Графични страници
PDF файл
ePub

the half-opened door, dying with impatience, poor ardent creatures, to begin the joyous sport; and when liberated, oh, what happiness is theirs! how by their quick sharp bark they bespeak their joy, and seem to thank the hand that gave them the liberty they can so well enjoy! and with what anxiety they read his countenance to ascertain if it is indeed to be theirs. And now the word "to heel" is given: quick as the summons they place themselves in the rear, and proceed through the well-known route, from lane to lane, from field to field, to covert side in pursuit. "Down! Busy, Flush, and Dash, down!" When all arranged, away they go again, trying first the stubbled

fields, with pits and banky brakes contiguous to the woods. Scarce left their feed, the pheasants in haste seek a retreat from the eager eye of the sportsman. "Hie in, dogs!" No second invitation is necessary; but in they rush, through pit or brake, or stubborn furze, questing close on the quickheeled bird, who vainly tries to elude the Spaniel's search. Pressed hard, the spangled bird wirring rises through the hazel-bush, astounding the sportsman, whose gun is abortively discharged amongst the slender twigs; while his companion, cooled by experience, awaits the moment of its turn, then with sure aim bags the gorgeous and fated bird.

W. S.

A FEW DAYS WITH SIR ARTHUR CHICHESTER'S

STAG

HOUNDS.

TH HOUGH it is some time, Mr. Editor, since I forwarded anything to your entertaining work, I am happy to say I am not dead, nor have I forgotten to read it very carefully on the first day of every month. To say its perusal gives me pleasure, would be about telling you as much news as if I were to sit down and inform you that the Cholera is in my immediate neighbourhood (where is it not?), but that, by care and attention to diet and early hours, neither myself nor any of my suite have yet been visited by it. This I must say, you can now boast of writers whose communications will, I fear, make any humble attempts of mine look very small: however, I trust you will take the will for

the deed, generously forgive the want of eloquence in my present article......if good enough for your pages, use it; and if not, consign it without remorse to the devouring flames, which, like dead men, can tell no tales.

I am at present sojourning with a very old and esteemed College friend, in the beautiful county of Devon, most justly denominated the "Garden of Eng land;" for in few counties have I met with the charms of hill and dale, wood and water, picturesque views, noble domains, pure air, and the glory of "the deep deep sea," so united and concentrated as I find them here. Here I can almost defy the present scourge. I rise at six, as all good sportsmen should (for, like the French, who

are certainly in this respect reasonable beings, I never could swallow a hearty breakfast as some persons do half an hour after leaving my bed), and, accompanied by my two trusty friends, Dash and the gun, sally forth for a three-hours shy at the partridges, by which time my appetite has acquired that delightful edge that it could (to use a very vulgar saying) relish the hind leg of a dog well roasted. The remainder of the day is devoted to stag-hunting, which has commenced here, and of which my friend is a most determined votary; the evening to cheerful conversation, and the purple wine (spite of the cholera); and at night, I can assure you, good Mr. Editor, on the faith of a sportsman, I can sleep without rocking. That stag-hunting, by the bye, is no mean amusement, let your Melton Bucks (who require the aid of a carriage and four to transport their luxurious frames to the fixture, and a meadow soft as the choicest Turkey carpet, before they can do the trick) say what they please. For myself, I hate such inglorious ease. Give me something akin to danger, and the life, the animation, and the spirit consequent on that feeling. This is hunting, "the rest is naught but leather and prunella." The Melton Bucks will find it in their hearts to forgive a rude sportsman's censure, I dare say, when they recollect how many of the fair sex are ranked amongst their admirers. Picture to yourself a splendid hart just unharboured, leaping an immense fence close to you as you sit on your prad, with ear intent on the music of the tufters, whose deeptoned echoes are waking the spirits

of the wood! behold the quick glances of his dark eye; his airy spring, his graceful form-light and speedy as the zephyr! turn then to the noble expanse of moor lying before you in all the grandeur of solitude! behold the sun, whose bright beams are shedding a rainbow light on the richlytinted autumnal trees; and feel the pure breeze wafted from the hills, giving life to your frame, and joy to your heart-and say, can the feeling inspired by these sights and sounds be other than glorious?

But enough of digression; and now allow me, Mr. Editor, to give you a sort of running description of a few days' sport enjoyed by myself and friend with Sir Arthur Chichester's hounds, who commenced business the 31st of last month.

The morning proved auspicious to the anxious melée, and at the hour of ten the tufters were thrown into Durran Wood, and soon began to draw on the slot, when a fine hart (a six-year-old deer) soon was tallyho'd away in gallant style, pointing his front for Bradley: thence crossing over and skirting the moor for a few miles, headed back, and went for Hawkbridge; but being put to his trumps, sunk in the high grounds, and came down the Barl river nearly six miles, where he took soil, and was killed, after having led the brave pack a dance of two hours and a half at a splitting rate. Every horseman was up, as well as a large cortège of foot people, who, from the hill above Marsh Bridge, were enabled to see the whole of the fun. The plenteous showers of the preceding days had much increased the river; and a few of

the hot and fiery ones, whose zeal outstripped their prudence, crossed the stream, though there was little occasion for such a damping, the hart being completely run down and piping. One Hotspur, in his eagerness to possess a trophy, had his finger rather badly cut by a brother sportsman, who was performing an operation on a slot; but that capital sportsman, Doctor Collins, whose zeal in the service of Diana in no wise diminishes his attention to the more serious duties of Esculapius, soon set matters to rights. This day's sport, with the exception of the accident above-named, ended in perfect harmony, and so much to the satisfaction of all parties, that a deputation was formed, relying on Sir Arthur's general kindness and condescension, to implore him to remain, and give them another day's fun on the 3d instant; which he consented to do, remaining at the Red Lion for the purpose.

The morning of the 3d rose in brilliancy, and at half-past nine the cavalcade, eager for glory and renown, were on the move; commencing the business by drawing Hellebridge Wood, opposite Barham Down, about a mile from Dulverton. The tufters had not been in the wood above ten minutes, when they unharboured, and the valley resounded with the merry music, upon which signal the "tally-ho" was given by the Baronet, and a stagle, full twelve summers old, made its appearance. The rouse was as quick, fine, and animating, as the most ardent admirer of stag-hunting could desire; and the pack were immediately laid on, but did not

settle well for a while on the scent.

He then bounded away, and was run over Court Down, on through Loosedale Wood, skirting Ballneck, on to Marshwood, and then up the bottom to Carthridge; when, unluckily, in going through Mounsey Wood, two young deer were roused, and the pack divided on them, leaving only three hounds to carry on the hunted deer, which they did in merry tune to Borough Down, on to Hawkridge, where they were stopped, in the hope of getting more hounds together to cross Exmoor, over which the stag had taken, pointing straight for North Molton; but at this juncture a part of the pack coming up in full swing at the heels of a knob ber (a two-year-old deer), the hounds joined their forces, and the old hart escaped, after having had a pretty sharp tussel for it. The young one now set to work in right earnest; crossing Hawkridge Common, with three couple of hounds steadily on his slot, direct for Lishwell Wood, thence to West Anstey Common, on to Ryncombe Farm and Coombe Wood; where, being closely pursued, he broke away straight for Knowston Moors, crossing Mollard parish, by Park Farm, to the Cuckoo Inn, on the Southmoulton old road; but so indefatigable were his enemies, that not a minute was he allowed (had he been so inclined) to cool his burning tongue at the tempting waterbucket at the door of the Cuckoo. Hunter as I am, I could not help thinking here of that exquisite description of the stag's distresses to be found in the Comedy of As You Like It:

"To the which place a poor sequester'd stag,
That from the hunter's aim had ta'en a hurt,
Did come to languish; and, indeed, my Lord,
The wretched animal heaved forth such moans,
That their discharge did stretch his leathern coat
Almost to bursting; and the big round tears
Cours'd one another down his innocent nose
In piteous chase."

But hunters, like doctors, cannot afford to be sentimental; so away across the turnpike road we went, leaving the Cuckoo and all its temptations behind, shaping our course over Hadham to Knowston Mill, then down the water, where" bellows to mend" was the universal cry. Here our young hero, profiting by the fatigue of his pursuers, took the opportunity of stealing into Doo Wood, whence, however, he was soon nobly roused, springing off at a deuce of a pace down the vale under Knowston village; thence fronting to the left, and crossing to Russell's Moor, to the bottom of Radnage Moor, in the parish of East Anstey, where he was obliged to cry "halt," for no further could he go. This last gallop was tremendous, and well performed by all parties: indeed, throughout the affair, which lasted four hours, the most unshrinking courage was evinced by the stag and his pursuers. The brave knobber was eventually saved from death, which he well deserved for his pluck, and had the honour of shewing his phiz in the Earl of Carnarvon's park at Spixton near Dulverton, but I hear has since given up the ghost. Peace to his manes!!

The other part of the pack ran their deer for three hours, and

were taken off when their game was just sinking, it being ascertained he was only a staggard (a four-year-old gentleman)-and thus ended the day's fun.

There were several good ones out both days, the most conspicuous of whom were Doctor Collins and a young Clergyman mounted on a black cob, who seemed to enjoy the sport quite as well as his master; and a slapping pace they kept up, both in the open and inland. Upon the whole it may be said to have been a most auspicious meeting, and forebodes many a future good day's work for the stag-hunters of this part of the country.

The evenings were passed in true newspaper style, that is, in perfect harmony, at the Red Lion at Dulverton, whose hostess did. her best to make her guests at their ease; and I have no doubt many a trump returned to his abode, feeling, with the Poet

"I wish I were as I have beer,
Hunting the hart in forests green,
With bended bow and bloodhound free,
For that's the life that's meet for me."

SLASHING HARRY.

P. S. As soon as the West Somerset rattle old Cottlestone, you shall hear from me again. Devon, Sept. 20, 1832.

« ПредишнаНапред »