches
by Anthony Trollope
Contents
The Man who Hunts and Doesn't Like it
The Man who Hunts and Does Like it
The Lady who Rides to Hounds
The Hunting Farmer
The Man who Hunts and Never Jumps
The Hunting Parson
The Master of Hounds
How to Ride to Hounds
THE MAN WHO HUNTS AND DOESN'T LIKE IT.
It seems to be odd, at first sight, that there should be any such
men as these; but their name and number is legion. If we were to
deduct from the hunting-crowd farmers, and others who hunt
because hunting is brought to their door, of the remainder we
should find that the "men who like it" have the
preponderance. It is pretty much the same, I think, with all
amusements. How many men go to balls, to races, to the theatre,
how many women to concerts and races, simply because it is the
thing to do? They have perhaps, a vague idea that they may
ultimately find some joy in the pastime; but, though they do the
thing constantly, they never like it. Of all such men, the
hunting men are perhaps the most to be pitied.
They are easily recognized by any one who cares to scrutinize the
men around him in the hunting field. It is not to be supposed
that all those who, in common parlance, do not ride, are to be
included among the number of hunting men who like it. Many
a man who sticks constantly to the roads and lines of
gates, who, from principle, never looks at a fence, is much
attached to hunting. Some of those who have borne great names as
Nimrods in our hunting annals would as life have led a forlornhope as put a horse at a flight of hurdles. But they, too, are
known; and though the nature of their delight is a mystery to
straight-going men, it is manifest enough, that they do like it.
Their theory of hunting is at any rate plain. They have an
acknowledged system, and know what they are doing. But the men
who like it, have no system, and never know distinctly what
is their own aim. During some portion of their career they
commonly try to ride hard, and sometimes for a while they will
succeed. In short spurts, while the cherry-brandy prevails, they
often have small successes; but even with the assistance of a
spur in the head they never like it.
Dear old John Leech! What an eye he had for the man who hunts and
doesn't like it ! But for such, as a pictorial chronicler of the
hunting field he would have had no fame. Briggs, I fancy, in his
way did like it. Briggs was a full-blooded, up-apt, awkward,
sanguine man, who was able to like anything, from gin and water
upwards. But with how many a wretched companion of Briggs' are we
not familiar? men as to whom any girl of eighteen would swear
from the form of his visage and the carriage of his legs as he
sits on his horse that he was seeking honour where honour was not
to be found, and looking for pleasure in places where no pleasure
lay for him.
But the man who hunts and doesn't like it, has his moments of
gratification, and finds a source of pride in his penance. In the
summer, hunting does much for him. He does not usually take much
personal care of his horses, as he is probably a town man and his
horses are summered by a keeper of hunting stables; but he talks
of them. He talks of them freely, and the keeper of the hunting
stables is occasionally forced to write to him. And he can run
down to look at his nags, and spend a few hours eating bad mutton
chops, walking about the yards and paddocks, and, bleeding
halfcrowns through the nose. In all this there is a delight which
offers some compensation for his winter misery to our friend who
hunts and doesn't like it.
He finds it pleasant to talk of his horses especially to young
women, with whom, perhaps, the ascertained fact of his winter
employment does give him some credit. It is still something to be
a hunting man even yet, though the multiplicity of railways and
the existing plethora of money has so increased the number of
sportsmen, that to keep a nag or two near some well-known
station, is nearly as common as to die. But the delight of these
martyrs is at the highest in the presence of their tailors; or,
higher still, perhaps, in that of their bootmakers. The hunting
man does receive some honour from him who makes his breeches;
and, with a well-balanced sense of justice, the tailor's foreman
is, I think, more patient, more admiring, more demonstrative in
his assurances, more ready with his bit of chalk, when handling
the knee of the man who doesn't like the work, than he ever is
with the customer who comes to him simply because he wants some
clothes fit for the saddle. The judicious conciliating tradesman
knows that compensation should be given, and he helps to give it.
But the visits to the bootmaker are better still. The tailor
persists in telling his customer how his breeches should be made,
and after what fashion they should be worn; but the bootmaker
will take his orders meekly. If not ruffled by paltry objections
as to the fit of the foot, he will accede to any amount of
instructions as to the legs and tops. And then a new pair of top
boots is a pretty toy; Costly, perhaps, if needed only as a toy,
but very pretty, and more decorative in a gentleman's dressingroom than any other kind of garment. And top boots, when
multiplied in such a locality, when seen in a phalanx tell such
pleasant lies on their owner's behalf. While your breeches are as
dumb in their retirement as though you had not paid for them,
your conspicuous boots are eloquent with a thousand tongues!
There is pleasure found, no doubt, in this.
As the season draws nigh the delights become vague, and still
more vague; but, nevertheless, there are delights. Getting up at
six o'clock in November to go down to Bletchley by an early train
is not in itself pleasant, but on the opening morning, on the
few first opening mornings, there is a promise about the thing
which invigorates and encourages the early riser. He means to
like it this year if he can. He has still some undefined notion
that his period of pleasure will now come. He has not, as yet,
accepted the adverse verdict which his own nature has given
against him in this matter of hunting, and he gets into his early
tub with acme glow of satisfaction. And afterwards it is nice to
find himself bright with mahogany tops, buff-tinted breeches, and
a pink coat. The ordinary habiliments of an English gentleman are
so sombre that his own eye is gratified, and he feels that he has
placed himself in the vanguard of society by thus shining in his
apparel. And he will ride this year! He is fixed to that purpose.
He will ride straight; and, if possible, he will like it.
But the Ethiop cannot change his skin, nor can any man add a
cubit to his stature. He doesn't like it, and all around him in
the field know how it is with him; he himself knows how it is
with others like himself, and he congregates with his brethren.
The period of his penance has come upon him. He has to pay the
price of those pleasant interviews with his tradesmen. He has to
expiate the false boasts made to his female cousins. That row of
boots cannot be made to shine in his chamber for nothing. The
hounds have found, and the fox is away. Men are fastening on
their flat-topped hats and feeling themselves in their stirrups.
Horses are hot for the run, and the moment for liking it has
come, if only it were possible!
But at moments such as these something has to be done. The man
who doesn't like it, let him dislike it ever so much, Cannot
check his horse and simply ride back to the hunting stables. He
understands that were he to do that, he must throw up his cap at
once and resign. Nor can he trot easily along the roads with the
fat old country gentleman who is out on his rough cob, and who,
looking up to the wind and remembering the position of adjacent
coverts, will give a good guess as to the direction in which the
field will move. No; he must make an effort. The time of his
penance has come, and the penance must be borne. There is a spark
of ...
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