Hunting Sketches

by Anthony Trollope
Contents

The Man who Hunts and Doesn't Like it
The Man who Hunts and Does Like it

The Lady who Rides to Hounds
The Hunting Farmer

The Man who Hunts and Never Jumps
The Hunting Parson

The Master of Hounds
How to Ride to Hounds

THE MAN WHO HUNTS AND DOESN'T LIKE IT.
It seems to be odd, at first sight, that there should be any such

men as these; but their name and number is legion. If we were to
deduct from the hunting-crowd farmers, and others who hunt

because hunting is brought to their door, of the remainder we
should find that the "men who don't like it" have the

preponderance. It is pretty much the same, I think, with all
amusements. How many men go to balls, to races, to the theatre,

how many women to concerts and races, simply because it is the
thing to do? They have perhaps, a vague idea that they may

ultimately find some joy in the pastime; but, though they do the
thing constantly, they never like it. Of all such men, the

hunting men are perhaps the most to be pitied.
They are easily recognized by any one who cares to scrutinize the

men around him in the hunting field. It is not to be supposed
that all those who, in common parlance, do not ride, are to be

included among the number of hunting men who don't like it. Many
a man who sticks constantly to the roads and lines of

gates, who, from principle, never looks at a fence, is much
attached to hunting. Some of those who have borne great names as

Nimrods in our hunting annals would as life have led a forlorn-
hope as put a horse at a flight of hurdles. But they, too, are

known; and though the nature of their delight is a mystery to
straight-going men, it is manifest enough, that they do like it.

Their theory of hunting is at any rate plain. They have an
acknowledged system, and know what they are doing. But the men

who don't like it, have no system, and never know distinctly what
is their own aim. During some portion of their career they

commonly try to ride hard, and sometimes for a while they will
succeed. In short spurts, while the cherry-brandy prevails, they

often have small successes; but even with the assistance of a
spur in the head they never like it.

Dear old John Leech! What an eye he had for the man who hunts and
doesn't like it ! But for such, as a pictorial chronicler of the

hunting field he would have had no fame. Briggs, I fancy, in his
way did like it. Briggs was a full-blooded, up-apt, awkward,

sanguine man, who was able to like anything, from gin and water
upwards. But with how many a wretchedcompanion of Briggs' are we

not familiar? men as to whom any girl of eighteen would swear
from the form of his visage and the carriage of his legs as he

sits on his horse that he was seeking honour where honour was not
to be found, and looking for pleasure in places where no pleasure

lay for him.
But the man who hunts and doesn't like it, has his moments of

gratification, and finds a source of pride in his penance. In the
summer, hunting does much for him. He does not usually take much

personal care of his horses, as he is probably a town man and his
horses are summered by a keeper of hunting stables; but he talks

of them. He talks of them freely, and the keeper of the hunting
stables is occasionally forced to write to him. And he can run

down to look at his nags, and spend a few hours eating bad mutton
chops, walking about the yards and paddocks, and, bleeding

halfcrowns through the nose. In all this there is a delight which
offers some compensation for his winter misery to our friend who

hunts and doesn't like it.
He finds it pleasant to talk of his horses especially to young

women, with whom, perhaps, the ascertained fact of his winter
employment does give him some credit. It is still something to be

a hunting man even yet, though the multiplicity of railways and
the existing plethora of money has so increased the number of

sportsmen, that to keep a nag or two near some well-known
station, is nearly as common as to die. But the delight of these

martyrs is at the highest in the presence of their tailors; or,
higher still, perhaps, in that of their bootmakers. The hunting

man does receive some honour from him who makes his breeches;
and, with a well-balanced sense of justice, the tailor's foreman

is, I think, more patient, more admiring, more demonstrative in
his assurances, more ready with his bit of chalk, when handling

the knee of the man who doesn't like the work, than he ever is
with the customer who comes to him simply because he wants some

clothes fit for the saddle. The judicious conciliating tradesman
knows that compensation should be given, and he helps to give it.

But the visits to the bootmaker are better still. The tailor
persists in telling his customer how his breeches should be made,

and after what fashion they should be worn; but the bootmaker
will take his orders meekly. If not ruffled by paltry objections

as to the fit of the foot, he will accede to any amount of
instructions as to the legs and tops. And then a new pair of top

boots is a pretty toy; Costly, perhaps, if needed only as a toy,
but very pretty, and more decorative in a gentleman's dressing-

room than any other kind of garment. And top boots, when
multiplied in such a locality, when seen in a phalanx tell such

pleasant lies on their owner's behalf. While your breeches are as
dumb in their retirement as though you had not paid for them,

your conspicuous boots are eloquent with a thousand tongues!
There is pleasure found, no doubt, in this.

As the season draws nigh the delights become vague, and still
more vague; but, nevertheless, there are delights. Getting up at

six o'clock in November to go down to Bletchley by an early train
is not in itself pleasant, but on the opening morning, on the

few first opening mornings, there is a promise about the thing
which invigorates and encourages the early riser. He means to

like it this year if he can. He has still some undefined notion
that his period of pleasure will now come. He has not, as yet,

accepted the adverseverdict which his own nature has given
against him in this matter of hunting, and he gets into his early

tub with acme glow of satisfaction. And afterwards it is nice to
find himself bright with mahogany tops, buff-tinted breeches, and

a pink coat. The ordinary habiliments of an English gentleman are
so sombre that his own eye is gratified, and he feels that he has

placed himself in the vanguard of society by thus shining in his
apparel. And he will ride this year! He is fixed to that purpose.

He will ride straight; and, if possible, he will like it.
But the Ethiop cannot change his skin, nor can any man add a

cubit to his stature. He doesn't like it, and all around him in
the field know how it is with him; he himself knows how it is

with others like himself, and he congregates with his brethren.
The period of his penance has come upon him. He has to pay the

price of those pleasant interviews with his tradesmen. He has to
expiate the false boasts made to his female cousins. That row of

boots cannot be made to shine in his chamber for nothing. The
hounds have found, and the fox is away. Men are fastening on

their flat-topped hats and feeling themselves in their stirrups.
Horses are hot for the run, and the moment for liking it has

come, if only it were possible!