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MEN WE MEET IN THE FIELD.

[Illustration]


MEN WE MEET IN

THE FIELD.


BY A. G. BAGOT ("BAGATELLE").

[Illustration]

1881.

TINSLEY BROTHERS, 8, CATHERINE STREET, STRAND,

LONDON.




MEN WE MEET IN THE FIELD

OR

THE BULLSHIRE HOUNDS.


BY A. G. BAGOT ("BAGATELLE"),

AUTHOR OF "SPORTING SKETCHES IN THREE CONTINENTS."

London:

TINSLEY BROTHERS, 8, CATHERINE STREET, STRAND.

1881.

[_All rights reserved._]


CHARLES DICKENS AND EVANS,
CRYSTAL PALACE PRESS.




PREFACE.


The present series of Sketches in the Hunting Field have, from time to
time, appeared in the columns of _The Country Gentleman and Sporting
Gazette_, to the Editor of which journal I am indebted for leave to
reprint them. All, or nearly all, the characters I have endeavoured to
portray have come under my personal observation, and are from life; but
I have done my utmost to avoid depicting peculiarities that might serve
to identify my models, or using personalities that might offend them.

In placing MEN WE MEET IN THE FIELD before the public, beyond
acknowledging that I have perhaps not done full justice to the subject,
I offer no apology; for anything said or done, painted or written, that
serves in any way to call attention to our glorious old national sport,
or to recall perchance the scenes of our youth, is not done amiss. In
that it is one more stone, however humble, in the wall of defence which,
alas! it is now becoming necessary to build against the attacks of those
whose aim seems to be the demolition of all sport, dazzled as they are
by the glamour of notoriety, won by sensational legislation, at the
expense of all that has made England what she is, and her sons and
daughters what they are.

I do not for a moment wish to enter into political argument. In the
Field, Liberal and Conservative, Radical and Home-Ruler, meet as one,
save only in the struggle for the lead. But what I do hold is that, by
measures such as the Ground Game Bill and the Abolition of all Freedom
of Contract, our national sports are fast being blotted out, and that it
behoves all true sportsmen to array themselves against such things.

Of the matter contained in the volume I am now sending on its way,
others must judge. I confess that I have enjoyed the writing of it. If I
am fortunate enough to find some at least who enjoy the reading I shall
be content, and shall feel I have not laboured in vain.

To those who so kindly received my maiden venture, "Sporting Sketches"
(Messrs. Swan, Sonnenschein, and Allen), I offer my best thanks. Like a
young hound who has not felt too much whipcord, encouragement has given
confidence. I can only hope I may not have flashed over the line.

THE AUTHOR.




CONTENTS.

                                                                    PAGE
INTRODUCTORY                                                           1

THE MASTER                                                             8

THE HUNTSMAN                                                          16

THE WHIPS                                                             26

THE SECRETARY                                                         35

THE FARMER                                                            46

THE PARSON                                                            58

THE DOCTOR                                                            72

THE DEALERS                                                           84

THE GRUMBLER                                                          98

THE LADY WHO HUNTS AND RIDES                                         113

THE LADY WHO HUNTS AND DOES NOT RIDE                                 126

THE SCHOOLBOYS                                                       139

THE BOASTER                                                          154

HODGE                                                                169

THE KEEPER                                                           182

THE AUTHORITY                                                        197

THE BLACKSMITH                                                       212

THE RUNNER                                                           225

THE MAN AT THE TOLL-BAR                                              237

WHO-WHOOP!                                                           247

THE FIRST OF THE SEASON                                              257

UNCLE JOHN'S NEW HORSE                                               262

THE HOG-BACKED STILE                                                 287




ERRATUM.

_For_ "Hollo!" _read throughout_ "Holloa!"




MEN WE MEET IN THE FIELD.




INTRODUCTORY.


For those fond of studying character under various circumstances and in
various positions, there is, perhaps, no medium affording so good an
opportunity, or so vast a scope, as the hunting-field.

There more than in any other place do men's characters appear in their
true lights. At the covert-side the irritable man, however well he may
on ordinary occasions be able to conceal his irritability, will fret and
fume if things do not go exactly as he wishes. The boaster, who in the
safety of his armchair astonishes his friends with anecdotes of his own
daring exploits, is, after a fast forty minutes, more often than not
weighed in the balance and found wanting. The garrulous individual, who
invariably knows where the fox has gone and what the huntsman ought to
do, is in the field estimated at his proper value. There also the
grumblers never fail to find a grievance, nor the elder generations of
sportsmen to lament the "good old days gone by." In fact, the
"bell-mouthed pack and tuneful horn" seem to act in some occult way in
bringing out the idiosyncrasies of all their followers. This being so, a
few sketches may not be uninteresting, and I shall endeavour to draw
with my pen some portraits of those with whom we yearly ride, and who
are so well known to most of us. To do this the more concisely, I
propose to describe the field, subscribers, visitors, and others, who
are to be found at the meets from the 1st of November to the end of
April, and who go to make up the members of that justly celebrated
pack--the Bullshire Hounds. Before individualising, however, it will be
necessary to give a short history of the hunt, with a brief outline of
the country, and its gradual growth.

The Bullshire country is one of the oldest in England, and was
originally hunted on what is known as the "Trencher system," that is
everybody, in lieu of paying a subscription, kept (according to his
means) one or more hounds, which he was bound to bring with him to the
spot selected by the Master (who was yearly elected as huntsman) for the
meet. No sinecure was the office of M.F.H., carrying the horn, for as
every hound recognised the rule of a different Master, and every Master
considered himself entitled to an opinion in the case of his own hound,
there was a good deal of jealousy among the latter and no small amount
of "tail" among the former. The "tailing," however, was augmented by the
different system of preparation and feeding the Bullshire Hounds
received, for while Bellman before hunting was treated to no supper,
Truelove had to deal with a sumptuous repast placed before her by the
compassionate but ignorant goodwife, "who couldn't abear the idea of the
old dog doing all that work on an empty stomach."

After a little the system proved unsatisfactory, and a step in the
proper direction was taken. Old Gregory the Whip was sent round early in
the morning the day before the meet to collect the pack, and it thus
became his business to see that all fared alike--wisely, and not too
well. From this it was an easy stage to kennels, and somehow, before the
inhabitants knew how it happened, they found themselves paying their
subscriptions with and without a murmur, and were able to point with
pride to the Bullshire kennels. Once this an accomplished fact,
everything went on smoothly; and from old Gregory and a Master whose
office was the subject of an annual election, they now turn out a
huntsman, two whips, and a second horseman, and, for a provincial pack,
stand first on the list.

Their present Master is one of the right sort, who takes an interest in
his hounds and his servants, perhaps at times a little free with his
tongue, but only when absolutely necessary, and it is because of their
large and varied field that I have selected the Bullshire for
description. The country, though not a flying one, has a fair share of
grass, and is acknowledged by all to hold a good scent. As there is
every conceivable sort of obstacle, of every conceivable size, shape,
and form, wet and dry, it requires a clever horse to get over it.
Indeed, when some of the swells from the Shires condescend to patronise
the Bullshire (no uncommon occurrence, by-the-way), there are generally
two or three to be found, like water, at the bottom of a ditch.

I remember hearing a description of his day by a Meltonian, when he
returned to his quarters with a battered head-piece and covered in mud.
In reply to a question of "Where had he been?" he said: "Lord knows
where I have not been. To the bottom of about ten ditches, three
brooks, nearly into a gravel-pit, hung up in a bullfinch for five
minutes, and almost broke my neck at the biggest post and rails I ever
saw." "Well," continued his interlocutor, "did you have a good run?"
"Run!" said he; "I believe you! Ran three miles after my horse and then
nicked in, and was up at the finish. Blessed if ever I saw such a
country. They think nothing of an hour and ten minutes, and they do
stick to it, I can tell you; fox hasn't a chance with the Bullshire.
It's for all the world like a stoat and a hare. Rare place to send
creditor to; give him a mount on a green nag, he's bound to kill
himself."

Added to these advantages, so ably set forth by the Leicestershire
sportsman, foxes are plentiful, and, with one notable exception, of whom
more anon, everybody looks after them, and does his best to demonstrate
the fact that the fox and the pheasant can both be preserved, despite
what Velveteens and his myrmidons may say. The man who rules the
destinies of this sporting pack will form the subject of my first
sketch.




THE MASTER.


"Morning, gentlemen," accompanied by a bow to the ladies, apprises us of
the fact that Sir John Lappington has arrived, and as we turn round in
our saddles we see a cheery face beaming with health and goodnature, and
note what a thorough business look both man and horse present. The horse
is one of those rare specimens of weight-carriers, known as "a good
thing in a small parcel." Standing about fifteen hands two inches, with
quarters fit to jump over a house, and shoulders of equal value when
landing the other side, clean flat legs with plenty of bone, and
excellent feet, well ribbed up, with a broad deep chest, it stands a
living picture of the old-fashioned hunter that could and would go
anywhere. And surely the man is not far behind in appearance. Riding
about thirteen stone, or a little lighter, with somewhat a careless
seat, one's first impression is that he is by no means smartly turned
out, though the eye acknowledges at once the workman.

A second and more careful study shows us that, while there is an entire
absence of gilt and gingerbread, of varnish and veneer, still, from the
crown of his-well-brushed hat to the sole of his well-cleaned boot,
everything is neatness itself. It may be that we take exception to the
brown cords which Sir John always wears; but when one has tried to
follow the clever cobby horse and his master through some of the
roughest places in the day's work, and our leathers show plainly where
we have been, we are fain to confess the wisdom of the said brown cords.
Notwithstanding the cheery goodnature that beams from the Master's
face, there is something in his eye and chin that warns instinctively
against riding over the hounds or heading a fox, and shows a latent
power of anathema and rebuke which, when once heard, is not in a hurry
forgotten.

Sir John Lappington has been Master of the Bullshire for four seasons.
He took the hounds at the request of the county on the death of Mr.
Billington, who had hunted them for six-and-twenty years without hardly
missing a day. Some few people urged that the new Master would not be
found old enough to control so large a field, being but thirty years of
age when he commenced his reign; but the first day dispelled their
doubts, for on some of the "galloping-and-jumping" contingent trying to
have things their own way, and paying no heed to repeated remonstrances
to "give hounds a chance," the young Master astonished everyone by
saying to the huntsman: "Stop 'em, Tom;" and when that was effected,
turning to the offenders: "Now, gentlemen, when you have done your
d----d steeplechasing we will go on hunting. If you want to break your
necks you may put down my name for five pounds to bury the first who
does so, provided you run it off at once, so that other people who
prefer hunting to rough-riding may not be kept waiting."

This effectually stopped them, and from that day very little trouble has
been shown, and when any have offended, it has generally required but
one talking-to to bring them to a sense of what was required of them.
Such is the man who now rides up punctual to the minute, and is greeted
by all with a hearty welcome. The hunt servants, with old Tom the
huntsman at their head, are as proud of being under him as they can be,
and the hounds simply adore him. See how they fly, heedless of Harry's
"Ware 'oss, ger away baik," clustering all round the cobby hunter, and
leaving the marks of their affection on boot and saddle. "Eu leu,
Minstrel, old boy; ay, Harbinger, good old man," says Sir John, a word
for each by name; and back they go to the rule of Tom, who cannot for
the life of him help feeling a twinge of jealousy, that "the hounds
should be so 'nation fond of t' young Master, most as much as they are
o' me, I'll be blessed if they ain't."

Five minutes of friendly chaff with the carriages, two more with old
Farmer Simms, who, on being shown his wife's poultry bill, says: "Give
it here, Sir John, give it here. The ould woman would take the money out
of a man's breeches if he did not keep his hands in his pockets," and
with a laugh Tom gets the signal to move off, Sir John stopping before
he canters on to the hounds to say: "Never mind, Simms, I daresay we
shall make it all right. The missus and I are old friends," and replying
to Simms's loudly-expressed opinion that "The ould wench 'ull fleece
you, I fear," with a deprecatory wave of the hand as he ranges up
alongside the old huntsman.

The first draw is a gorse lying on the side of a hill, where there is
always a little difficulty in restraining the impatience of the field,
who, anxious for a start, are rather apt to override the hounds. There
is a hunting-gate, beyond which no one is allowed to go until the hounds
are well away, and here the Master posts himself, saying in a loud voice
that can be heard by all: "If there is any stranger in the field to-day,
he must understand that while hounds are drawing no one is allowed
farther than this." At this moment his quick eye catches sight of a
youngster who has jumped the rails lower down, and hopes he has escaped
detection. "Come back, you sir," rings out; "come back; and as you are
so fond of timber you can take the rails up hill. Dash your impudence,
when I have just said no one is allowed to go for'ard! Come, at them--no
funking;" and as, amid roars of laughter, the culprit, looking
exceedingly foolish, rides at the rails, and gets a rattling fall, Sir
John chuckles to himself: "Don't think he'll try that game on again."
The hounds are by this time hard at work, and from the way they throw
themselves out of the gorse there are evident signs of a speedy find.
With keen enjoyment the Master watches the young entry, and as first one
and then another of his favourites momentarily expose themselves to
view, he thinks he would not exchange his empire for untold wealth.

In this enviable frame of mind he is interrupted by the appearance of a
tall cadaverous-looking individual on foot, who, addressing himself to
him, says: "Sir John Lappington, I believe?" "That's me; what can I do
for you?" is the reply. "Ah! they told me I should find you here, ah!
I--my name is Simpkins, Mr. Simpkins, Secretary of the Young Men's
Improvement Society. I have been requested to ask for your patronage and
subscription for a new school our society have decided on opening for
young men in Lappington; and as they told me you were following the
chase, ah! and my time is limited, I thought I should not be intruding
if I could persuade you to" (pulling out a long subscription-list) "look
over this."

Here, luckily, "Away, g-o-rne a-wa-a-y!" cut short the conversation, and
the Master, swinging down the hill and slipping over the bank and ditch
at the bottom, almost before the astonished Simpkins has made out what
has happened, might have been heard muttering to himself: "Well, I am
blowed! Did anyone hear of a man being asked to subscribe to a school
when hounds had just found? Following the chase too! If