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Title: The Life of a Fox, Written by Himself

Author: Thomas Smith

Author of introduction, etc.: baron Richard Greville Verney Willoughby de Broke

Illustrator: Henry Thomas Alken

Release date: January 26, 2019 [eBook #58769]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Melissa McDaniel and the Online Distributed
        Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
        produced from images generously made available by The
        Internet Archive)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LIFE OF A FOX, WRITTEN BY HIMSELF ***




Produced by Melissa McDaniel and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive)







Transcriber’s Note:

  Inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original document have
  been preserved. Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

  Italic text is denoted by _underscores_.




THE LIFE OF A FOX

  [Illustration: HUNTSMAN AND HOUNDS. BY J. A. WHEELER.
     _Lent by Basil Dighton_.]




     THE LIFE OF A FOX

     WRITTEN BY HIMSELF

     BY
     THOMAS SMITH, ESQ.

     Late Master of the Craven Hounds, and at present of the
     Pytchley, Northamptonshire

     A NEW EDITION WITH COLOURED PLATES AFTER
     H. ALKEN AND OTHERS

     AND AN INTRODUCTION BY
     LORD WILLOUGHBY DE BROKE

     LONDON
     EDWARD ARNOLD
     1920

     [All Rights Reserved]




INTRODUCTION

BY

LORD WILLOUGHBY DE BROKE


No Master of Foxhounds, alive or dead, has a greater right to be heard
than Mr. Thomas Smith. “The proof of the pudding is in the eating,”
and though it is not altogether true that the proof of the ability
to show sport is the number of Foxes’ noses on the kennel door, the
fact that Mr. Smith killed ninety Foxes in ninety-one days’ hunting
in a Country which has no great reputation as a scenting country, is a
piece of evidence in favour of his knowledge of woodcraft, and of his
skill in applying it, which cannot be gainsaid, the more particularly
when we take into account the epoch during which this remarkable feat
was achieved. It is true that Mr. Smith hunted Hounds when the modern
system of getting away close behind the Fox, and trying to burst him,
had superseded the system that prevailed before 1750 of dragging up
to the Fox and trying to hunt him down at the end of a long chase with
Hounds that would have been beaten for pace in the first mile by those
of Mr. Osbaldiston and Mr. Smith. But much of the contemporary evidence
goes to show that Foxes were wilder in Mr. Smith’s time in the sense
that they probably had to travel long distances for their food, as
there were fewer small coverts than exist to-day. Consequently there
were fewer Foxes. It is true that these conditions were favourable
to the Hounds in that their chance of changing Foxes was diminished.
On the other hand the multiplication of small Fox coverts with
artificial earths that has proceeded in the last fifty years makes
the killing of a lot of Foxes, especially during the Cub-hunting, an
easier matter than in the days of Mr. Thomas Smith. If the artificial
earth is securely stopped late at night, and skilfully opened at the
right moment in a morning’s Cub-hunting, when the Cubs are beginning
to wonder what to do, they are sure to creep into the earth, and the
eating of one or more of them is reduced to a certainty. For this
reason the counting of noses is not in these days a supreme test of the
capacity of the Huntsman and the Hounds, unless all noses are written
off and not allowed to count until after November 1st, when there is
not so much opportunity for digging. But each of Mr. Smith’s ninety
Foxes brought to hand probably represented a really hard day’s work,
even though he omits to state how many he killed above ground at the
end of good runs. In this connection it should not be forgotten that in
these illuminating pages he has confessed himself, indirectly perhaps,
to be the complete Master of the use of the spade and the terrier.

But he was surely the complete Master of all other branches of
Foxhunting craft. In the work which is now republished by Mr. Edward
Arnold he puts into the mouth of various Foxes their experiences of
being hunted by various Hounds and Huntsmen. His method, perhaps a
trifle fanciful, is attractive in the highest degree to all lovers
of wild animals, and the careful reader will find the Fox himself
explaining the mistakes on the part of the Huntsman which allowed the
Fox to baffle him. We know of no writing that explains the point of
view of the Fox except this work, and that of Mr. Masefield. But it is
no disparagement of Mr. Masefield to say that his “Reynard the Fox”
is based upon his poetical talent and knowledge of the countryside,
while Mr. Smith’s fancy is based upon the lifelong experience of
an enthusiast who has carefully studied the whole Art of the Chase,
and thought out the application of the Science of Foxhunting to each
particular phase and incident of the run.

The story of each Fox is full of interest, and it is not possible
within the limits of this introduction to explore each situation.
There are, however, one or two remarks in “Pytchly’s Story” which
seem to extract the essence of the successful pursuit of the Fox.
Now this essence is contained in the physiological truth that the
vast majority of good runs are made, and stout Foxes killed, by the
Hounds following the line, first by their sense of smell, and secondly
by their power to run fast enough and long enough to catch the Fox,
provided he does not go to ground. Each moment the Hounds are not on
the line is a moment wasted, which at a later stage in the run will
probably develop into minutes, and ultimately spell defeat. Brilliant
victories, and much galloping and jumping may be achieved by means of
the Huntsman tearing off to a point without a scent, but ninety-nine
times out of a hundred this kind of speculation ends in disaster.
Mr. Smith contrives to criticize Mr. Osbaldiston’s Hounds through
the mouthpiece of “Pytchly” for overrunning the scent “owing to their
great courage, which, in breeding of them, seemed to have been more
attended to than the nose”; and “Pytchly” goes on to say:—“Luckily for
us (the Foxes) the hunters fell into the mistake of trying to make what
they called a flying pack....” Such Hounds as would not go the pace
without a good scent were always drafted, although, when there was a
good scent, this sort could puzzle even the fast riders to keep with
them. “Partly to this cause I attribute my having lived to my great
age.” “Pytchly” goes on to say that he often saved his life by going to
ground in a drain and the Hounds being carried past the drain by their
own mettle, and by their being too hardly pressed by the horsemen.
This good Fox also tells us that he saved his brush more than once by
the whole establishment posting forward for a view on his entering a
woodland in the course of a run, so much so that by this system men
seemed to imagine that a Fox could be run down by fast riding, and that
“whippers-in are nearly all that is wanted.” This practice, as well
as the practice of giving up the hunted Fox and going to find another,
was hailed by “Pytchly” as the means of his salvation. He describes his
alarm when he heard Mr. Smith who was hunting his own Hounds, say to
some gentleman who suggested that he should leave the cold scent, and
find another Fox:—“I shall hunt this as long as a Hound will own the
scent. We shall get up to him by and by and kill him too.” “Pytchly,”
with his charmed life eluded on this occasion even the great Mr. Smith
himself, by getting to ground and pushing past a fresh Fox who was
lying comfortably in the earth, and who was no doubt dug out and eaten
with “ten mile point honours.”

“Pytchly’s Story” reveals the very foundation of Foxhunting, which is
to stick to the line. There are indeed two opinions about nose. Some
Foxhounds may have, like some human beings, a more sensitive organ of
smell than others; if this can be discovered in a Foxhound, combined
with tongue, speed, intelligence, perseverance, and constitution, all
contained in a frame of sufficient symmetry, then that Foxhound should
be bred from freely. But the probability is, that while some Hounds
may have keener noses than others the vast majority have sufficiently
serviceable noses provided they are encouraged, or even allowed, to use
them. There is no doubt whatever that where the Fox scores against the
Hounds is by gaining time when he turns. It is the turn that tells.
If all Foxes that were found went straight ahead, many more would be
killed. The proof of this is that even on a day when scent is poor,
Hounds always run fast when the Fox goes straight to an earth or drain.
He knows the way. He goes straight through all his well-known smeuses
in the fences, and the leading Hounds have no difficulty, his scent
being in their faces all the way.

When he is not heading immediately for a drain, he is nearly sure
to turn sooner or later, and if when he turns, the horsemen ride the
Hounds past the point, and the Huntsman aggravates the difficulty by
picking up the Hounds and setting out on a casting experiment before
they have time to get their heads down, the most sensitive noses in
the world will be doing no more good than if they were plunged into
the oatmeal and flesh in the Kennel trough. The proper place for a
Foxhound’s nose is on the ground. No one knew this better than Mr.
Smith, and the lesson could not be expressed more tersely than it is in
this book by his friend “Pytchly.”

This does not mean to say that Hounds should never be handled at
all. If a pack of Hounds were literally left entirely to themselves
day after day they might gradually lose the faculty of trying for
themselves unless there was a good holding scent. Hounds take a very
great deal from the mere presence and moral support of their Huntsman,
and a certain point arrives when they need his actual guidance after
they have done trying for themselves. The Huntsman who can accurately
fix this point is the Huntsman they want.

After reading “Pytchly’s Story” it is impossible to believe that Mr.
Smith did not appreciate and act upon the moral that it points, but
actually went to the other extreme of trying to hunt the Fox himself
regardless of his Hounds. Yet Nimrod in his “Hunting Reminiscences”
would have us believe that he did. After characteristically beginning
his appreciation of Mr. Smith by describing his horsemanship, he then
goes on to say that as a Huntsman he was wild, and that there was too
much of the man, and too little of the Hounds to satisfy a lover of
hunting. He would go away, says Nimrod, with the leading Hounds, caring
nothing for the body of the pack, with his eye “forward to some point
which his intuitive knowledge of the line Foxes take induced him to
believe his had taken; and six times in ten he was right.” Frankly,
but with great respect to Nimrod, we do not believe it; and it should
be remarked that even Nimrod himself only credits Mr. Smith with six
correct flashes of intuition in every ten attempts. Invaluable as are
the writings of “Pomponius Ego” as “costume pieces,” even as historical
references, it is open to doubt if he was really a reliable critic of
the Huntsman’s Art. He certainly makes Mr. Osbaldiston do some queer
things in his imaginary description of a day with the Quorn Hounds in
1826, such, for instance, as view-holloaing with his finger in his ear
before a single Hound had opened in covert. But we will let that pass.

It is just possible that he may have been out with Mr. Smith on one of
those days when even the soundest of Huntsmen may appear to be taking
liberties with the Hounds; but it is quite certain that Mr. Smith could
not have consistently performed in the manner described by Nimrod
during the season when he killed ninety Foxes in ninety-one days’
hunting. Six to ten is a different ratio.

The phrase “the intuitive knowledge of the run of a Fox” has been
somewhat freely used by more than one writer. Does any man really
possess it? Can the human intelligence really get inside the instincts
of the Fox and perceive exactly what he is thinking about, except on
occasions which are obvious to us all? The probability is that when the
Huntsman does something which is set down to his intuitive knowledge
of the run of a Fox he is acting naturally and almost, if not quite
unconsciously, upon a mass of accumulated experience that many seasons’
hunting has fixed upon his brain, which he can produce on demand when
the situation arises. Knowledge, experience, memory, and the power of
drawing on them and applying them may very likely pass for what people
call intuition.

Those who would understand the Science of Foxhunting cannot do
better than read _The Life of a Fox_ in conjunction with _The Diary
of a Huntsman_ by the same Author. Professor Huxley said somewhere
that Science is Organized Commonsense. The Science of Foxhunting is
eminently a matter of Commonsense, and there is no wiser exponent
of it than Mr. Thomas Smith. So far from relying on “intuition” he
has the unique distinction of being the only writer who has put upon
paper a definite recipe for a cast in the form of a Map, together
with the whole process of reasoning by which it is justified. _The
Diary of a Huntsman_, in which this Map appears, is a vindication of
the importance of following certain rules. The departure from these
rules on the part of various Huntsmen is the cause of the satisfaction
expressed at the symposium of “Wily,” “Pytchly,” “Warwick,” “Sandy” and
all the other Foxes who appear in this Volume.




TO THE RIGHT HON.

CHARLES, EARL OF HARDWICKE,

etc. etc. etc.


My Lord,—It is customary in a Dedication to use the language of
fulsome adulation, even in cases where the writer and the person
addressed affect an equal abhorrence of it. Adopting a more simple,
straightforward course, and one more worthy of my name, for few foxes
have run more straight, I will candidly inform your Lordship that the
love I bear you is much the same as that borne to myself by the most
venerable hen now cackling in your farmyard, whose half-fledged brood
I have often thinned. But, my Lord, although I openly acknowledge my
aversion to the unfeathered biped species to which you belong, yet the
kinds and degrees of hatred are various as the characters of those
towards whom we entertain it; and while some, affecting to treat my
persecuted race as noxious vermin, destroy us by day and by night with
snare, trap, gun, and every other engine which their ingenuity can
devise, we have always found in your Lordship a fair and open enemy,
and one who disdained to have recourse to the cowardly contrivances
above referred to. It is on this account, my Lord, that I have done you
the honour to dedicate to you the following narrative of my eventful
life.

Many are the happy hours that I have spent, some years since, in the
neighbourhood of your Lordship’s hen-roost in Hampshire, and latterly
many a tender rabbit, etc., have I carried home from the plantations
and fields which you now so handsomely preserve for the use of myself
and my kindred at Wimpole; this conduct on your part would have ensured
my lasting gratitude, could I forget how frequently I have been driven
by hound and horn from those treacherous coverts. Although, from the
above reasons, there cannot be friendship between us, there may, I
trust there does, exist some feeling of mutual respect; you and your
brethren are not insensible to those merits in our species which you
affect to depreciate. Fabulists and other writers, in all languages,
have quoted the sayings and doings of my ancestors, as lessons of
instruction for youth; while the craft and cunning of your ablest
statesmen have been, in many instances, entirely derived from our
acknowledged principles and practice. Our heroism in the endurance of a
violent and cruel death is equalled only by our dexterity in avoiding
it. It was only last winter that a cousin of mine led a gallant field
of two hundred horsemen over thirty miles of the finest country in
England; and when at length overtaken by twenty couple of his enemies,
each one larger and stronger than himself, he died amid their murderous
fangs, without suffering a yell or cry to escape him! Yet do the poets
of your race celebrate as a hero, one Hector, _a timid biped_, who,
after a miserable run round the walls of Troy, suffered himself to be
overtaken and killed by a single opponent!

Such, my Lord, is the justice of historic fame in this world, wherein
thousands of men have written; whilst I alone of my tribe have been
endowed with the power of thus using the quills of that excellent bird,
which has been for centuries the favourite object of pursuit amongst
the brave and skilful of my race.

However determined I still may be to trespass upon your Lordship’s
preserves, I will do so no longer upon your time. Our walks in life are
different; ’tis yours to ride, ’tis mine to run; ’tis yours to pursue,
’tis mine to be pursued; we shall meet again in the field, the horn
will sound the alarm, my appearance will be greeted with a view-halloo
that shall set the blood of hundreds in motion! Whether after that day
of trial I shall again sit amongst my listening cubs, and relate to
them how many peers, parsons, and squires lay prostrate on the turf,
and were soused in the brook while pursuing my glorious course, or
whether my brush shall at length adorn your Lordship’s hat, fate must
decide.—Meanwhile I remain, your Lordship’s obliged friend,

                                                                WILY.

     MAIN EARTH, _6th June, 1843_.






ADVERTISEMENT TO THE ORIGINAL EDITION


This little book may be looked upon as a curious manifestation of
the movement among Foxes. The Editor ventures to send it forth, for
an agreeable reminiscence to many who assisted in scenes which it
describes; for some little instruction to sportsmen who have had less
experience than himself; and for the common entertainment of all who
like to listen to the way of the world in the woods.

     HILL HOUSE, HAMBLEDON,
     _10th June, 1843_.






CONTENTS


                                                   PAGE

     INTRODUCTION. _By Lord Willoughby de Broke_      v

     DEDICATION                                      xi

     ADVERTISEMENT                                   xv

     THE LIFE OF A FOX                                1

     WILY’S STORY                                     3

     COCK-TAIL’S STORY                               50

     CRAVEN’S STORY                                  54

     PYTCHLY’S STORY                                 60

     DORSET’S STORY                                  70

     WARWICK’S STORY                                 79

     CHESTER’S STORY                                 86

     DEVONIAN’S STORY                                92

     BERKSHIRE’S STORY                               97

     SANDY’S STORY                                  102

     CONCLUSION                                     125




ILLUSTRATIONS


     HUNTSMAN AND HOUNDS. _By J. A.
     Wheeler_                                  _Frontispiece_

     WILY PENNING HIS STORY. _By T.
     Smith_                                   _Facing page_ 1

     WILY ADDRESSING HIS FRIENDS. _By
     T. Smith_                                _Facing page_ 2

     BREAKING COVER. _By S. Howitt_          _Facing page_ 18

     STOPPING HOUNDS. _By S. Howitt_         _Facing page_ 22

     FULL CRY. _By S. Alken_                 _Facing page_ 42

     THE CRAVEN HOUNDS IN SAVERNAKE
     FOREST. _By T. Smith_                   _Facing page_ 58

     GONE AWAY. _By Henry Alken_             _Facing page_ 70

     BAGGING THE FOX. _By C. Loraine
     Smith_                                  _Facing page_ 76

     HUNTING IN COVER. _By Henry Alken_      _Facing page_ 82

     THE DEATH OF THE FOX. _By R. B.
     Davis_                                 _Facing page_ 108

     EVERY HOUND HAS GOT A FOX. _By
     T. Smith_                              _Facing page_ 113


NOTE.—The Coloured Illustrations are from contemporary prints
and paintings by HENRY ALKEN, S. HOWITT, and other well-known
sporting artists, kindly lent by Mr. BASIL DIGHTON. The Black and White
Illustrations are facsimile reproductions from the originals by TOM
SMITH in the old Edition.

  [Illustration: WILY’S STORY.]




THE LIFE OF A FOX


A faithful history of the life even of a Fox may be not without its
interest, for, to the wise, nothing in nature is mean, and truth is
never insignificant. I was prompted to write this account of myself
by overhearing one day, as I lay in a covert by the roadside, the
following remarks by one of a party who were passing by on their return
home from hunting a fox, which, as it appeared, the hounds had failed
to kill.

“Well, I’d give a good deal to know what became of our fox,—how was it
he could have beaten us? There is nothing I should like better than to
invite to supper all the foxes that have escaped from packs by which
they have been respectively hunted to-day, and then persuade them
to declare to what cause they owed their escape. To tempt them there
should be rabbits at top, rabbits at bottom and sides, rabbits curried,
fricasseed, and rabbits dressed in every imaginable way, by the best
French cook.”

The thought pleased me, and resolving to gratify my own curiosity,
I invited all of my friends who had at any time beaten some pack of
repute.

It was a fine moonlight night, in the middle of summer, when ten of
my guests, besides an interloper, a stranger to us all, arrived at the
place appointed, beneath an old oak tree in the New Forest.

For the foundation of my feast, nothing could be better than the
bill of fare projected by the hospitable hunter; but as I knew that
my friends would prefer everything _au naturel_, I dispensed with
the services of M. Soyer, and merely added, for the sake of variety,
some fine rats and mice, a profusion of beetles, and a bird or two
for the few whose taste might be depraved enough to choose them. Our
repast being over, it was agreed, that for our mutual instruction and
entertainment, each in his turn should with scrupulous fidelity relate
by what arts and stratagems, or by what effort of strength and courage,
he had eluded and baffled those ruthless disturbers of our repose, the
huntsman and his hounds. I was first called on to tell the story of my
life, and thus began.




  [Illustration: WILY ADDRESSING HIS FRIENDS.
     _T. Smith, Esq., del._
     _page 2._]




WILY’S STORY


I am descended from the ancient family of the Wilys, and was born
on the 25th day of March, in the year ——. Within three or four weeks
from that day of the year every fox of us in this country is probably
brought forth; and it seems especially designed that the female should
thus produce her only litter in the year at a season when our favourite
food, young rabbits, are most abundant. The spot in which I first
drew breath was a breeding-earth, carefully chosen by my mother, in a
well-known covert, called Park Coppice, situated in the centre of the
Hampshire Hunt. It was not until the tenth day after my birth that I
first saw light, or acquired sufficient strength to crawl with safety
to any little distance round our nest. Had I earlier possessed the use
of sight, I might have strayed beyond my warm shelter, and for want
of sufficient strength to return to it, have perished with cold. Thus
Nature goes on to care for us. I had two brothers and two sisters, and
we all throve and grew rapidly with the nourishment of our mother’s
milk alone, until we were six weeks old, when she began to supply us
with other food, such as rabbits, and rats and mice, which she tore to
pieces and divided amongst us in equal shares, not however so much to
our satisfaction as to prevent our snarling and quarrelling with each
other thus early over our meals. That part of the earth where we lodged
was between two and three feet square, with several passages just
large enough for our mother to crawl along; several of these crossed
each other, and of two that terminated outwards one only was used by
our mother, who stopped up the other for times of emergency. In these
several passages we daily amused ourselves with chasing each other
round and round. On one occasion we were interrupted in the midst of
our gambols by the sudden entrance of our mother, who seized us with
her sharp teeth, and carried us to the back of the earth. It seemed
that she had been watching outside, for immediately after this we were
alarmed by a sound hitherto unheard by us. It was the voice of a man
crying out, “Eloo in, Viper! fetch ’em out! hie in there, hie in!” The
light was instantly shut out by the intrusion of a dog in a low and
narrow part of the passage, which compelled him to crawl along with
his head to the bottom. Our mother waited for him, where she had the
advantage of higher space, and as he approached with his head thus low,
she fixed her teeth across the upper part of his nose and pinned him to
the bottom of the passage, where she held him so that he could not bite
her, which he would have done had she attacked him after he had got
beyond the lower part, when he might have raised his head up.[1] Whilst
bleeding and howling with agony, he drew her backwards to the opening,
where she let him go. It was in vain that the man tried to make him go
in again, and so he left the place, declaring his conviction that there
were cubs within, and that he would have them out another day. He was,
however, disappointed, for our mother that night took us one by one to
a large earth in a neighbouring wood. We were now two months old, and
ceased to draw our mother’s milk, which we no longer needed, as we were
able to kill a rabbit or pluck the feathers of a fowl when she brought
it to us, as well as she. Some of these feathers, which in our frolics
we had carried to the mouth of the earth, once betrayed us to a couple
of poachers, who had been lurking about the wood, and who noticing
them, procured a long stick and thrust it into the earth, nearly
breaking the ribs of one of my brothers. When they pulled it out again,
they found the end of it covered with his hairs. This satisfied them,
and leaving us scrambling and huddling together up to the back of the
earth, they went away, resolving to come back next day with tools to
unearth us, and expecting, as they said, to sell us for half-a-guinea
apiece.

“’Twas a ’nation pity,” added one of them, “we hadn’t brought my little
terrier, Vick; she would have fetched ’em out alive in her mouth,
without our having the trouble of digging, though they was as big as
the old ’un.”

“Mind,” said the other, “we beant seen, or else the squire will gie us
notice to keep off.”

Their intentions were defeated; for our mother, who had been all the
time watching their goings on, anxiously waited for their departure,
and no sooner had night set in than she again removed us to a
gorse-covert hard by, and placed us in a nicely-sheltered spot, where
she herself had often lain before. Here we were safe from poaching
kidnappers, as it would have been impossible for them to find us
without being found out themselves whilst searching for us. Let every
mother lay up her cubs in gorse, or close and thick coverts, rather
than in large earths, which are sure to be well known to the fox-taker.
We were now three months old, and living upon young rabbits and mice,
with which such coverts abound, feeding also upon other food, such as
black beetles; rabbits, however, were our favourite food, and if we
could find them, we cared for little else. They are fruitful breeders,
particularly at this season of the year; and a female has been known
to carry two distinct broods of young at the same time, and to bring
them forth three weeks after one another. This astonishing fact I have
witnessed myself, and I have heard that the same thing has occurred
with the female hare. The usual time of bearing is twenty-eight days.
We now began to venture out of the covert at night-fall, or even
before, being warned by our mother, whenever there was danger, with
a peculiar noise that she made, like “keck, keck”; which we no sooner
heard than we were out of sight in the covert, where we stayed until
all was still again.

As we grew older we grew more bold and more cunning; and being four
months old, ventured farther abroad, even in the day-time, entering the
fields of standing corn, until it was cut down, when the deeds we did
there were suddenly brought to light.

“Why, John,” says the farmer, “there must be some young foxes
hereabouts; look at the rabbits’ feet lying about; and what’s the
meaning of all these white feathers? This comes of not locking up the
fowls o’ nights. Never blame the foxes, poor craturs; but just go to
the kennel, and tell Foster, the huntsman, as soon as the corn is off,
to bring his hounds.”

“Very well, sir.”

“But mind, he ain’t to kill more than one of ’em, or else be hanged if
ever I takes care of another litter.”

All this was explained to me afterwards, for at the time I did not
understand much about it. I only knew that the speaker was a very
nice sort of man, and never doubted that he meant everything that is
pleasant; although I must say that his outward looks, the first time I
saw him, did not at all take my fancy. There appeared to me something
so ungainly and unnatural—something so very absurd, to see an animal
reared up on end, and walking about on his hind legs; to say nothing of
what seemed his hide which hung about him in such a loose and uncouth
fashion, as if nature had been sick of her job, and refused to finish
it.

A few evenings after this I was crossing a field, and watching some
young rabbits, with which I longed to become more nearly acquainted,
when suddenly a large black dog and an ugly beast called a gamekeeper,
jumped over a hedge. I immediately lay flat on the ground, hoping that
I should not be seen; when, however, I found them coming within a few
yards of me, I started off, closely pursued by the villainous dog, and
seeing that I should soon be overtaken, turned round, and slipt away
between his legs. I then made towards the hedge, and the dog springing
after me, I suddenly turned round again, when he, trying to do the
same, tumbled heels over head, and nearly broke his precious neck. My
comfort was to think that he was certainly born to be hanged, for he
followed me again as if nothing was the matter, and soon overtaking
me, wearied as I was with the sport (I think they call it), he seized
me by the back of the neck, and jogged away with me in his mouth to
his master, who clapped me into his enormous pocket, and carried me
home. I was kept there in a dark and dirty place, where all sorts of
animals had been kept before. There I remained, who by nature am the
cleanliest of animals, with my hairs all clotted with mire and filthy
moisture, and should certainly have perished of a certain loathsome
sickness, had not another gamekeeper luckily seen me, and told my owner
the certain consequence of keeping me so. I was then taken out and put
into a hamper out of doors, ready to be carried by the night-coach to
London for sale. After trying in vain to gnaw a hole for my escape, I
set about making all the noise I could, which, the night being still,
reached the ears of my mother, who quickly came and helped me with her
teeth to finish the work which I had begun, and so I got out and away.

Having thus suffered for my boldness, I scarcely ever ventured out of
the covert till dark, or nearly so; generally, indeed, I remained in
my kennel the whole of the day, unless I had not been fortunate in
procuring food the night before. I have seen a female fox, when she
had young ones, moving about earlier in the afternoon; otherwise it is
contrary to our habits to do so. Night is more dear to us than day, and
the tempest suits our plans; for man is then disposed to keep quiet,
and we venture more boldly to approach his dwellings in search of stray
poultry, which are to be found abroad, not having been driven into the
hen-roost, owing to the neglect of their owners.

I resolved to accompany my mother in future as much as possible in her
excursions, that I might profit by her prudence and observe her ways.
She seldom went abroad till night, though sometimes she would venture
in the dusk of evening. Upon one occasion I was much amused with an
example of her engaging tricks. It was a bright moonlight night when I
saw her go into a field, in which many rabbits and hares were feeding.
On first seeing her, some of them ran away for a few yards, some sat
up on their hind legs and gazed at her, and some squatted close to
the ground. My mother at first trotted on gently, as if not observing
them; she then lay down and rolled on her back, then got up and shook
herself; and so she went on till the simple creatures, cheated by a
show of simplicity, and never dreaming she could be bent on anything
beyond such harmless diversion, fell to feeding again, when she quietly
leaped amongst them and carried off an easy prey.

We were now fully able to gain our own subsistence, but not the less
would she watch over our safety. One of my brothers having found a
piece of raw meat had begun to devour it, which she observing ran
forwards, and as if in anger drove him away from it. He became sick
and lost all his hairs, owing to poison, which I afterwards learnt
had been put in the meat. It was fortunate for us that we had left the
breeding-earth, for we must otherwise have all been infected with the
same noisome disease, the mange. By first smelling it, and then turning
away, she taught us in future to avoid anything of the kind that had
been touched by the human hand. Thus when we happened to be smelling
with our noses to a bait covered over with leaves, moss, grass, or
fine earth, she would caution us to let it alone by her manner of
looking about, as if she were alarmed and expected to see our enemy the
keeper. Sometimes the iron trap would be seen; and then she would lead
us to look at and smell it. Our noses, however, would not always be a
safeguard, for after the trap has been laid some days, particularly
if washed by rain, the taint of the evil hand would be gone, and
though we ourselves, thanks to the watchfulness of our mother, escaped
the danger, hundreds of others, led on by hunger, have fallen into
the snare, losing either leg or toes. Baits for catching stoats and
weasels, set upon a stick some fourteen inches above the ground, we
carried away without mischief from the trap below. At about six months
old we were three parts grown, I and my brothers being something larger
than our sisters, whose heads were thinner and more pointed. The white
tip of the brush was not, let me remark, peculiar to either sex of us.
I and one of my brothers, and also one of my sisters, had it whilst
the other sister and the other brother were altogether without it,
not having a single white hair. That brother has been known to profit
by the exemption, when on being viewed in the spring of the year the
hounds have been stopped with the remark, “It’s a vixen; there is no
white on her brush.” I have since observed that old male foxes are of
a much lighter colour on the back than are the old female ones, which
are commonly of a dark reddish brown; and so it was with my parents.
Our sire never helped to furnish us with food, although I have reason
to think that I often saw him prowling about with my mother at night;
instances, however, have been known where the sire has discharged such
an office after the young had lost their mother. For a few weeks we
went on living a rollicking kind of life, and fancied ourselves masters
of the coverts.

There was a coppice of no more than two years’ growth, which enabled
me to enjoy the beams of the sun as I lay in my kennel. This kind of
shelter we all of us choose, especially when there are no trees of a
large growth to be dripping down upon us in wet weather. Here as I lay
one morning, early in October, I was roused from a sound sleep by the
noise of voices, and of dogs rushing towards me. Away I ran, and had
not gone above twenty yards before I heard the report of a gun, and
instantly received a smart blow on my side, which nearly knocked me
down, breaking however none of my bones, and causing only a little pain
and loss of blood. “Ponto!—curse that dog; he’s after him,” cried a
voice, when the dog turned back, or else he must certainly have caught
me, as I had only power to run a short distance into some thick bushes,
where I lay down and listened to the following rebuke.

“You young rascal, how dared you to shoot at a fox—here, too, above
all places? Don’t you know that this is the very centre of the hunt?
Had you killed him, you would have been a lost man, an outcast from the
society of all good people, a branded vulpicide. Who do you think that
has the slightest regard for his own character would have received you
after that?”

“I really,” replied the offending youth, “mistook him for a hare.”

“Yes, and if you had killed such a hare, you should have eaten him, and
without currant jelly too.”

Now, if an humble individual of a fox may venture to give an opinion
upon such a momentous question, I will say that the practice of
destroying our breed for the purpose of preserving the quantity of
game, is, where it prevails, equally selfish and short-sighted. For
every fox thus destroyed hundreds of men are deprived of a day’s sport,
and sometimes more than that; and if none of us were spared, those
hundreds of hunters would become so many keen shooters—how could the
game preserver then keep up his stock as he did before? And where would
the wealthy capitalist rent his manor? After this unlucky adventure I
resolved in future to sleep with one eye open, and not without reason.
I had scarcely recovered from the injuries which I had suffered, and
had just settled in my kennel one morning about daybreak, coiling
myself up for the usual snooze all day, and sticking my nose into the
upper part of the root of my brush—the reason by the bye why the hairs
there are generally seen to be standing on end or turned backwards—when
I was startled by the voice of John Foster, whose name has been
mentioned before: “Eloo in; e-dhoick, e-dhoick, in-hoick, in-hoick.”
Disturbed by the unaccustomed sounds, I rose upon my fore-legs, and
pricking up my ears listened for a moment or two, when I heard the
rustling of the hounds running straight towards me, being led on by the
scent that was left in the track of my feet, which parts, especially
when heated by running, seem to leave more scent than any other part
of the body. Thus the same organ becomes at once the means of inviting
pursuit, and of escaping it. Off I went—the awful tongue of an old
hound ringing in my ear, and having about it surely some charm; for
no sooner had he opened than a score or two others of the pack came
rushing from all sides towards him, and then such a horrible din as
there was behind me. I ran—I flew, I knew not whither—I crossed a road
in the wood—and then such frantic screaming and shouting—“Tally-ho!
tally-ho!” mixed with the blast of Foster’s horn, that I was almost
mad with fright, and must have fallen a victim to my savage pursuers,
had not my brothers and sisters been disturbed by the clamour, and
consequently been the cause of the pack being divided into several
parts, thus enabling me to steal away towards the opposite side of the
wood, where I remained. My state was such that I could not be still,
as I ought, and I kept moving backwards and forwards and away from the
cry of the hounds, which at times hunted us in several packs, then all
together as they crossed each other, and then again separated. This had
gone on for nearly half an hour when, to my great joy, they all went
away with a frightful yell, leaving the wood and me miles behind them.
I was congratulating myself on my escape, and listening to hear if they
were returning, when I was startled by the sound of steps approaching,
and a panting, as of some animal in distress; it was one of my
brothers, evidently more beaten and terrified than myself, and who, on
hearing something move and not knowing it was I, ran back out of sight
in a moment, and I saw no more of him then. I remained where I was
hidden until I had partly recovered from my fears, and not hearing the
noise of hounds, had crept into some thick bushes, where I lay quiet,
when to my horror I again heard the halloo of the huntsman, who seemed
to be taking the hounds round the wood, with now and then the tongue
of a single hound; then, all on a sudden the deep voice of Sawyer,
the whipper-in, calling, “Tally-ho! there he goes; ’tis a mangy cub!”
In a minute every hound was after him, and in full cry for a quarter
of an hour; suddenly the noise ceased, and the fatal halloo, “Whoop!”
was often repeated by the men with “Tear him, boys; whoop! whoop!” And
that was the end of my poor, mangy brother. They then, not having seen
any other of us for some time, thought we were gone to ground, and
went away. Happy was I to hear that horn, which had before caused me
such terror, calling away the hounds, that, to judge from their loud
breathing as they passed near me, were not loath to go, for it was
nearly ten o’clock, and the heat most oppressive. They were mistaken
in thinking we were all gone away, although my brother and sisters had
taken advantage of the hounds running in the open, and had gone across
to the gorse-covert, from which my unfortunate brother just killed had
often, in consequence of his mangy state, been driven by our mother.
Again we had to thank that mother for our safety, for at the time
when we were all nearly dead with toil and alarm, it seems she took an
opportunity of running across the wood in front of the hounds, which
soon got on her scent, and followed her as she led them away for some
miles out of the covert. The huntsman then, convinced that they had got
on an old fox, as soon as the men could stop the hounds, immediately
brought them back to the covert where they had left us, hoping to kill
one of us young ones.

[Illustration: BREAKING COVER. BY S. HOWITT.]

It was not till some time after this memorable day that we ventured to
take up our quarters in the wood again. Our mother thought it right to
take us away to a covert about two miles distant, where, as the hounds
only hunted cubs at this early part of the season, there were no young
foxes; consequently, for that time, we were left undisturbed, and soon
began to feel as much at home as in the covert which we had left. Had
it not been for the shooters who frequently came with their spaniels,
we should have even preferred it; and they so frequently moved us that
we soon took little notice of them, except by going from one part of
the wood to the other. Indeed, we were rather benefited by them than
otherwise, for we occasionally picked up a wounded or dead bird, hare,
or rabbit, and after eating as much as we could, we always buried the
remainder, scratching a hole in the ground with our claws, and covering
it over with earth. Even this made us enemies; for when by accident
the dogs smelt it, and drew it out, the keepers immediately told their
master that if they were not allowed to kill the foxes, there would not
be a head of game left.

Constant disturbance after this induced us to return to the strong
gorse where we had previously been, and which was nearly impenetrable
by shooters; but we had not been here more than a few days, when,
about ten o’clock in the morning, towards the end of October, I was
again alarmed by hearing Foster the huntsman’s now well-known voice:
“Sawyer, get round the other side of the covert; if an old fox breaks
away, let him go, stop the hounds, and clap them back into the covert
again, and then they will get settled to a cub. In-hoick! e-dhoick!
e-dhoick!” I listened with breathless fear, and soon heard the rustling
of hounds on every side of me, then a solitary slight whimpering, and
Foster’s cheer, “Have at him, Truemaid; hoick! hoick!” These sounds,
frightful in my ears, sent every hound to the same spot; and I started
from my kennel, and got as fast as I could to the other side of the
gorse. I soon gladly returned, and meeting an old dog-fox that at
first I mistook for a hound, dashed away on one side before the pack
had crossed my line. They ran by me, and continued following the old
fox, till I heard “Tally-ho! gone away”; with a smacking of whips,
and “Hoick back, hoick back”; then for a few minutes all silent; and
then again the same terrible tongues drove me from my quarters. They
were not in pursuit of me in particular, but running after either
my mother or one of the rest or all of us, divided as they were into
different lots. One of these at last got fast on my track, and away
I went straight to the earth where we were born; but to my surprise
and disappointment I found it stopped up with a bundle of sticks,
and covered over with fresh earth; for it was not in that state when
I passed by it the night before. I waited for a few moments, and
tried to scratch an opening; but hearing the hounds hunting towards
me, I returned to the gorse, where they shortly followed me. Owing
to my being smaller than they were, I could easily run a good pace
in it, where they were obliged to go slowly; and running in the most
unfrequented tracks, I contrived to keep out of their way. At times
they were all quite silent, and could not hunt my scent at all, owing
probably to the ground and covert where the hounds had been running so
often being stained. This dreadful state of things went on for a length
of time, till at last I heard them halloo “Tally-ho! tally-ho! gone
away.” Shortly after this the hounds left the covert, hunting after
the fox which was seen to go away, and which again happened to be our
mother. The men soon found out their mistake; and as they were some
time absent, they must have had difficulty in stopping them, which at
first I heard them trying to do.

[Illustration: STOPPING HOUNDS. BY S. HOWITT.]

Meanwhile I had been flattering myself that I was safe, and that once
more I had escaped; but quickly I heard them coming back very quietly,
as if intending again to hunt me. Previously to this I had found a
rabbits’ burrow, into which I crept. I was luckily, as it happened,
too much distressed and too heated to remain there, and left it, and
went to the opposite side of the covert. At this time a cold storm of
wind and rain came on, notwithstanding which an old hound or two got on
my line of scent, and hunted it back the contrary way to that which I
had gone, till they came to the rabbit burrow, where they stopped, and
began baying and scratching with their feet at the entrance.

There can be little doubt that hounds have a language well understood
by each other, and I never can forget the noise made by the whole pack
as they all immediately came to the spot; the men hallooed “Whoop!
whoop! have at him, my lads”; and one was ordered to fetch a terrier,
and tools for digging. During the time they were at this, I stole away
from the covert in another direction, and so saved my life. It seems
they soon found out that I had left the earth, tried the covert over
again, and then went home, vowing my destruction another day.

This was warning enough to prevent my remaining longer in or near this
covert for the present. Venturing farther abroad, I returned to that in
which I had been disturbed by the shooters, and there frequently picked
up more wounded birds; I also found, in a field close by, part of a
dead sheep, which a shepherd had left for his dog. Some of this I took
away and buried. I was returning for another bit, when the rough dog,
which had just arrived, suspecting that I had purloined his meat, flew
at me the instant he saw me with such fury that he knocked me over and
over again without getting hold of me. He then turned, and was in the
act of securing me with his teeth, when I gripped one of his legs and
bit it through; the pain which he suffered prevented him from more than
mumbling me with his teeth; so I got off, and made the best of my way
to the covert that evening.

I felt next day that, bruised as I was, I could not have escaped
for ten minutes from a pack of hounds had they found me; I therefore
lost no time in reaching a main earth, into which I got before the
earth-stopper had put to; but I had scarcely done so when he came at
daylight, and to my great dismay stopped it up. I remained there all
day and till late at night, and no one came to open it, and had I
not contrived to scratch my way out, I know not how long I might have
remained there, for I have reason to know that many of us are stopped
up in rocky earths and drains for weeks, and starved to death, owing to
the forgetfulness or sheer cruelty of the stoppers. I have heard such
sad tales as—but just now it would interrupt my story to tell them.

It so happened, my friends, that for some time I was not hunted by
hounds, and contrived to extend my rambles till I was acquainted with
a great part of the country. Occasionally lying in my kennel, if in
an open covert, and hearing a pack of hounds in full cry near, I moved
off in an opposite direction, but sometimes not without being seen by
some of the wide and skirting hunters, who lost their day’s sport in
riding after me and hallooing “Tally-ho!” but I always kept quiet in my
kennel when I heard hounds in full cry if I happened to be in a strong
gorse-covert. Thus passed off the greater part of the first winter of
my life.

On one occasion I was lying in rather an exposed place by the side of a
pit, in the middle of a field, when I saw a man pass by on horseback,
who, on seeing me, stopped, and after looking a short time, rode on.
Till the noise of his horse’s feet was out of hearing I listened,
and then stole away, which was most fortunate, for in the course of a
few hours the hounds were brought to the pit, the man having told the
huntsman where he had seen me, as he thought, asleep; though we foxes,
however it may seem, are seldom otherwise than wide awake.

When the month of February arrived, I showed my gallantry by going
and visiting an interesting young friend of mine of the other sex in a
large covert some distance off, and there, to my chagrin, I met no less
than three rivals.

One morning we were surprised by hearing the voice of Foster, drawing
the covert with his hounds, and giving his peculiar “E-dhoick!
e-dhoick! kille-kid-hoick (probably for Eloo-in-hoick)!” It seems
that none of us felt very comfortable or much at home here, and all
must have left our kennel about the same time; for the hounds were
soon divided into several packs and running in full cry in different
directions. Fortunately, those that were following me were stopped;
at which I rejoiced not a little, having travelled twenty miles the
night before, besides my wanderings in and about the covert. These
travellings and wanderings are the cause why so many more of us
dog-foxes are killed by hounds in the month of February than in any
other three months of the year. Two dog-foxes which had come from a
great distance were killed by the hounds that day. I had had reason to
be jealous of them, as they had for the last week or two been tracing
and retracing the woods in pursuit of a female incessantly each night,
until daylight appeared, when they were obliged through fatigue to
retire to their kennels.

I recollect hearing, as I lay that day in a piece of thick gorse,
the following proof of the patience and good temper of Sawyer, the
whipper-in. The hounds had followed a fox into a wood close by, having
hunted him some time in close pursuit, when a jovial sort of person,
who constantly rode after these hounds, saw a fresh fox—being no other
than myself—and began hallooing to the full extent of his voice. Sawyer
immediately rode up to him, and addressed him thus: “Now, pray Mr. W——,
don’t ye halloo so, don’t ye halloo; ’tis a fresh fox!” But still the
person continued as loud as ever. The same entreaty was repeated again
and again, and still he would halloo. At last Sawyer gave it up as a
forlorn hope, and left him, just remarking, “Well, I never see’d such
an uneasy creature as you be in all my life.” He then followed the
pack, which had by that time left the cover in pursuit of the first
fox, which they had been running all the time. Yet we foxes have reason
to know that a more determined and ardent enemy to us in the shape of
a whipper-in than this man never lived. It fortunately happened for
me that the weather now became very dry; for I was not unfrequently
disturbed by these hounds, and though the scent was not very good in
this plough country, I was at times much more distressed after being
hunted than on former occasions, and was often nearly beaten; for it is
not in our nature to be moving in the heat of the day, and not being
so much inured to it as the hounds were, I expected to fall a prey to
their able huntsman, who, when his hounds would not hunt me, appeared
to know where I was gone to; and very often, when all was silent and I
thought myself safe, brought them on without hunting, and crossing the
line I had come; so that against him and his clever whipper-in, I had,
notwithstanding the dry weather, enough to do to save my life.

On one occasion I had a most severe day’s work, for the scent was
remarkably good. I was lying quiet in my kennel, very unwilling to
move, though I heard the hounds running a fox close to me, which they
very soon lost, as they could not, or would not, hunt it. I thought
this very strange, as by the use of my nose I knew it to be a good
scenting day. It turned out that the fox was a vixen, which had just
laid up her cubs; the effect of which generally is, that the scent
becomes so different that hounds, old ones particularly, appear to know
it, as if by intuition, and will not hunt it. As I had not had more
notice of their approach I thought my best chance of escape was to be
perfectly still,—a plan often adopted by me since on a good scenting
day; but it was of no use, for the huntsman almost rode upon me in
drawing the cover, and I was obliged to fly when the hounds were close
to me; however, after a long run, I most luckily escaped.

The breeding season for game now came on, and being still young I
frequently was near being tempted to seize an old bird as she sat on
her eggs, but the difference in the scent of the bird prevented me. At
length, when I had been prowling about near a farmyard in which poultry
were kept, one night that I had not met with other food, I pounced on
a hen which was sitting in a hedge, but the state she was in gave such
an unpleasant taste to her flesh, that after eating a little I left
it, and have never since touched a bird of any sort when sitting. She
has at that time, indeed, but little flesh on her bones, and I believe
that no old fox will take one for his own eating, although a female
may sometimes carry one off, when hard pressed for food for her young.
The same instinct which prevents hounds from hunting a fox with young,
thus prevents much destruction of birds when sitting. It seems like a
design of nature to save the race of birds that have their nests on the
ground from being entirely destroyed by ourselves, or by vermin, such
as stoats and weasels.

Rabbits are too often the perquisites of the gamekeeper, and the
iron traps which he sets with the pretence of catching them are the
destruction of hundreds of us. This might be prevented if the master
would only insist on these traps not being employed at all, and compel
the use of the wire snare, and of ferrets to get the rabbits out of
their burrows.

Having by this time learnt from my mother all that she could teach
me, I followed her example in many things. Amongst them I remarked,
that on a wet and windy night she almost always chose, for various
reasons, to lie in a gorse-covert. It is generally dry and without
droppings from trees; it is also more quiet and freer from the roaring
of the wind than when near to them. Besides this, we are not so liable
to be disturbed by the shooters, and though we should be so, are out
of sight. We are also there out of sight of some of our troublesome
feathered neighbours, the crows, magpies, and jays, who would betray
us when moving abroad during the daytime. They are always moving with
the first appearance of daylight, and we are glad to get out of their
sight as soon as we can and go into our kennel, lest they should betray
us to the keepers, who are also often abroad at that time. The worst
is, that at times, when we think we have got away from hounds which are
hunting us, these birds, by making a noise and darting down almost upon
us, as they continue to do where we run along, point out to the hunters
exactly where we are.

It has often happened that I have been betrayed by an old cock
pheasant. No bird has a quicker eye than he has, and directly he saw me
he would begin kuckupping, and continue to make this noise as long as
I remained near him, obliging me to move away.

My life during the summer months was one of almost uninterrupted
pleasure. Naturally fixing my headquarters near the part of the country
where I was bred, I would often ramble by night a great distance, and
frequently remarked with surprise, as I crossed any line that I had
taken when hunted, the wonderful straightness with which I had pursued
it, as it was often in a direction where there were no large woods or
earths; but I recollected that I had the wind for my only guide, and
went as if blown forward by it; so that I could hear whether the hounds
were following me at a greater distance than if I had gone against it;
and besides this, it was more difficult for them to smell the scent
which was lodged on the ground over which I had run, when blown away
from their noses, than when blown towards them.

One circumstance occurred to check my joy, namely, the loss of my other
brother, who had accompanied me in one of my midnight rambles into the
adjoining country near Hambledon; and (for though so long ago as 1828,
I well remember it) we had been induced to swim across some water to
an island situated in Rookesbury Park, belonging to Mr. Garnier, on
which it so happened there was a nest of young swans; and although we
did not venture to touch them, the old ones were so angry with us for
our intrusion, that when we attempted to quit the island they would
not allow us to do so, but continued swimming backwards and forwards to
show their anger. At length, as daylight was appearing, my poor brother
was rash enough to make a sally, and had nearly swum across to the
land, when, overtaking him, they commenced an attack, and by flapping
their wings against his head, and keeping him under water, speedily
drowned him, just as a man came up to see what they were about.

They seemed to exult in their prowess, and whilst they were proudly
throwing back their heads, and rowing in triumph round their victim, I
took an opportunity of crossing the water on another side and escaped,
resolving never in swimming to encounter the same risk again. Nothing
worth relating occurred until towards the beginning of the following
winter. It is true that I was often induced to move and to quit the
wood in which I lay, owing to my being disturbed by the hounds; but
as they never followed me far, and were stopped by the whipper-in
when I left the covert, it was evident they came on purpose to hunt
young cubs; I therefore took care to retire to a gorse-covert near
Sutton Common, where none were bred, much to the regret of the owner,
a Rev. Baronet, who is one of our greatest friends, as no keeper of
his would dare to destroy a fox without pain of losing his place. Here
I remained quiet for some months, till one morning I was waked by the
noise of Foster the huntsman; and shortly afterwards the whimpering of
a hound told me that he was on the scent left by my footsteps on my
way to my kennel, although it was where I had passed before day, and
several hours had gone by. I was led by the wind that day to take them
over a country seldom if ever gone over by them before, namely, Wolmer
Forest, crossing one or two rivers, from extreme dread of this huntsman
and his powerful pack. Whether it was the water or the fences that
stopped him, I cannot say, but I suspect it was the latter; although a
few years before nothing could have done it. The hounds were at times
running without him, and it was in consequence of that, I think, that I
eventually beat him and escaped. In the course of a few days I returned
to the same covert, and had not been there more than fourteen more when
this man’s awful voice startled me again.

I was soon prepared for another run with a north-east wind, which might
have led me to take the same line as before, but that I heard Sawyer
the whipper-in exclaim, “’Tis our old fox, and he went through the same
holes that he did the last time we found him.” He gave the view-halloo
directly afterwards. I felt certain that they came again thus soon
determined if possible to kill me; and though frightened a little, I
took care to keep on without stopping to listen, as I had done before;
so that I kept a good distance ahead of them, and continued my best
pace for many miles, crossing Wolmer Forest into Sussex. I no longer
heard the hounds following me, and being much distressed with fatigue,
ran forward to very short distances, and then turned either to the
right or to the left, in order to baffle my pursuers. At length I came
opposite to some buildings, and seeing a large pile of wood, crept in
amongst it and lay down. After listening for some time, I heard the
cry of a few hounds not far off; but the noise ceased just about the
spot where I turned down the road, and all was silent for some time. At
last I heard the voice of Sawyer the whipper-in, saying he must take
the hounds home to the kennel if his horse would enable him; but that
the huntsman’s and the other whipper-in’s horses were both done; and so
they were, for they never lived to reach their stable.

Having again escaped from that clever huntsman Foster and his pack, I
determined at first to remain in this part of Sussex. It was hunted by
Colonel Wyndham, whose hounds I soon had reason to know were not less
fatal than those by which I had lately been so severely hunted. They
seemed to me to be quicker in their work, and to keep closer to me when
it was a good scenting day; although when it happened to be otherwise
they could not hunt me so long or so far as the other pack had done.
Once or twice when I was nearly tired they left me, owing to the scent
being bad, and went to find another fox, when I believe that Foster and
his pack would have gone on longer, if not killed me. The pace they
obliged me to go, when hunting me over the hills, was terribly fast,
and very probably the cause of their not making so much cry when in
pursuit. Indeed they ran almost mute, and at times got very near to me
before I was aware of their approach.

This I found was too dangerous a country for me to remain in; and
so, when on another occasion they found me, I ran into the Hambledon
country, not far from Stanstead Forest, where I fortunately escaped,
and finding myself in a wild part near Highdown Wood, did not venture
to return, feeling sure that with the Colonel’s quick pack and
blood-like horses, if they found me on a good scenting day I must be
beaten by them. However, here was in store for me as great a trial of
my powers; for it seemed that Mr. Osbaldiston’s hounds were just come
for this part of the season to hunt the country. One morning I heard
Sebright’s voice cheering on his pack, which, with a burning scent,
were running a fox like lightning. Suddenly there was an awful silence;
then Dick Buxton’s screech, and the “Whoop!” soon followed. For a
minute or two only I heard a noise, as if hounds were quarrelling, and
that no sooner ended than Sebright saying, “Now, Mr. Smith, this is the
first real good scenting day we have had.” I could stop no longer, but
stole away, hoping not to be seen; but, my friends, fancy my horror
when, on stealing from the gorse on the open down, and thinking that
the rising ground would screen me, I saw this famed pack and first-rate
huntsman within two hundred yards of me. I stopped for an instant, but
scorned to return into the gorse, so took away across the hilly downs
near Hog’s Lodge, and crossed the Petersfield road to Portsmouth, over
the open down for two miles, with the pack viewing me the whole time,
except a moment or two when I was rounding the tops of the hills, then
again they saw, and swung after me down the steep sides of the hills. I
cleared the first fence adjoining the down, and had scarcely got fifty
yards when I saw the whole pack flying over it after me, and at the
next fence I turned short to the right as soon as I had cleared it.
They were driven a little beyond it before they turned, which gave me
a trifling advantage. I now continued to gain ground in advance of the
pack, and though they never once were at fault, or lost the scent for a
minute, and went on several miles across open downs into Sussex, still
I kept on, determined to save my life.

I had gone full nine miles as straight as I could go, and had just
turned for the first time to the right, and was ascending the top
of the highest point of the down, when, to my great joy, I saw the
hounds stopping and trying in vain to recover the scent, which was
destroyed by my having run through a large flock of sheep. They now
could not hunt the scent a step farther, though on the middle of an
open down; and such was the disappointment and chagrin occasioned by
it to Sebright, that he was heard by a friend of mine to say, that if
the squire would give him a thousand a year, he would not stop to hunt
a country, where the scent was so soon entirely lost; and that, until
this occurred, nothing in the world would have made him believe that
any fox could have run straight away from such a pack as his, under
such apparently favourable circumstances.

I remained till the following season in this part of the country, in
a covert belonging to Sir J. Jervoise, called the Markwells, when I
was first roused from my slumber by the voice of another huntsman,
Mr. Smith,[2] who at that time hunted his own hounds, known as the
Hambeldon pack. It was about one o’clock in the afternoon, in the month
of December, and fortunately I prepared myself for a day’s work, for
sure enough I had it. When I first broke covert I took the open, and
in running had the wind in my face for about two miles, then finding
the new pack pressing close to my heels, I turned short back with the
wind, which, most fortunately, as it appeared to me, was now blowing in
a direction straight to a large earth that I had formerly discovered
at Grafham Hill in Sussex. The pace had blown the hounds, and the
great change, by turning back and down the wind, caused them to stop
for a minute or two; and although I soon heard them again hunting me,
at a pace not quite so fast, their perseverance induced me to keep on
straight forward. I had already gone for about ten or twelve miles,
when, crossing a grass field near some buildings, I was startled at
hearing the noise of other hounds close by. It was the pack in Colonel
Wyndham’s kennel. A view-halloo, which came from one of his men, made
me continue to get on as fast as I could, and by the time it was nearly
dark I fortunately reached the large earth at Grafham Hill. I had not
been there for more than a few minutes when, lying with my head near
the entrance of the earth in order to breathe more freely, I heard the
hounds come up to the spot and try to get in, on which I retreated,
but no farther than I was obliged to do, according to the plan I always
adopted when distressed or nearly run down.

The distance I had run, straight ahead from where I started, was found
to be twenty-seven miles. One of the four or five men who came in said
that they must have changed their fox when the hounds ran through these
large coverts. The reply was that it was scarcely possible, as they
never once broke out of the road and rides, within which the fox had
kept during the whole time.

It was now dark, and the hounds had full forty miles to return to their
own kennel. I had reason, however, to know that they stopped that night
half way, at the Drove Kennel; for during the night I had returned back
as far as I could to the place whence I came, and intended to remain
there; but all the middle of the next day I heard the sound of the
horn which I had so often heard during the severe run I had had the day
before, and which it appears was blown with the hope of its being heard
by two hounds that were missed the night before, having come to the
earth and remained some time after the pack had gone away. On hearing
the horn I soon left my kennel, and, though very stiff, was obliged to
make the best use of my legs that I could; for the pack, on their way
home, crossed the line I had taken in the night, and were soon heard
running in full cry after me. Glad was I to hear Mr. Smith order his
men to stop them; for I must speedily have fallen to them had they only
been aware of my weakness. One curious fact remains to be told, namely,
that the two hounds remained for three days in the part near where
they were left at the earth, and found their way back to the kennel on
the fourth day afterwards. Now it is true that we foxes easily retrace
our way on all occasions, but it must be recollected that we are often
led straight by having in view some point, a main earth, for instance;
when that is not the case, on being pursued by the hounds and guided by
the wind, we notice the different points as we pass, and choose that
line in which it appears least likely for us to be viewed; we thereby
without difficulty retrace our line the same night, at least for some
distance, unless too exhausted to travel more than necessary to procure
food, when we remain near where the hounds have left us. I have done
this for a short time, when the coverts and country to which I belonged
have been much disturbed by the hounds; but invariably returned the
same night. Now the hound has enough to do when hunting us without
taking notice of the country which he passes over; and we must not
assume to ourselves greater sagacity than belongs to him, for I believe
that we are but varieties of the same kind. I observe amongst our party
one who may have something to say upon that subject presently.

I underwent another severe day’s work in the same country with another
pack of hounds. In consequence of finding plenty of rabbits in a covert
near the Waterloo Inn, I remained there for some time, and my peace
was undisturbed, until I was roused one morning by the strange but
fine voice of Mr. King’s huntsman, Squire. After running round the
covert a few times, I found that his quick pack were not to be trifled
with; I therefore went straight away in the direction of Sussex. They
still pressed me on through the large coverts there, and I left them
in a wood, their huntsman and his master, Mr. King, imagining that I
had gone to ground in a wood in Colonel Wyndham’s country—a mistake
which happened in consequence of my having crept into an earth that
I remembered to have seen there, but which, when I found that it was
merely a rabbit earth, I left, and went on. The hounds stopped there,
but it was soon discovered that they would not lie, and the delay
caused my escape, for I must otherwise have been killed. It was a
terribly severe day, for I had been hunted by them more than twenty
miles from the place where they found me. A great part of the country I
ran across was the same that I had gone over in the previous year when
hunted by Mr. Smith’s pack, though the distance was not so far by some
miles. The great difference I observed in these two packs was that the
present one were rather faster, and could not be heard so plainly when
running: this was in some measure made up for by Squire’s voice, which
I so often heard to cry “Whoop!”

  [Illustration: FULL CRY. BY S. ALKEN.
     _Lent by Basil Dighton._]

I was afraid to remain in these parts, so travelled westward, until
I reached a wood by the sea-side near Southampton, and there, owing
to the scarcity of rabbits, was obliged to seek other food, often
consisting of dead fish, which I found on the shore. I had more than
once a narrow escape from being shot by sailors, as they passed by in a
boat at moonlight, and was induced to leave this part also. Following
the sea-shore I crossed the Itchen Bridge, for I had not forgotten my
escape from the swans, and would never trust myself again in water when
it could be avoided, and by degrees, as the spring came on, I got into
the New Forest. Fortunately for me the system of hunting in that part
until near the middle of May was discontinued by Mr. Codrington, who
then hunted it. He was an excellent sportsman; and would never take an
unfair advantage of us, but left all to his hounds.

Although I had escaped during the winter months from other good packs,
it was doubtful that I could have escaped at this season, when the
weather is sometimes very hot; for although, as I have observed before,
the heat affects the hounds, it is more usual for them to be moving
about in it than it is for us, and they therefore suffer from it less.

I passed this summer most agreeably, living much on beetles, with
which the forest abounds, occasionally visiting the sea-shore to seek
for dead fish, and getting a fair supply of rabbits. The old rabbits
frequently laid up their young in the open parts of a country, in the
middle of fields, or any where far from hedges, probably to be more
out of the way of stoats and weasels. The number of nests of young
rabbits that a single one of us destroys is so enormous that it would
seem to many quite incredible. I got well acquainted with the purlieus
of the forest in my frequent travels; in spite of which my feet were
never tired by treading on hard flints, as they used to be in upper
Hampshire; and, strange as it may appear, in that flinty country I do
not recollect ever having had them cut or made sore by them, even when
I was pursued by the hounds; probably in some measure owing to our
quickness of sight, and to our not having to hunt a scent, so that our
attention is not diverted. I believe I owed to these very flints the
salvation of my life, as they obliged the hounds to go more slowly over
them, and thus afforded me more time.

The autumn had nearly passed, and being undisturbed by hounds, I
flattered myself that I was safe; but my dream soon vanished; for
it appeared that the only reason why they had not disturbed me was,
that they are not allowed to hunt in the forest so early as is done
in other countries. I was soon alarmed by hearing at intervals Mr.
Codrington’s deep voice, so unlike the style of the huntsmen by whom
I had been hunted in other parts. The hounds appeared to understand
it well enough, and as they soon spread through the covert adjoining
that where I lay, I stole away to some distance, where I remained
within hearing of them. It was a long time before they left the first
covert, as it happened to be one in which I had been moving about when
searching for food, and consequently these well-nosed hounds got on my
scent, there called “the drag.” This fine old huntsman believing that
a fox was near, persevered for an unusual length of time in trying to
find one, and owing to one or two hounds occasionally throwing their
tongues, waited in an agony of expectation. At length being led to
the covert which I had just left, they soon got on the line which I
had taken when I came from my kennel two hours before, and which they
had great difficulty in hunting. By this time I thought it right to
leave the wood where I had stopped. A man saw me go away, and hallooed
loudly, but still the hounds were not allowed to be brought on; and
they continued a walking pace until they got to the spot where I
had waited, at the extremity of the wood, and where, though at some
distance, I heard the cry of the hounds following me too closely to be
despised by me as they had hitherto been. It seemed that they were left
entirely to themselves, for I heard no men’s voices cheering them on,
as in other countries when running in the same way. As they continued
without any stopping, I resorted to the only means then in my power,
and ran through a herd of deer, with which the forest abounds. This
plan succeeded, and probably saved my life; for when the deer heard the
hounds coming towards them in full cry, they came straight after me in
the line I had run, and so spoilt the scent which I had left.

I well recollect, a short time after this, overhearing, as I lay in
my kennel, the following conversation between two men as they rode by:
“What a pity it is that Mr. Codrington is so silent when his hounds are
hunting their fox.” “Well, I don’t know that; for suppose now you saw
some weasels hunting a rabbit, do you think they would hunt it better
if some fellow was to keep on hallooing to them?” No reply followed
the question, although I anxiously waited to hear one. As far as I was
concerned, I regretted that more noise was not made, as it would have
assisted me, and not the hounds. The silent system is, at all events,
a most dangerous one for the fox before he is found. I have had some
narrow escapes from these very hounds being brought to a small covert
or bog in this forest so silently that they surrounded me before I
was aware, and I have with difficulty got away from them. Indeed, many
female foxes have thus been killed heavy with cub, and in that state
incapable of great exertion. Had these females heard the huntsman’s
voice in time they might have moved and run to earth, or shown in what
state they were, so that the hounds might have been stopped in time
to save their lives. As to the system of not assisting the hounds,
I am sure that every fox will agree with me in approving it. Give me
plenty of roads and dry fallows, or a few deer or sheep, and even when
the scent is good I shall not fear to be killed by an unassisted pack.
Without such impediments a pack so educated would be the most dangerous
of all, and even with them, if in the hands of a judicious huntsman.

This pack was (alas! that I should say was, for he is no more,) hunted
by a kind-hearted and excellent man, who has been heard to say,
at a moment when his hounds were running very hard, and going like
Leicestershire—he being nearly twenty stone—“I hope I shall not see
them any more till they have killed.” Notwithstanding the system just
described, as many of my friends have fallen victims to this pack as to
any in this part of the country. Nevertheless here I shall remain for
the present, and not go away until I am fairly driven.

I now, my friends, conclude for the present the history of my life,
only omitting such important events as may happen to come out in the
course of your own stories; for I must now call upon you to tell us
what you have to say of yourselves.

But hold hard there. Who or what art thou, half-bred thing, that durst
be showing thy ill-breeding with feigning to sleep, or with eating
rabbit, when thou shouldst have listened to the words of thy betters?
Cock-tail, speak.

“Call me Cock-tail, half-bred, ill-bred, mongrel cur; but know that I
claim kindred with your noble selves.”

_All._ “Audacious dog-face!”

“Honour ye the Cock-tail! Cock-tail had a grandfather!”

_All._ “Impossible! Never!”

“Listen, then, to facts; facts are stubborn things, and if my story do
not please, it may at least surprise you.”




COCK-TAIL’S STORY


It is known, I believe, that half-bred animals do not reproduce their
kind, and if it were otherwise innumerable would be such kinds. My
mother’s father was a fox. Her mother was a well-bred terrier in colour
much like your own. She belonged to a man who lived near Harborough,
in Leicestershire, and was valuable to him for her extraordinary talent
in killing rats and mice, as well as for the use which he occasionally
made of her in poaching at night. Wishing to procure a mixed breed
between her and a fox, he took her one night, at a particular period
of the spring, to a certain spot in a wood which he knew to be much
frequented by foxes, and having fastened her against a tree, left her
there till morning. On the following night he removed her to a short
distance from the spot where she was left the night before. After doing
the same for several nights he took her home, and in nine weeks after
that she produced four young ones, all of which are now living, and
much like a fox. My father was a brown terrier, and my mother may be
seen at any time, as she is fastened up by a chain in the inn-yard at
Market Harborough. The hair on her back and sides is thick, and stands
nearly upright like that of a fox. The hairs upon the upper side of
the tail are not so long and full as those of a fox, but the under
part and the sides are the same; the tips of them are black. Her legs
and feet are black, and the latter are round like yours, with a little
tan-colour behind the knee-joint. Her ears are pointed, and when she
is at rest laid back, but when she is roused pricked up like your own.
All these properties you may behold in me, but not exactly in an equal
degree. The most remarkable difference between ourselves and you is
this, that neither my mother nor myself are endued with the strong
odour peculiar to the fox. My mother has never been let loose by the
consent of her keepers, even in the inn-yard; but having once got loose
by accident, when about two years old, she ran away a long distance,
and being followed into a yard was there secured again. It was observed
when running that she carried her tail level as I do, like a fox;
sometimes it was crooked, but never upright. It was not so much curled
as mine is.

I lived with my mother, and when I was two years old, a master of
fox-hounds happening to hear of us, came to see us; and after making
many inquiries, persuaded my owner to let him take me away with him.
I was then placed under the care of the old feeder of hounds, with
orders that I should be allowed to run about in the house, with his
children for companions. I was shown to every one as a curious animal,
and became a great favourite, but all attempts to tame me failed, and
I never would let a stranger touch me. My master took me out with his
dogs when he went to shoot rabbits, but found me wholly useless. The
sound of the gun and the barking of the dogs frightened me so much
that I always ran away into the nearest hedge or wood to hide myself;
and I felt that my fate was sealed when I heard the old feeder say to
my master one day, “Now, sir, I am sure that this here ‘vulp’” (for
so I was called) “will never be no use at all; for he is as wild and
timorous now he is two years old as ever he was. We can’t get un to
do anything like the terriers; he frisks about like an eel, so as we
can’t touch un at times.” Finding that I had no friend to say a good
word for me I absconded, and when seen at a distance have often been
mistaken for a fox, and scared by the cry of “Tally-ho! tally-ho!” and
the hounds following me. That they never caught me I suppose may be
attributed to my not having the fox’s strong scent.

“Thy story is marvellous; but I must doubt its truth until I see thy
mother. I fear that thou art like other vain creatures, who, knowing
their own unworthiness, would fain connect themselves with those who
are in any way excellent, but beware of betraying us.”

“Ha! is it so? I am off.”

“He is gone, and grins defiance! This mongrel will think nothing of
destroying us by the dozen; but he may suffer for it yet.

“And now, my friends, as we have heard the mongrel’s account of
himself, let us hear Craven’s story. Open thy lips and throw thy tongue
freely; tell us how many times thou hast beaten these vexatious hounds,
and be not chary of thy experience.”




CRAVEN’S STORY


It is unnecessary to enter into the ordinary details of my life after
having heard our friend who invited us here. Consequently my story
will be a short one. I was born and bred in Savernake Forest, in the
Craven Hunt, where my father and mother had been considered to be of
some importance, having often beaten a famous pack of hounds in that
country. To the best of my recollection, the first pack of hounds
by which I was hunted belonged to Mr. I. Ward; from them I had many
narrow escapes, which I now, having since been hunted by other hounds,
set down to their immense size, for although they could and did hunt
me in an extraordinary manner, and pursued me closely in the flat
country and in the forest, yet I found that I left them far behind
when running over the flinty hills which separate that country from
Mr. Ashton Smith’s. Their steady style of hunting made it difficult
to shake them off elsewhere. I once overheard a man remark to their
master that they were larger than any that he had ever seen, especially
as to their heads. The reply at first surprised me. “Yes, I like them
large, for when once they get them down in hunting they are so heavy
that they cannot get them up again.” After being hunted by them under
his direction, I was hunted by them when they belonged to Mr. Horlock,
from whom also I have had some narrow escapes, principally by running
through large woods, where they soon changed me for another fox. I
recollect once, when lying in a small covert near Benham Park, I was
startled by hearing the cry of another but smaller pack of hounds, as
I could distinguish them to be by the sound of their tongues. Shortly
afterwards I saw a fox pass near me much distressed, and very soon the
fatal “whoop” was heard. It afterwards appeared that this gentleman’s
brother had permission to try whether he could kill with his small
pack a fox which had more than once beaten the large one. The following
season I was surprised one morning by hearing voices of some different
men with hounds, drawing the wood in which I lay. I soon moved and went
away from the wood, but was seen by men, who commenced hallooing, “Gone
away!” The hounds were then hunting another fox in the wood, where they
continued all day without killing him. At length I was found by them
where there was no other fox. They pursued me for many miles in a most
extraordinary way, and such good hunting hounds they were, that had
I not gone down a road where a flock of sheep had just gone before,
unknown to the huntsmen, I must have been killed. They there came to
a check, and as it was contrary to Mr. Wyndham’s system to assist his
hounds by holding them forward, they never got near me again that day.
It was very like the system described by our friend in the New Forest.

The following year I was again surprised by hearing the voice of
another strange huntsman, before I knew that hounds were just coming
into the wood. However, this notice was sufficient to prepare me for a
start. Soon after I had moved from my kennel, a single hound threw his
tongue. Mr. Smith gave a very loud cheer, and every hound appeared at
once to be running on the scent. This so frightened me that I lost no
time in leaving the covert and taking my way straight to the forest,
where other foxes were soon moved by hearing the hounds; I escaped this
time also. Not feeling however quite safe, I resorted to a plan which
had been adopted by other foxes before. I contrived to crawl up the
side of a large oak tree, by means of some small branches which grew
out of its trunk near the bottom, and the stems of ivy which covered
it farther up. At a considerable distance from the ground I found a
desirable spot to rest upon, where the large branches, about which
was a thick patch of the ivy, divided. To this place I resorted every
morning for a long time, and thence could frequently see the horrible
hounds, myself lying, as I fancied, in certain safety. One day,
however, as I turned my head towards where they were hunting a fox in
the wood close by, my attention was so riveted that I did not observe
a keeper, who in passing the tree on the other side had seen me and was
proceeding towards the hounds just at the moment the fatal “whoop!” was
heard,—the hounds having killed the unfortunate fox which they had been
hunting.

Soon afterwards the keeper told Lady Elizabeth Bruce where I was;
it was also communicated to Mr. Smith, who said, that although the
hounds had had a hard day’s work, the fox should be dislodged from
his extraordinary situation if her ladyship wished to see it done.
To my horror, the keeper brought the hounds straight to my tree and
pointed to the spot where I lay as close as I could. As soon as they
were taken away to a considerable distance and out of sight, the
keeper was desired to climb up the tree and bring me down. The horror
of my situation may be easily conceived as I heard him ascending. I
did not move until I saw his hand close to me; but as he was on the
point of taking hold of me I sprang from my lofty nest. Fortunately
dropping on some branches which projected about half way down, I broke
the fall, which would have broken my neck, and fell to the ground,
from which I rebounded, I think, some feet. Much shaken by the fall,
but fortunately nothing worse, I soon was on my legs and away across
the forest straight to the west woods, which were about three miles
distant. When the hounds were only the distance of half a field they
saw me enter this immense covert; but, as several foxes were soon
moving, I escaped; and the hounds were kept running till it was nearly
dark. I have since heard that the height from which I sprang to the
ground was afterwards measured to decide a bet, and that it was proved
to be exactly twenty-seven feet. It was a strange adventure, but can be
attested by many who saw it; and with this I conclude my story.

  [Illustration: THE CRAVEN HOUNDS IN SAVERNAKE FOREST.
     _T. Smith, Esq., del._
     _Facing page 58._]

Now for Northampton Pytchly. Thou art familiar with these things; thou
hast, no doubt, thy story by heart, and canst go a slapping pace.




PYTCHLY’S STORY


Recollect that when the pace is good it cannot last long, and so with
my story, for I remember but little of my very early days. I have had
the good luck to escape from several packs of hounds which have hunted
my country, and am now arrived at a venerable age; indeed, so far
advanced in my teens that I began to believe myself to be the oldest
fox in the country, until I saw one who is fastened up by a chain in
the back-yard of the Peacock Inn, at Kettering. Having been there ever
since he was a cub, he is known to be eighteen years old, and he is
now full one-fourth shorter than when in his prime of life. It is not
likely that foxes often attain to such an age, as before that they
become infirm; and in countries where there are hounds become an easy
prey to them, and where there are no hounds they are killed by the
gamekeepers.

The first pack of hounds by which I was hunted belonged to Mr.
Osbaldiston, and a most trimming pack they were; but luckily for me,
when they were going their best pace in pursuit of me, they sometimes
overran the scent, owing to their great courage, which, in the breeding
of them, seemed to have been more attended to than the nose. They
sometimes ran away for a little while even from all the fast riders.
These, however, generally contrived to get up again to them, especially
when at a check; but every moment’s delay made more clear to all the
necessity of having best noses.

It may appear strange that I should have escaped from the different
packs, since the Squire’s[3] left, in so fine a country as this to
which I belong, especially when such expense has been incurred to
procure a strong pack on purpose to destroy us; but, luckily for us,
the hunters fell into the mistake of trying to make what they called a
flying pack, and to this end getting rid of all those which they called
slow hounds, many of which were such as would not go the pace without
a good scent, as they would have them do. Such hounds were always
drafted, although, when there was a good scent, this sort could puzzle
even the fast riders to keep with them. Partly to this cause, then, I
attribute my having lived to my great age. There are other reasons why
fewer foxes are killed than formerly. In the first place, the country
is overrun with drains, of which there are thousands unknown to the
hunters, but known to us. When severely pressed by the hounds, I have
often got into one of them, and it frequently happened to be in the
middle of an open field, when hounds in chase of me have run over it,
and owing to their mettle and to their being pressed by hard riders,
they have been urged on beyond it, then held on forward in every way
by the huntsman; and if, after this, the drain has been discovered,
the scent, owing to the time lost, has been nearly gone. The entrance
to drains is generally in a low part of the land, which is chilled by
water upon it, and therefore may not hold a scent to discover that we
have gone into one.

During the time that that fine old sportsman, Lord Spencer, hunted this
country, there were nothing like so many of these drains as there are
now, which may in some measure account for fewer foxes being killed at
the present time than when Charles King hunted the hounds. I have heard
my old granny say that the first thing his lordship thought of and
wished to do, was to improve and strengthen his pack in every possible
way. Of late, the pack has been thought to be of least consideration;
and it would seem by the system adopted, that a fox is to be run down
by men who can ride fast, and that whippers-in are nearly all that is
wanted. For instance, when I have been pursued by the hounds, if I have
run towards or through any covert, I have frequently been astonished,
after passing through it, and almost before the hounds had arrived at
it, to see one of the whippers-in riding beyond it, in order to see me
go away, which he rarely or never could do; and if he did by accident
get in time to see me at all, the consequence was, that when I saw him
I went back again into the covert, and then, if there was any fresh fox
or foxes in it, they were pretty sure to be changed and hunted, and I
escaped. It generally happened that I had gone on through the covert
before the whipper-in got round, in time to see, not me, but a fresh
fox go away, to which he would probably halloo on the hounds, and, not
knowing the difference, declare it was the hunted one.

I suppose you will now not wonder that I have lived to so great an
age in this country. It is true I have had some narrow escapes within
the last few seasons, particularly one in the year 1840, when I was
found by the hounds then belonging to Mr. Smith, and in consequence
of beating them, called the Hero of Waterloo. I attributed my escape
to the system above described and adopted by the men on that occasion,
when the hounds were hallooed on to a fresh fox, which the whipper-in
Jones had viewed away on the farther side of Loalland Wood, at a time
when the hounds were hunting my scent through it, I having gone through
and away from it long before he got there. On looking back I witnessed,
to my regret, Mr. Smith’s displeasure at the system, which from that
time he insisted should not be continued. However, I was, four days
afterwards, lying in a small wood at Kelmarsh, when the hounds pursued
a fox in full cry, and came straight towards where I lay. Just before
they arrived I heard the following words addressed by Mr. Smith to his
whipper-in: “Where are you riding to before the hounds, when they are
running hard? Keep behind them in your place. If we cannot kill our fox
without your acting thus, we had better have a pack of whippers-in, and
no hounds at all.” I never heard of or saw the same system again.

Many other changes took place, which, as being unlike what we had been
used to, were by no means agreeable to us. One of them was the former
way of giving up hunting a fox and going to find another. On some
occasions, when I have been found and hunted by the hounds, and fancied
that I was safe, as I had done on previous occasions whenever I could
not hear them, I was surprised to hear them, after a short time, again
hunting on the line I had come. I was once found by the hounds in a
covert close to Fox Hall, and after they had pursued me closely for a
few miles, I, in consequence of there being a line of dry fallows, left
them far behind; so that I had given up all idea of being disturbed
again by them that day, and stopped in Mr. Hope’s plantation; I had
been but a short time there when they again approached, but slowly, and
I heard the following words addressed to Mr. Smith, who was hunting his
hounds: “How much longer shall you go on with this cold scent? Don’t
you think you can find another fox?” The reply was, “I shall hunt this
as long as a hound will own the scent. We shall get up to him by and
by, and kill him too.”

On hearing this it was time to be off. I was shortly after seen in the
plantation, and hunted closely by the hounds, which, after another long
check, again got on my scent in the wood where I was _first found_.
They hunted me very fast across some of the finest grass country,
and I was obliged to take refuge in a drain under a road leading to a
field, where fortunately I found another fox, and succeeded in getting
beyond him in his retreat. It often occurs that the fox which is hunted
and frightened forces his way beyond the fresh one, and there remains
during the operation of digging, and when the huntsmen come by, the
fresh fox is drawn out and given to the hounds. Such was the case
now, and so I escaped, for luckily it was getting late, and the hounds
were taken away immediately without their discovering that I was left
behind. I had time to remark that only one man, who was addressed as
his Grace, was with the hounds at the finish, or indeed for a long time
during the run, nearly all having left at the time of slow-hunting.

And now, my friends, I have done.

“Done! Tell us first what has become of our friend old King Stumpy.
There is a rumour that he is dead, and I do not perceive any one here
without a brush.”

Alas! he is no more. He was captured, and massacred, and died an
ignominious death. It happened last autumn that he was found as usual
in Grafton Park one morning, as soon as it was light, by this new pack,
when he had imprudently glutted himself, and was thinking again to save
his life by immediately running into a drain, in which he had so often
saved himself before after a severe day’s hunting. He who had been king
of the forest, and had for so many years fairly beaten his enemies, was
now dug out and devoured by the hounds on the spot. Oh! the ruthless
and unfeeling beasts! Yet, be it confessed, that we ourselves do
sometimes dig out a mouse or so, but it is to eat him kindly, you know.

Here I intended to finish my story, but as I am expected to explain
how I have escaped from every pack by which I have been hunted, I must
add, that having for a long time had a wish to see that part of the
Northampton country hunted till last year by the Duke of Grafton’s
hounds, in which the woods were of immense size, having heard that
T. Carter and his killing pack had left the country, and thinking it
would be a place of greater security for my old age, I went there last
spring, but had not been long settled in Puckland’s woods before I was
disturbed by hearing another pack, which soon found me out, and pursued
me for some time most closely, till at length they came to a check.
When listening, I heard a person ride up and use these words to the
huntsman: “Well, what are you going to do now? You had better be doing
something; it’s no use standing still.” There was some reply which I
could not hear. However, I discovered that the man addressed was Taylor
the huntsman, and that the pack was the remainder of that by which I
had first been hunted when it belonged to Mr. Osbaldiston. The only
difference I could observe was, that they were not quite so powerful.
That they were stout enough I had reason to know; for although I
escaped after their hunting me for several hours in these large woods,
they afterwards killed another fox without leaving the covert.

On another day, when I was lying in a large covert adjoining the Forest
of Whittlebury, and the hounds had been drawing some distance beyond
the spot where I lay, I thought that I could steal away unseen, and
had nearly reached the outside of the wood when I was much annoyed by
the noise of a jay, which kept flying above me as I went on. When I
stopped I heard a man say, “There is a fox moving close to that jay,
I’ll be sworn; just look, you will see him cross that path directly.”
This talking frightened me from the spot, and on my going a little
farther and crossing a path, another man exclaimed, “There he goes! it
was a fox that jay was making such a noise about.” He then gave a loud
view-halloo; the hounds soon came up, and after running some time in
the forest, I left them following another fox.

The little I had to say is said.

“Come, Dorset, fain would we hear thy story next. Our thoughts should
be open as the heavens above, and free as the winds that follow us. We
are brethren and fellows in our way of life, and thou may’st not doubt
that we will judge thy deeds fairly but kindly.”

“Justice, then, is fled to lowly beasts, for men have none of it.
Listen to my story, friends; a plain and unvarnished one it is, and you
shall have it freely and entirely.”




DORSET’S STORY


I was born in Cranborne Chace, which is in Mr. Farquharson’s hunt,
and it was here that I first heard the sound of a huntsman’s voice,
the voice of old Ben Jennings; and melodious as it might have been
considered by others, it was any thing but agreeable to my ear when he
used it to cheer on his hounds, which appeared so well to understand
it. It frequently was the cause of my leaving this large covert. I
returned to it because the hounds were apt to get on the scent of
another fox. The voice became at last so familiar to me that I heeded
it not, but rather found amusement in it, taking little trouble to
be out of hearing of it when the hounds were hunting me; but another
season came, and great was the difference. I lay in a favourite covert
called Short Wood, when I was startled by another voice instead of old
Ben’s, that of the new huntsman, Treadwell’s, clear and beautiful—not
so powerful as that which I had been used to of late, nor was it _vox
et præterea nihil_; for his system was one which soon made me give
up listening when the hounds were pursuing. I found that I had now no
longer time to wait and hang about as I had done. I was obliged to get
away as fast as I could, and had enough to do to escape from the new
man, whose coolness and perseverance frightened me. My first escape was
owing to an imperfect cast which he made when the hounds had come to
a check in a field, where there was a flock of sheep, for instead of
taking the hounds entirely round and close under the hedge, beginning
at the left hand, he missed that corner for about fifty yards, where
it happened that I had gone through the fence, and by the time he had
taken them close all round every where else and held them on forward,
time was lost, and the hounds got on the scent exactly opposite.
Although it now became slow hunting, I did not feel safe until I heard
him blow his horn to go home. I believe that this kind of mistake, or
rather neglect, has been frequent on the part of other huntsmen by
whom I have been hunted. Be that as it may, one or two escapes from
this able man and his pack were sufficient to induce me to get quickly
into another hunt out of his way. Those escapes may be attributed to
the want of scent, and they will not seem surprising, if the time be
calculated which was lost at every check, whilst I was going on without
listening as the hare always does. Having stopped some little time in
a strong covert of gorse in an open down, in Mr. Drax’s country, south
of Blandford, and close adjoining to Lord Portman’s, I was one morning
annoyed by hearing the voice of Mr. Drax’s huntsman, John Last, who
was drawing the covert with his hounds, by which I was shortly after
surrounded. Being ignorant of the runs and tracks in the gorse, I
was so pressed by them that I sprung upon the top of the gorse, and
ran along it for a few yards, but the hallooing of the hunters soon
frightened me down again. At length I went straight away across the
down in view of all the hunters, and had not gone more than a hundred
yards before a large man on a heavy gray horse rode between me and the
covert, and began hallooing in the most frightful manner, at the same
time waving his hat as if he was out of his mind: the consequence of
which was, that the hounds, which were hunting me closely out of the
covert, immediately they saw and heard him threw up their heads and ran
wildly after him, expecting to see me, which fortunately they did not,
as I had by that time just got beyond a small elevation in the down,
which prevented the man also from seeing me. I turned directly to the
left. He now found out the mischief he had done by causing the hounds
to lift their heads, and galloped on still farther, hoping to get
another view of me, but in vain, as I had sunk into a small valley, and
he luckily turned the hounds in a direction opposite to that in which
I had gone. The scene at this time defies description. “What are you
at, you crazy old man? You have lost our fox!” and endless execrations
were lavished on him. I believe this circumstance saved my life; for
had it not occurred, the hounds would have had me in view for three
miles across the downs, and although it was some little time before
they got on my scent again, they came after me at a most terrific pace,
which fortunately, however, was slackened on their crossing the road
and having to climb over a wall into the grounds adjoining some immense
woods, through the whole of which they hunted me again at a good pace,
and straight on for nine or ten miles, till I was almost exhausted;
luckily they were stopped when crossing a field where there was a flock
of sheep, no one being there to assist them. Shortly I heard in a loud
voice, “John! Where is John?” and finding that they were not likely
to get much assistance from the huntsman, I quietly retraced my steps
towards the place from which I started, but remained there for a short
time only.

  [Illustration: GONE AWAY. BY HENRY ALKEN.]

I was again lying one morning in a piece of gorse near the Down House,
when I was waked by hearing what I thought was the whistle of the
keeper, but which turned out to be that of Lord Portman’s huntsman,
whose hounds were all around me before I was aware. The men on
horseback were scattered in all directions over the down, and it would
have served them right if they had lost their day’s sport, which they
very nearly did, as I stole away to a large rabbit earth close by, into
which I ran.

Unluckily some of the hounds got on my scent and hunted it up to the
earth, where they marked it by stopping and baying. Shortly after this
two or three of the hunters rode up, and I heard the following words:
“Not worth saving: get him out and give him to the hounds; he can’t
run a yard.” However, it was decided that I should have a chance, as
they called it; and a pretty chance it was. I was dug out, put into a
sack, and given to the whipper-in, with orders to turn me out on the
down. Something was said about cutting my hamstrings, in order to lame
me, and one wished to cut off my brush; and that it was not done was
a great disappointment to the wretch. I was turned out at only about
a hundred yards from the pack, but contrived to reach a hedge just as
one of the leading hounds had got close to me, when I turned short to
the left down the narrow ditch. The hounds all sprang over the fence,
and then, not seeing me there, fortunately turned first to the right;
and before they had found out that I had gone down the ditch I had
got out on the other side again, and ran to a corner, when I turned
through it again into another cross-hedge. By these means I got clear
off before they had another sight of me, for they overran my line
of scent a little when they got back on the down on my track. I well
recollect hearing the huntsman calling loudly to the whipper-in to get
on and head the fox from going to the woods; but he, poor thing, was in
a state of too much excitement to understand what was meant, and even
if he had understood, it would have been a fruitless attempt to stop
me from making my point to reach a wood or place of safety on such an
occasion, even if my first attempts had been prevented. I may flatter
myself that a hundred witnesses are ready to pronounce it as clever an
escape as was ever effected by a fox in similar circumstances. For the
future they will not say that a fox cannot run, and condemn him to be
given to the hounds, merely for running into an earth.

  [Illustration: BAGGING THE FOX. BY C. LORAINE SMITH.
     _Lent by Basil Dighton._]

I now made the best of my way straight to the large woods which I had
passed through when hunted by the other pack, and luckily made good use
of my time, for they came after me as if their feet had been winged,
neither road nor wall delaying them. I had enough to do to keep out
of their way through these large woods, which they traversed nearly
as fast as if in the open country. At the extremity of the woods, to
my surprise, I met the noble master of the pack, who had succeeded in
getting to that point before me, the result of which was that I turned
back into the covert before he saw me, and caused a slight check, after
which they again approached me, just as I had reached the wall which
surrounded the wood, at the top of the hill looking into the vale,
where I descended, and looking back saw the hounds for a short time
again at a check, owing to that high ground being slightly covered with
snow. I dreaded lest they should take the hounds on beyond the snow
towards the vale where I was; but they soon turned back, and I heard no
more. It was nearly three o’clock, which some think time to go homeward
rather than from home, as would have been the case if they had followed
me, when probably I should not have lived to tell my tale. The scent
in the vale is always so much greater than on the hills from which they
had hunted me, that I must have fallen a prey to this pack. Although we
are endowed with so large a share of wisdom, it is not all-sufficient;
or else we should be aware that when pursued by hounds and nearly
beaten by them, it must be all but certain death to us to run from a
bad scenting country into a good one.

Having now openly defeated the enemies who had conspired against
me, I remained in the vale until I was tempted to move into a finer
and fairer country. Great changes are going on in the hunting of the
country which I left; and should we ever meet again there may be much
for me to tell. For the present I have done.

“We now look to thee, Warwick, to give us something good; thy country
has produced one of the most extraordinary men that ever lived. He knew
all the wiles of the wiliest creature that walks the earth. Dost thou
think that Shakespeare would have been a good huntsman?”

“By the faith of a fox I should have been most loath to try him. Did
he possess the following qualities: boldness, perseverance, activity,
enterprise, temper, and decision? Had he a keen perception of relative
place? Had he a good eye and ear? If he had all these, and more, then
might Shakespeare have been an immortal fox-hunter.

“It is little that I have seen in this country, and I have little to
tell; but I will at once proceed and state to what cause I attribute my
escape on one or two occasions lately.”




WARWICK’S STORY


In the month of March last I was lying in a strong gorse-covert,
not far from Nuneham, when after hearing the voice of Stephens, the
huntsman to the Atherstone[4] hounds, I heard the following remarks by
one sportsman to another, both being on horseback and waiting close to
where I was in my kennel.

“Well, I do hate that silent system; had Robert not been so sparing
of his voice, or had he only given one blast of his horn when he began
drawing the small spinney just now, the hounds would not have chopped
that vixen in cub; for vixens in that state are unable to run far, and
are unapt to move till pressed to do so by the approach of danger.
She probably had been so much used to see the keeper and his dogs
pass, that, not hearing the huntsman’s voice or horn, she was taken
by surprise when the hounds got round her; if she had moved before,
she might have been seen, and the hounds stopped in time to save her.
No doubt she had been there some weeks before, and, in consequence of
having a good friend at the great house not being ever disturbed, she
believed that she was safe.”

I would not venture to listen any longer, for I heard the same hounds
running another fox in the gorse close by me. It appeared that there
was also another besides, making altogether three of us. Finding
this to be the case, and thinking to be very cunning, I took an early
opportunity of quitting the covert; and had scarcely got across two
fields before I saw a multitude of men on horseback riding along the
road in a parallel direction to that which I was going. They had seen
me leave the covert without waiting for the hounds, which they ought
to have known were running still after another fox; however, when they
found that the hounds were not running after the same fox that they
were themselves, they began hallooing, and the hounds were shortly
afterwards brought and got on my scent. Of course I returned to the
covert, for I had no notion of being thus hunted by men, and wished to
let the gentlemen know that I would not go unless I chose to do so, let
them halloo as they would. I therefore punished them by running for
nearly three quarters of an hour longer in the covert. This brought
them a little to their senses, and they gave me room to make another
attempt. Not liking to remain in such close quarters with this sticking
pack, I seized an opportunity, and went away on the side of the covert
opposite to that which I had first attempted, and though I was viewed
away by several men, it happened that they were able this time to hold
their horses and their tongues until I had got fairly away, when they
certainly did halloo, so that about half the pack came to them. The
whipper-in was sent to stop them, and as soon as the huntsman had got a
few more he also came to them; but not having quite three parts of the
pack he did not go on with them, but stopped and blew his horn for the
others which he had left. Some of them shortly after came, but seeing
him stopping where he was, did not appear to be in any haste, possibly
because they were aware that they had left a fox in the covert; but,
from his stopping, it might not have appeared to them that a fox had
gone on, or they would not have taken it so leisurely.

To this, then, do I attribute my escape; for, though they did hunt me
for a mile or so, the time was lost, and so too, of course, the scent;
this, added to the impatience shown by the men who were out, settled
the business for me. An accident which had lately occurred to Stephen,
the huntsman, by which his foot was injured, prevented him, I conclude,
from being every moment close to the hounds, when these men were
so anxious to get on, and the huntsman’s presence was so absolutely
necessary to prevent their doing mischief. However, I had no reason
to regret it, for I went straight across a fine country; though it
was reported that I had returned to the covert, which was not likely;
I may add, on this occasion, that I went to the coverts at Comb, to
which place they also came to find another fox. They did not cross the
line I had come, but passed through part of a large covert where I had
stopped, without drawing it, expecting to find a fox at the other end
of it.

  [Illustration: HUNTING IN COVER. BY HENRY ALKEN, ENGRAVED BY T.
   SUTHERLAND.
     _Lent by Basil Dighton._]

Seeing this, I slipped back behind them, and was stealing away, as I
thought undiscovered (no uncommon thing for me to do), unluckily, a
man in a red coat had stopped back, as if on purpose to see any fox
that might be left behind; and as soon as I was out of sight he gave
a loud view-halloo, by repeating which he brought the hounds after a
short time on to the line of my scent. This caused me to lose no time,
and having now a good start, I ran straight through all those large
woods until I got to the end of that near the railway, when I turned
to the right; and after stopping in an outside covert for some time,
thinking that I had escaped, I heard the hounds hunting very slowly,
till they were quite silent. But I was soon after surprised to hear the
huntsman taking them across the wood where I was, and instantly left
it in a direction opposite to that where I had seen all the hunters
ride; consequently only a few followed with the hounds when they hunted
me across the river and railway into the open, beyond Coventry. They
ran me back to near the side of the river, when they were taken to the
other side, which happening to be towards Leamington, I remained in
that part, and had got so far as Ufton Wood. I was found there a few
days afterwards by the new huntsman of the Warwickshire hounds and that
pack. Having previously heard that they had learned much from Carter,
the Duke of Grafton’s late huntsman, under whom he had been whipper-in,
and that he had been doing much mischief amongst us, I lost no time in
leaving this large covert, and was soon followed by the pack, which
hunted me at a fair pace, until they had followed me part of the way
across a dry fallow field. As my good luck would have it, there was
also another fallow in the direction which I had gone, straight beyond.
It seems that Stephen, the huntsman, made one or two casts with his
hounds across each of these fallow fields without success. In his
anxiety not to lose, I suppose he forgot that if the hounds could not
hunt scent over one fallow they could not over another. He omitted to
hold the hounds on and across the next field of wheat beyond it, and
took them back towards the covert where I came from, and thus it was
that I escaped; for after some remark was made to him on the subject,
he directly took the hounds back to the field beyond the fallow; they
there got on my line of scent, and after hunting slowly for a couple of
miles, fortunately for me gave it up; otherwise, the line I had taken
was so good that I might have fallen a victim to this persevering and
promising young huntsman. After a little more experience he will be a
dangerous enemy of ours.

“Now, Chester, tell us how they go on in thy part of the world, and
how thou hast contrived to escape from that famous hunting pack of
hounds, which we are told belonged to the late Mr. Codrington. Tell us,
moreover, is it a good huntsman they have to hunt them?”




CHESTER’S STORY


As foxes are scarce in our country, I alone could be found to travel
here, and having been hunted only one season, I am, from my own
experience, but ill qualified to reply to your question as to the
huntsman. I have as yet escaped from being hunted by him, but I do
hear that he is in all respects most excellent. Unfortunately for
him, but fortunately for us, he was lately disabled by the fracture
of a bone of his leg; and consequently could not come with the hounds
when they hunted the last week in the Namptwich country. For reasons
to be given hereafter, I had rarely lain in coverts of late, and had
preferred lying in hedgerows. I happened, however, to be lying in a
covert one day when I heard the voice of a man who was hunting hounds
which turned out to be Mr. White’s, and as they were close to me before
I heard them, my only chance was to leave the covert immediately; but
in the first field I was met by some men on horseback who frightened
me back again. I was not seen by the hounds, which ran out of the wood
on my scent as far as I had gone, but were turned back, not without a
little loss of time, which was a favourable occurrence for me. I went
straight through the wood and away on the opposite side, and soon found
that they were after me. I kept on, but not in a straight line, which
rather puzzled the gentleman who was hunting them. They came at length
to a final check, and could hunt no farther. I thought that if Marden
had been hunting them, there was one cast which he would have made,
and that was to the left of the field where they lost the scent; for
although each of the other sides were tried by casting the hounds that
way twice over, they were never taken once round beyond the field to
the left; and to this I attribute my escape, for I was nearly beaten,
and it appeared that the pack which I found such difficulty in shaking
off and defeating by turning so short as I had done during the run, was
that which belonged to the late Mr. Codrington. It is stated that they
killed every fox that they hunted during eight following weeks. They
are said not to be compared for beauty to the former pack, which is
reported to have been a magnificent one; but “handsome is that handsome
does.”

Now, my friends, I will tell you why I prefer hedgerows and
out-of-the-way places to fix on for a kennel. Listen to a matter
of fact, but a melancholy story of what took place in a part of the
country where I was bred. It happened when in a favourite little covert
near Namptwich that I was attracted by the scent of a bait which was
placed under a large iron trap, carefully covered over with some light
grass and moss; on attempting to remove these I unfortunately struck
the trap, which went off and caught me by the foot. Need I describe
the agony I endured, confined as I was by the mangled foot? Daylight
appeared, when, nearly exhausted with pain, I made a desperate effort
with my other forefoot, and succeeded in pulling out the peg that
confined to the ground the chain of the trap, which I dragged away
for some distance. I then lay down overcome with pain, and in this
deplorable condition remained for two or three days and nights. The
foot being now as it were benumbed and almost insensible, I in order to
save my life fairly bit it off with my teeth, and thus released myself
from the trap. Not long after this had occurred a more tragical affair
took place in this very same covert. In the early part of the month
of March in the present year 1843, I was lying, as was my custom, in
a thick and broad hedge, when late in the day I was much frightened by
the approach of the hounds, passing near me rather quickly to my great
relief, for it appeared that they had not found a fox all day. They
immediately begun drawing the covert, and shortly afterwards a fox was
seen with an iron trap fast to his foreleg, which was broken above the
knee. In the course of a few minutes the fatal “whoop” was heard, the
signal of his death.

During the tumult which ensued amongst the gentlemen who had been
hunting, an honest farmer, whose land surrounded the covert, came up
and stated that a short time before he had found in a field close
by a large trap exactly of the same sort, which had in it two of a
fox’s toes. They belonged to the foot which I parted with myself. It
is impossible to describe the sensation created by this additional
circumstance; but it caused amongst other remarks the following, which
reached my ears:—“These acts of shocking cruelty were scarcely ever
heard of in this part, till game became an article of traffic to the
landlord, and shooting on his land began to be let to strangers who
have no interest whatever in the welfare of the country where it lies.
Nothing conduces to that welfare more than brilliant sport afforded by
a pack of hounds; as it leads others, as well as those who own estates,
to become residents in the country. Noblemen and gentlemen have now
lost their good old English feelings, and instead of inviting their
friends for the sport, they let their shooting, or sell their game in
the market. It frequently happens that the persons to whom the shooting
is let are men who are engaged in business and reside in large towns.
They are consequently ignorant of the tricks and cruelties of their
keepers during their absence, and unaware of the disappointment these
keepers create to hundreds of gentlemen who reside in the country, who
keep large establishments of horses for the express purpose of hunting,
and whose money might otherwise be spent in more questionable ways in
town or elsewhere.”

I have heard the following lines recited by one who said that they
ought to be put up over the mantelpiece of every farmer in the
kingdom:—

     Attend, ye farmers, to this tale,
     And when ye mend the broken rail,
     Reflect with pleasure on a sport
     That lures your landlord from the court,
     To dwell and spend his rents among
     The country folk from whom they sprung;
     And should his steed with trampling feet
     Be urged across your tender wheat,
     _That steed_, perchance, _by you_ was bred,
     And _yours the corn_ by which he’s fed,
     Ah! then restrain your rising ire,
     Nor rashly curse the hunting squire.—WARBURTON.

“So, Devonian, tell us thy history, for methinks ’twill be something
strange.”




DEVONIAN’S STORY


My story must needs be a short one. In my own country I am called
“The Bold Dragoon,” and as every name either has or ought to have
a particular meaning, I am so called in consequence of having once
been in the possession of a certain captain of dragoons who lived
in the far West. These are my facts. I was born and bred in a wild
part of Devonshire, and when a year old fell into the possession of a
keeper. To state exactly how such a thing happened might sometimes be
inconvenient, as in hunting countries a man scarcely dares to confess
the crime of capturing a fox, for lucre at least. But here the keeper,
thinking me remarkable for size and strength, carried me to Captain
T——,[5] who sent me off immediately as a present to Mr. G. Templar,
the master of a pack of small foxhounds at Stover in Devonshire, and
I was carried into a dark and gloomy place, which had been at first
intended for a large stable, and was above seventy feet in length, and
nearly the same in breadth. Here I was let loose, and looking about me
in my fright, what should I see but at least twenty other foxes, all
coiled up in the snug holes which they had made for themselves. Besides
these there were others out of sight. They all took much care to hide
themselves when any man came in. As soon as he who had brought me there
had left the place, they all came round me. I soon learnt for what
purpose I was brought hither, for it appeared that each of them had
been separately hunted by this gentleman’s hounds, which he had brought
under such command, that they scarcely ever killed the fox they hunted;
for when hunting up to him, if a rider was near enough to make his
voice heard, and he rated or spoke to them, they would only bay at him
till he was again captured, placed in a bag, and carried home again.

It rarely happened that not the master nor huntsman, nor the reverend
friend who called himself first whipper-in, were up at the time, as
they were generally mounted on thorough-bred horses, which they well
knew how to ride. For myself, it is a well-known fact that I have been
turned out and hunted by these hounds eighteen times, though I have
striven hard to get away. On no occasion was I injured by the hounds,
and I must do my possessor justice by stating that he thoroughly
understands the nature of all the animals that he had to manage.

The extraordinary distance which we ran, when hunted by these hounds,
may be attributed to our perfect ignorance of the country where we were
turned out, which also accounts for our not oftener running at once
to the impracticable parts which abound here, and in which no horses
could have followed the hounds. In consequence of our knowing none of
the coverts, we often ran straight across Dartmoor, where the scent
was so good that the pace at which we were followed by the hounds made
it often most severe work for us; and it became almost a relief to be
taken up and replaced in the bag, which was carried for that purpose,
and reconveyed to our gloomy prison, where we were well supplied with
rabbits and other food.

The various habits of our race were most apparent. Some would keep
quiet in their kennels, which were holes made by them in the ground, or
where loose stones had been removed from the bottom of the wall which
surrounded our prison, watching what was going on; whilst others were
constantly moving about, as if in search of some outlet for escape.
One, whose activity was extraordinary, had chosen for his place of rest
a hole in the wall, being the opening intended for a window, which
had been stopped up on the outside. It was full eight feet from the
ground, and it was surprising, even to us, to see him run, with the
greatest ease, up the perpendicular wall, as he daily did, aided by the
roughness of the surface alone.

It now remains for me to explain how I am here and at liberty. We were
one day surprised by the entrance of our feeder, who brought in several
hampers, in which we were all taken to be turned out in the adjoining
woods, there to shift for ourselves.

So you see that although I cannot boast of having beaten a pack of
hounds, according to the tenor of the invitation, I have run away from
them altogether, and am here to do you service by proving the error
of the arch enemy, in thinking it absolutely necessary for his hounds
to devour the animal they have been hunting, that their ardour in the
chase may be increased. I have been sorely hunted by them, my friends,
and not until they had won the day, and run up to their object, did
they relax—not till then were they satisfied.

Again I would ask, why should our enemy wish to slaughter us when
seeking refuge in an earth, up to which his hounds have hunted?
seeing that those hounds so plainly show their contentment with having
succeeded, and done all that was required of them.

_All._ “Bravo! bravo! well said, thou bold Dragoon!”

“Now, Berkshire, we pray thee tell us whether thou dost like a royal
neighbourhood; whether thou art safer, and whether thy treatment there
is preferable to our own. Tell us all that thou canst, as thou livest
nearer to those parts than most of us do.”




BERKSHIRE’S STORY


On that score, my friends, I have not much to boast of; but having
heard that the fair Queen had taken to herself a consort who rejoiced
in the chase, I resolved to visit the royal forest. Soon I found that
foxes here existed only in name. Some day in December I was lying
in Windsor Forest about three o’clock in the afternoon, when I was
disturbed by the voice of Sir J. Cope’s huntsman, Shirley, who was
taking the hounds through the forest to find a fox. Though so late,
he was most persevering, and appeared determined to learn whether or
not within the purlieus of the forest there was a fox left alive by
the keepers. Seeing this, I lost no time; but when stealing away was
viewed by some of the hunters. The hounds soon followed me, and though
it was a bad scenting day, I narrowly escaped. I saw enough of them to
convince me that they were not to be trifled with, and that a tolerable
scent would tax all my powers to beat them.

It was some years ago that I was lying in a covert at Billingbeare,
when I was startled by Shirley’s voice. I soon got away from the
covert, thinking that I was not seen, but I was mistaken. A view-halloo
was given, and the hounds were soon on my scent. I went the best pace
I could straight towards and through the large woods at Shottesbrook,
and onwards in the direction of Maidenhead thicket, where I passed
through the middle of a small village. As the hounds had not been
seen or heard, no one was looking out, and consequently no one saw
me, although I passed through a cottage garden; and it behoves me to
state that I probably owed my safety to nothing more dignified than a
pig-sty attached to that garden, and which neutralised the scent; for
the hounds soon afterwards hunting so far, were unable to hunt farther.
It was supposed by the huntsman that I had taken refuge in some of
the buildings, and a search was made; when a sportsman who was present
expressed his surprise to a gentleman well-known in the hunt that they
did not first hold on the hounds beyond the village, and make that
good first; they would then have seen whether I had gone on or not, and
if not it would have been time to come back and try all those places.
This hint was taken, but too late to gain by it, for the scent, which
the hounds had got on again, was now so cold that they could hunt me
but slowly, instead of going at the pace they had hitherto gone, and
which must have been the death of me had it been continued but a short
time longer. I went straight on for several miles, until I reached the
Thames near Cookham. I did not like to cross it, and returned to Bisham
Wood; by which time, owing to my stopping about in a part of the wood,
the hounds had got very near to me, when it luckily grew nearly dark;
and though I was seen by them at not more than five hundred yards’
distance, they were stopped and taken home, and I narrowly escaped
from one of the most dashing packs in the kingdom. It is to be hoped
by us in this part that his Royal Highness Prince Albert will have his
commands obeyed by the keepers in Windsor Forest, and that this pack of
hounds will not be driven elsewhere to find a fox. I now remained for a
short time in a very thick covert, called Pigeon-House Coppice, through
which I passed when hunted by the hounds.

There is a tragical story connected with this covert. The hounds
many years since had met, and the gentlemen were all assembled, when
the keeper who had the care of the coverts made his appearance, and
producing a sack in which there was a fox, told them that unless they
gave him a certain sum of money for it to turn out and hunt, he would
shoot him before their eyes. This atrocious threat made them all quite
furious, and they refused to give him anything; on which this monster
in the shape of man immediately laid the sack which contained the fox
on the ground, and according to his threat shot him dead. The rage
which was felt by all present it is impossible to describe. They did
not put him in his own sack and throw him into a pond close by; but he
was soundly horsewhipped and instantly discharged from his place.

A much better feeling towards us now exists in this part of the
country, and I have no longer a dread of being shot. But it is
my intention to return to my old country, near Billingbeare and
Shottesbrook, as I hear that the keepers there receive strict orders
never to destroy one of us. This is the more handsome on the part of
the occupier of the latter place, as he is not a fox-hunter himself. No
doubt I shall be suffered to lie in the coverts of the former, though
I find much of my food at Shottesbrook, where the coverts are so thin
and hollow that I could not remain there during the day without many
chances of being disturbed by the keeper’s dogs. I hope at some future
time to be able to tell you that the breed of foxes in those parts, and
in the royal purlieus, has so increased that it has been unnecessary
for me to risk my life very often with Sir J. Cope’s fine pack of
hounds. It is reported that he intends to pay more frequent visits to
these parts in future, in consequence of having given up the distant
part of the country.

“And now, Sandy, tell us what is going on north of Tweed. Be there
any hounds there? It is reported that foxes there are shot like
rabbits. The mountains, it seems, are not to be rode over, and so no
fox-hunting; is it so?”




SANDY’S STORY


Let me at once undeceive you upon one point. It is not the mountains
there, but the hounds, that are hard to be rode over, and that on
account of the scent. We have, however, noble lords and others who
can and do keep with the hounds, except on the steepest parts of the
Cheviots. In the next place, let me pray of you not to believe the
slanderers who say that we are so unmercifully slaughtered. No, my
friends, it is not so. We have patrons as good as, if not better,
than you have in the South. One gentleman alone has lately raised,
at his own expense, for our sole use, a series of coverts, which
was the only thing required, as both sides of Tweed, Berwickshire,
and Northumberland are as fine country as can be desired, and,
unfortunately for us, as good scenting as any in the kingdom.

It is supposed that when people can fly thither by steam, it will
become the Melton of the North; but I hope the idea will end, as it
began, in smoke. You, my southern friends, appear to think that we do
not go the very fast pace that you do, and that the hounds by which
we are hunted are not equally as good as those in your country; but in
this, too, you are much mistaken. So good is the scent there that, if
it were not for the drains, which are now so general in the cultivated
parts, the hounds, at the awful pace they go, would in a very short
time kill nearly every one of us. Then the huntsmen are not to be
despised; on the contrary, we have to contend with one who, with the
following qualifications, is near perfection,—the eye of an eagle, fine
temper, boldness, enterprise, coolness, perseverance, intelligence,
and, above all, decision. This is the rare man with whom, and with
whose pack, we have to contend. I am proud to say that I have been
hunted by, and escaped from him, on a good scenting day too, by taking
refuge in the crevice of a rock, after one of the fastest runs possible
for five miles. It began thus:—One morning early last season, when
lying in a covert called Bushen Glen, I was startled by hearing a man
riding quickly by. He then suddenly stopped and addressed these few
words to the whipper-in, who brought the hounds.

“How long have you been here?”

“Just come, my lord.”

“Is Mr. Smith here?”

“Not yet, my lord.”

“Well, I never was so thoroughly drenched; never rode twenty-four miles
in such a deluge; so, by Jove, I can’t wait. Give me my horse.”

No sooner done, than “Cover hoick!” reached my astonished ears, and I
instantly left my kennel prepared for a start. In a few minutes I was
stealing away, and after clearing the wall and running in the open
moor, I passed near the gentleman, I suppose, who was expected, and
who, on seeing me, said not a word. I therefore, thinking I was unseen,
did not turn back to the covert, but, laying my ears well back on my
poll, took straight away across the moor, and just had a glimpse of
the hounds and their noble huntsman, Lord Elcho,[6] topping the wall at
the same time. My flight, however, was too rapid to allow time for much
curiosity. This was enough to make me go my best pace straight across
the moor for four miles, and then a mile or two beyond, over fields,
till I reached a hanging covert on a steep by the side of the Whitadder
River, at which time the hounds were not more than four hundred yards
from me. Although they did not see me, they ran the whole way as if
they really did.

Here, although there was soon another fox or two moving, they still
went on with my scent; for with the most unerring judgment this
huntsman kept the pack from changing, till at length I crossed the
river and over the moor on the other side to a place of refuge, a
crevice in a rock, for I could not go farther. The gentlemen rode up,
and I heard these words: “Well, I never saw a finer run. During the
first four miles the tail hounds never got to the head at all, though
not one hundred yards behind those that were leading when they first
started.”

On other occasions I have saved my life in a similar way, but a
circumstance occurred which almost made me resolve never again to
resort to a drain. I was one night crossing a farm, not many miles
from Dunse, when I heard cries as of a fox in distress, and on going
to the spot whence the noise proceeded I discovered that two of my
brethren were confined in a stone drain, where they had been several
days without food, and were nearly starved. I used every exertion in
my power to scratch away the stones which had been placed to stop up
the entrance, in order to prevent a fox going into it, as Lord Elcho’s
hounds were to meet near it next day. Fortunately Mr. Wilson, the
owner of the land, passed that way and saw that the ground and stones
had been lately disturbed by me, when he removed them, and saw the two
foxes, one of which was found dead shortly after. He ascertained that
his man had stopped them in nine days before, and that he forgot to
open the drain again.

I once crossed the Tweed at a dangerous part, thinking that I should,
by so doing, leave the hounds and all behind. Not so; for the huntsman
was not to be stopped, but swam his horse, as two or three others
did, across the river, Treadwell, Mr. Robertson’s[7] huntsman, taking
the lead. Having thus crossed the river without gaining my point, and
running in a ring of several miles, I recrossed the river at a spot
where it was impossible for horses to cross; so that, being a long way
round, the hounds were stopped, and it was agreed that I was drowned in
the Tweed.

Having seen some part of the country on the English side of the Tweed,
I determined to cross back to it; and after being there a short time
only, and lying in a field of large turnips, not uncommon in this
part, I was awakened by hearing a loud voice: “Treadwell, I wish you
would draw the hounds through this turnip field. It is a very likely
place to find a fox.” This order was obeyed with the utmost silence;
but fortunately, having had the previous notice, I was off and away as
fast as my legs could carry me, and was not seen, owing to the height
of the turnips, until I reached the next field. The hounds soon got
on my scent, and pursued me closely for about twenty-five minutes, so
extremely fast, that I began to think I had changed my country for the
worse.

Independently of their great speed, I could not hear them, as I did
those by which I had been hunted on the other side of Tweed. I reached
in safety a small covert, in passing through which it appeared that the
hounds got on the scent of another fox, which turned out to be a cub,
and so I escaped; for although an old sportsman saw me after I left the
covert going apparently much distressed, and evidently the hunted fox,
yet the hounds were not allowed to be taken from that which they were
running, which it appeared they some time afterwards killed, scarcely
having left the covert.

I had one or two more escapes from this determined huntsman and his
killing pack, which escapes I attributed to my good luck in having
been hunted by them on bad scenting days, and also in taking refuge
in drains. Learning that many of my friends had been killed by them, I
was induced to move into Roxburghshire, the country hunted by the Duke
of Buccleuch’s hounds, and adjoining the two hunts before described
to you. There I had not been long before I was found in a small covert
by the Duke’s pack, as Williamson the huntsman[8] calls it, though he
seems to do just what he likes with it. Be that as it may, he knew
pretty well where to find me, and it was done in a few minutes. The
hills form a part of the country that he surpasses most men in riding
across; and after running over them for some time towards the Cheviots,
the blue tops of which seemed at the time to be higher than the clouds,
the hounds came to a check, owing as it was thought, to my having
overtaken some cattle, and to too much delay in holding on the hounds;
and I escaped.

  [Illustration: THE DEATH OF THE FOX. BY R. B. DAVIS, ENGRAVED BY T.
   SUTHERLAND.
     _Lent by Basil Dighton._]

It appeared to me that these hounds had at the time rather too much
flesh, though shortly afterwards the fault was mended; for I never was
pressed more by any pack in my life. Every hound seemed to go as if
he had the leading scent. All came nearly abreast for several fields,
and they were close to me when I again took refuge in a drain. The
extraordinary scent just described induces me to relate the events of
that day from the beginning. A remark was made before the hounds had
thrown off, by an old sportsman, as follows. It happened that several
coverts were drawn by the hounds without their finding a fox, although
it was notorious that foxes had been on every former day most abundant
there; on hearing this the gentleman said, “I have often observed that
on good scenting days foxes are not to be found, even where they are
known to abound as they do here.”

“How do you account for that?” was asked.

“Probably on these good scenting days foxes lie under ground, or in
places not disturbed by hounds, for as they live by the use of their
noses, they cannot but know their danger of being hunted on such days.”

The hounds were taken on some distance towards another covert, but on
passing by a small piece of gorse, not half an acre across, they were
taken quietly to it, and in a short time killed a fox which had not
moved from his kennel. This created some amusement at the expense of
the gentleman who had stated his belief that it was a good scenting
day, and some one said—

“Now, what do you think?”

“Why, that I am now more sure of it: for if this fox had moved under
the circumstances when the hounds were so close to him, the scent being
a good one, would have made it almost certain death; and so his best
chance of escape was to lie still; but he has been too cunning.”

Rather more than the hallooing usual when a dead fox is given to hounds
took place; and the three men appeared to be trying who could oftenest
repeat, “Tally-ho!” The hounds were again taken on towards the next
large covert, and no sooner were they in it than they all threw their
tongues and ran as if close to a fox, which was not the case, for it
happened to be my own scent, and I having heard the dreadful hallooing
before described, and knowing it to be a good scenting day, had moved
away some time before the hounds had reached the covert, although the
crash they made there seemed as if close to me. I then ran as described
before, straight to a drain about three or four miles off; but although
I had so good a start they nearly overtook me before I reached it.
Waiting near the entrance I overheard the following remarks:—

“How very unlucky, just as the hounds were running into him. Such a
swift pace they came, he could not have stood it five minutes longer.”
I then distinctly heard the gentleman alluded to before exclaim, “Well!
I shall not be surprised if there are half a dozen foxes in this drain;
somewhere they must be.”

Then another voice, “Well, Will, what do you think now of Mr. Smith’s
foresay as to its being a good scenting day?”

“My lord, he was right; I never in all my life saw the hounds run so
fast—faster they could not go.” He suddenly turned towards the man who
ought to have stopped the drain. “Hoot, mon, how is this? The earth’s
open at yer vary ain door?”

“Will, where’s the terrier?”

“Got none, my lord.”

“Was ever the like? Seventeen years I have hunted with these hounds,
and though every field in this country is full of drains, they have
never had a terrier that was worth hanging. Jack, go and fetch the
farmer’s terrier; be off like a shot! How can they expect to save their
poultry if they do not put gratings to their drains? Without them it is
impossible for hounds to kill their foxes.”

Having by this time recovered my breath, I began to move away from
the entrance, when to my surprise I found that there were no less than
three foxes in the drain beside myself. Having with great difficulty
forced myself past the first I came against, and whilst waiting
anxiously the result, we were all much frightened by suddenly seeing
a glimpse of light some distance up the drain beyond us. The men had
dug a hole through the top of the drain at that spot; and shortly
after this we heard them trying to force a rough terrier of the real
Makerston breed to enter; they at length succeeded, when he immediately
came down straight towards us. Not a little alarmed, and each of us
struggling and striving to get away first, out we all bolted, with
the terrier close at our heels. The scene which followed it is almost
impossible to describe. The first fox was pursued by the greatest
number of hounds, and, as I came second, the next greatest number
followed me; and so after us they came; but our sally was so sudden
that we fortunately had gained the start of them by some ten or twenty
yards.

  [Illustration: “EVERY HOUND HAS GOT A FOX.”
     _T. Smith, Esq., del._
     _page 113._]

I think I still hear the voice of old Will crying out, “Every hound has
got a fox!” As I jumped over the fence, he was still holding his whip
in the air, undecided which of the four lots (into which the hounds
had divided) he should follow. So good was the scent on that day,
that although only about four couples of hounds followed me, I went
straight to another drain; and, strange to say, there found another
of the same party as before, which accounted for the two first lots
of hounds leaving a short time before they ran up to the earth. Here
our lives were again in danger; and, hearing the men again digging at
some distance, I profited by what had passed, and pushed beyond it. My
unfortunate fellow was again forced out by the same terrier, and fell
a victim to our foes; who, not suspecting that another fox was in the
earth, again left me.

“Well, Will, do you recollect the foresay about there being half a
dozen foxes in the last drain?”

“I do, my lord; and now the gentleman’s foresays have all been
fulfilled from beginning to end.”

During the time they were waiting for the terrier at the last drain,
and doubting whether he could be found, a farmer was filling in the
stones at the entrance of the drain, and being asked what he was about,
he answered,—“Why, if the terrier don’t come, we will starve the fox to
death, which is easy to do in this drain. He has had mony fowls; about
forty I ken.”

“What’s that?” said the Southron. “Pretty sort of encouragement for
a gentleman to spend so much money in the country in keeping hounds.
Why, the Duke pays more money to the farmers in one week than all the
poultry in the hunt would sell for in a twelvemonth; to say nothing
of all that is spent in it by the gentlemen who hunt. If there were no
foxes there would be no hounds.”

“Vary true, vary true,” was the reply; “but Mr. Williamson is raather
too closefisted when he pays a bittie o’ the Duke’s siller.”

The worst part of the story, as relates to ourselves, remains to be
told, namely, that when they left a hard bargain was going on for the
purchase of the terrier which had driven us out of our retreat, and he
was to be taken to the kennel for the same employment when required,
which, sure enough, was often the case. Luckily for me he was not with
the hounds a short time after, when I was again found by this pack,
as I lay in a wood near Floors, belonging to the Duke of Roxburgh,
who, though no fox-hunter, is one of our best friends, and gives his
keepers strict orders never to destroy us. But for the absence of this
terrier I must have been in jeopardy that day; for having heard the
hounds running after another fox, I was just stepping away to a drain
close to the Tweed, in a contrary direction, not before I was seen, and
a few hounds got on my scent, which they followed until they reached
the drain where I was. On being told of which, old Will, the huntsman,
brought the rest of the hounds to the spot, determined to get me out.
Tools were procured, and several attempts were made, but in vain. Some
half-bred terriers were then sent for, but they would not venture near
me, nor could they a second time be urged to go in. Other fruitless
attempts were made, and a great part of the morning was lost in this
way by a throng of hunters, and amongst them the noble master of the
pack. Whilst this was going on, and they were looking at and admiring
the beauties of the stately river, a large salmon leaped clean out of
the water, as if on purpose to amuse or to tantalise them. Whereupon
a gentleman present asked his Grace if it would give him pleasure to
have a throw with a fly for such a fish. His fit reply might well be a
source of satisfaction and pleasure to all who hunt in countries where
his Grace has property.

“To tell the truth I care little for that kind of sport; but, as to the
other, I am never perfectly happy unless I have on a red coat.”

All at length left the place exceedingly annoyed that the terrier, the
hero of the former day, had not been with them. Probably the bargain
for him was not completed, and consequently I escaped.

Wishing to return to my old haunts, I had got as far as a covert called
the Hirsel, belonging to Lord Home, where I had not been long when one
day I heard two reports, which turned out to be from the keeper’s gun,
discharged at two innocent young fox-hound puppies, thus deliberately
butchered for having strayed by chance from the hospitable home of the
kind mistress whose pets they were, and whose gentle care and caresses
they had so often enjoyed. You will not be surprised when I tell you
that our race appears to be almost extinct about these woods.

After this tragical event I lost no time, but went to the farthest
covert belonging to this estate, and nearly surrounded by Lord
Elcho’s country. I hoped to be there as far as possible from danger,
and thought myself secure, as the outside covert was kept quiet, and
scarcely disturbed even by the hounds of the Duke in whose hunt it is
retained. It is suspected that the keeper kills all of us foxes that
he can in that part, because no hounds hunt it enough. He says that all
the foxes in Lord Elcho’s country come there to be quiet. Be that as it
may, the last time the hounds found me there they had before drawn all
the other woods, and only found one fox, and that a mangy one. I was
disturbed first by hearing Old Will cheering his hounds, as if he had
just seen a fox, giving his cheer thus, “Hooi-here, here, here!” which,
in any other country, would pass for a view-halloo.

After listening and expecting to hear the hounds in full cry, I found
it was only his customary cry in drawing a whin covert, particularly
when he wished his hounds to get into it. I noticed that they did
not attend to the halloo so readily when a fox was really seen.
Notwithstanding this, they understood their huntsman’s system well
enough to make it no safe thing to be hunted by them. I soon left the
covert, and when they had pursued me for some miles, and were getting
nearer to me, they suddenly came to a check; on looking back, I saw the
huntsman almost immediately take them away beyond the next large field,
rather to the left of where my line was hitherto pointing; I suppose
either because there was a flock of sheep in that field, or because
he thought I had gone to a covert in that direction. If the hounds had
had their time, they would have hit off the scent to the right of the
field. The upshot was, that I, thinking that they had given me up, took
the first opportunity of getting out of sight, not because I was tired
and beaten, as some suppose must always be the case when we seek such
places of refuge; which they soon ascertained was the case, for nearly
as soon as the hounds had hunted up to the drain on one side of the
road, I started off on the other, and though they had as good a start
with me as they could wish for, I contrived to run away from them,
owing to the scent not being good enough for hounds to kill a stout fox
without assistance; and probably to the huntsman repeating his former
mistake in making an injudicious forward cast when not wanted. He did
not now venture to hold the hounds forward and across the line I came,
or else they would have got on the scent, as I returned nearly the same
way, which was ascertained by a hunter on his return home, a man having
seen me.

Having escaped from this lively pack of hounds, I did not venture to
remain in this part, but at once took up my abode near Foulden, where
I was again found by Lord Elcho and his pack, though I fancied I had
selected an out-of-the-way spot near the river Whitadder, with which
part I was well acquainted, as his lordship has reason to know and to
regret. After they had hunted me some time, finding myself distressed,
I was induced to return to my old haunts, creeping along a narrow track
by the side of the steep and rocky bank which overhung the river, the
height of which, where I passed, was nearly a hundred feet. Several
of these high-couraged hounds in attempting to follow me lost their
footing, fell to the bottom, and were killed. It was only strange
that a single hound escaped; and though I certainly did not intend to
assist in preventing their destruction, yet such happened to be the
case; for having waited, when in my narrow track, for some time, and
thinking myself safe, I heard the piercing cry of a hound, which I
then believed was following me. I ran straight along the top of the
precipice, and was seen by the whipper-in and some of the hounds, and
the noise they instantly made by hallooing a view with all their might,
assisted by his lordship blowing his horn, attracted the notice of
the other hounds, or they would otherwise have followed on the line to
certain destruction. I attribute my escape to the powerful effect this
event had on the feelings of the owner of the pack. Lest I should again
lead them back to the same spot, he immediately took them off my scent
and sent them home, and I flattered myself that we should never again
see these hounds run to find a fox in this part of the country; for
the anguish created in his lordship’s mind it is impossible for me to
describe, although it may be easily imagined.

However, all my hopes of living a quiet life here were destroyed. A
great friend of his Lordship’s, and of ours, Mr. Wilkie of Foulden,
near where this occurred, and on whose rabbits I sometimes subsisted,
immediately took measures to prevent the same calamity from happening
again; and although it was hitherto pronounced an impossibility,
he has, as far as I at present can judge of it, succeeded. It was
managed by cutting away my narrow track at the edge of the rock which
overhung the river. To do this required much labour and risk; but it
was effected by suspending a ladder, which was fastened by strong ropes
to stakes driven in the ground some distance above. I need not say
that I watched the work with no great satisfaction; and as I saw the
foundation of my once favourite track fall into the river below, when
they gradually broke it away, it made my heart ache, I felt that I must
now either stay and be killed, or move into another country. I decided
on the latter.

Although I vowed in an hour of distress, when first hunted by the
hounds there, never to run the risk of them again if I escaped, I
recrossed the Tweed into England, and have taken up my quarters on
one of the highest parts of the Cheviot Hills, hoping to find a safe
retreat from them. There are, however, dangers to be dreaded there,
as well as in every country where hounds are not kept to hunt us; but
the system of destruction to be dreaded by me is one that is adopted
on mountainous parts alone. The shepherds of the mountains on certain
days gather together against us, armed with guns, and aided by dogs of
all sorts, from the greyhound to the collie. The sagacity and docility
of the latter are very astonishing; but the sagacity of an old dog
of the fox-hound sort is superior to that of every other. The collie
dog is taught by man what to do, whilst the old fox-hound teaches his
master. Had it not been for the sagacity of the hound, I should have
been spared many a perilous run. The shepherds pretend that the breed
of the mountain fox is of a different kind from our own, and that the
head of the male is larger. For my own part, I believe the animals to
be of the same kind as ourselves, and to be merely larger altogether;
for I have sometimes met one in my rambles. Their superior size may be
accounted for as follows: having been born or bred in the wholesome air
upon the mountains, where food, such as rabbits, is probably scarce,
they find and fatten upon sheep which from various accidents die there.
Having once got a taste for such food, it is not surprising that they
will take a lamb, or attack an old one which has fallen through illness
or neglect. Anxious as I am to protect my own race, I cannot blame the
shepherds for waging war against the transgressors; as it is known that
when once a fox has taken to such a habit, he seldom gives it up but
with his life. Felons are to be found everywhere; but, as to ourselves,
the following facts will prove that the generality of us are not
guilty of charges frequently laid upon us. On the first day of February
last, being the last day of pheasant shooting, I was lying in a thick
plantation, in the middle of a park at Ladykirk, on the other side of
the Tweed, which covered a space of ground not more than a quarter of
an acre, when a party were shooting not far off, and I suddenly heard
one of them exclaim, “Look out, there goes a fox! he jumped up close by
me. There he goes, straight away. I wish the hounds were here.”

In the course of an hour after this, I was again startled by hearing,
“Tally-ho! tally-ho! there goes another fox! Don’t mistake him for a
hare, and shoot him; he’s close to you, in the clump between!” And then
again the same loud voice,—“There he goes, right across the park; what
a fine fellow he is!”

It shortly afterwards became my turn to exhibit. They came to the clump
where I was, and a man who went in beyond directly called out, “There
goes a hen pheasant, there go two, three!” and so on. He had just cried
out, “That makes thirteen hen pheasants!” when a spaniel rushed into
the thick bushes, and obliged me to face the whole party. A glorious
cheering they gave me; and when they had expressed their surprise and
satisfaction, the keeper assured them of his belief, that there were as
many pheasants left as had been there at the beginning of the season,
excepting those that had been shot by sportsmen. Now if I, or any of
us, were so much given to destroy game as we are reported to be, there
would not have been a pheasant left alive in a week’s time from the
beginning of the season, whereas it was now nearly the end of it. This
fortunately occurred in the presence of several persons, who saw all
three of us. No less than five other foxes from the same park have been
killed by Lord Elcho and his pack this season.

Hoping that I have given you all sufficient encouragement to induce you
to make us a visit in the north, I conclude my story.




CONCLUSION


One more friend was about to begin his story. Whether he was from York,
Lincoln, Nottingham, or Bedfordshire, was not ascertained, for on a
sudden we were startled by the cawing of an old crow and the screams
of a jay, which, added to the chatterings of a couple of magpies,
warned us that daylight was appearing; and I was reluctantly obliged to
request that his story might be deferred to some future time, should we
ever meet again, when we might all have more to relate concerning the
inexhaustible subject of our lives. Chanticleer now clapped admiring
wings, and sang out a loud applause. This excited the particular notice
of one of our party, who exclaimed, “I’ll go round and have a sly bite
at his tail, for ’tis a quiet retired place, and no one yet about.”

“Take heed,” said I, “that thou bring us not into trouble.”

Soon afterwards we were again interrupted by the clamour of those
tell-tale birds; for it seems that our friend was returning without his
intended booty, having been seen by the keeper, who fast approached
towards us. Therefore, hastily bidding adieu until we should meet
again, we all returned to our favourite coverts.




_Printed in Great Britain by_

UNWIN BROTHERS, LIMITED

WOKING AND LONDON




FOOTNOTES


     [1] If this were attended to in making artificial
     earths, it would be an advantage to the fox, who might
     then defend himself better from dogs of every sort;
     the great point is to have the entrance _only just
     sufficiently high_ for him to get in.

     They should be so arranged that the breeding places are
     situated higher than the entrances, so that water may
     run away; and when it is necessary to make the earth
     on level ground, the breeding places should be on the
     surface, and covered over with earth, so as to form a
     mound.

     The places for breeding should be formed in a circle, in
     order that they may be more easily arched, like an oven,
     without having wood supports.

     The passages should be floored with bricks or flints, to
     prevent rabbits from digging.

     It is desirable to have the low passages not more than
     seven inches high, to exclude dogs. Four-inch work at
     the sides is sufficient, except for a foot or two at the
     entrance.

     [2] The Author.—ED.

     [3] To Mr. Osbaldiston belonged, _par excellence_, the
     title of “the Squire.”—ED.

     [4] Stephens was huntsman of the Warwickshire, not the
     Atherstone, pack.—ED.

     [5] Captain Trelawney.—ED.

     [6] Father of the present Earl of Wemyss. He continued
     to hunt this country till about 1868.

     [7] The late Mr. Robertson of Ladykirk.—ED.

     [8] Williamson was pensioned off in 1865 and died a year
     or two later. Shore, who succeeded him, still carries
     the horn.—ED.







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