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Hunting Sketches-Part4_Antony Trollope(1815-1882)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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and to follow them at a distance which shall maintain him in that

knowledge. The ambitious farmer is not the hunting farmer in his



normal condition; he is either one who has an eye to selling his

horse, and, riding with that view, loses for the time his



position as farmer; or he is some exceptional tiller of the soil

who probably is dangerously addicted to hunting as another man is



addicted to drinking; and you may surmiserespecting him that

things will not go well with him after a year or two. The friend



of my heart is the farmer who rides, but rides without

sputtering; who never makes a show of it, but still is always



there; who feels it to be no disgrace to avoid a run of fences

when his knowledge tells him that this may be done without danger



of his losing his place. Such an one always sees a run to the

end. Let the pace have been what it may, he is up in time to see



the crowd of hounds hustling for their prey, and to take part in

the buzz of satisfaction which the prosperity of the run has



occasioned. But the farmer never kills his horse, and seldom

rides him even to distress. He is not to be seen loosing his



girths, or looking at the beast's flanks, or examining his legs

to ascertain what mischances may have occurred. He takes it all



easily, as men always take matters of business in which they are

quite at home. At the end of the run he sits mounted as quietly



as he did at the meet, and has none of that appearance of having

done something wonderful, which on such occasions is so very



strong in the faces of the younger portion of the pink brigade.

To the farmer his day's hunting is very pleasant, and by habit is



even very necessary; but it comes in its turn like market-day,

and produces no extraordinaryexcitement. He does not rejoice



over an hour and ten minutes with a kill in the open, as he

rejoices when he has returned to Parliament the candidate who is



pledged to repeal of the malt-tax; for the farmer of whom we are

speaking now, though he rides with constancy, does not ride with



enthusiasm.

O fortunati sua si bona norint farmers of England! Who in the



town is the farmer's equal? What is the position which his

brother, his uncle, his cousin holds? He is a keeper" target="_blank" title="n.(小店)店主">shopkeeper, who



never has a holiday, and does not know what to do with it when it

comes to him; to whom the fresh air of heaven is a stranger;



who lives among sugars and oils, and the dust of shoddy, and the

size of new clothing. Should such an one take to hunting once a



week, even after years of toil, men would point their fingers at

him and whisper among themselves that he was as good as ruined.



His friends would tell him of his wife and children; and,

indeed, would tell him truly, for his customers would fly from



him. But nobody grudges the farmer his day's sport! No one thinks

that he is cruel to his children and unjust to his wife because



he keeps a nag for his amusement, and can find a couple of days

in the week to go among his friends. And with what advantages he



does this ! A farmer will do as much with one horse, will see as

much hunting, as an outside member of the hunt will do with



four, and, indeed, often more. He is his own head-groom, and has

no scruple about bringing his horse out twice a week. He asks no



livery-stable keeper what his beast can do, but tries the powers

of the animal himself, and keeps in his breast a correct record.



When the man from London, having taken all he can out of his

first horse, has ridden his second to a stand-still, the farmer



trots up on his stout, compact cob, without a sign of distress.

He knows that the condition of a hunter and a greyhound should



not be the same, and that his horse, to be in good working

health, should carry nearly all the hard flesh that he can put



upon him. How such an one must laugh in his sleeve at the five

hunters of the young swell who, after all, is brought to grief in



the middle of the season, because he has got nothing to ride! A

farmer's horse is never lame, never unfit to go, never throws out



curbs, never breaks down before or behind. Like his master, he is

never showy. He does not paw, and prance, and arch his neck, and



bid the world admire his beauties; but, like his master, he is

useful; and when he is wanted, he can always do his work.



O fortunatus nimium agricola, who has one horse, and that a good




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