106 LETTERS FROM MY UNCLE SCRIBBLE. MY DEAR NEPHEW, "Another year gone-our office must be OLD SONG. "Eheu! fugaces Posthume, Posthume, HORACE. Not that I feel any of the symptoms of declining years myself-oh no! I perceive none of those mental or physical disqualifications which mark the steps of declining age. I am not yet grey-headed, nor greywhiskered, wrinkled, or red-nosed, majestically fat, or saturninely attenuated. I neither funk, nor crave, nor shufflers-bottomize. I neither fall unnecessarily, nor feel shuck when that catastrophe comes about. I do not ride on a stuffed saddle, or on a bob-tailed horse. When acting the beau in the months of May, June, and July, I am not indebted to a brown Truefitt, or a padded Stultz; but can yet trust to Nature's own graces for the attractions (if any) which I possess. And though I am too old to drink bad sherry without knowing it, I have never yet taken a dinner-pill in my life. Yet the departing 1852, and coming '53, has made me think you have missed a face or two, familiar of old, in the hunting-field; and you have seen for every one gone halfa-dozen new ones appear. Not that it repays one; for if two-thirds of every hunting-field that I see were dead, it would add materially to the vitality of the sport for the rest of us. Just now, too, the Christmas holidays have let loose upon the sober world a whole troop of Widdicombs gone mad. Not the boys only-'tis their vocation in the vaca tion; but their steadygoing respectable preceptors as well. Men, by nature and habit, fitted for the high intellectual employments of training youth-not horses; of leading bears-not the field; of cramming skulls-not screws. But here they are, not satisfied with riding the high horse for four months and a half, out again to override the puny pony-population in the holidays. Ichabod! Ichabod! Where is the glory of the sixth form departed? Is there no light weight on a thoroughbred runaway, with a long port and a martingale, to ride over a Dominie or two by mere accident? I must become a "laudator temporis acti," when a light cavalry phalanx from Eton would have scattered the bench of bishops for such an intrusion on their peculiar province. So we do mourn the good old faces that are gone-the steady, experienced sportsmen of some fifty winters' experience; and regret the appearance of the ignorant imbeciles year after year, who only took to hunting when oats were cheap. But this regretful tone, this longing for rather more hunting and rather less riding, must not be taken as an indication of my age, habits, or general feeling. On the contrary, I am still in a state of progression. When a man himself begins to go down hill, he thinks it right to drag the world with him. The world being too fast for him, must be going in the wrong direction. This is not my idea as yet; I only say that when hunting was less common it was more agreeable; when “nostri pugnabant rari," there was more sport, and fewer broken bones-and every run on record will prove the fact. Take, for instance, a moderate scenting day-a day on which provincial packs can get a hunting run; can that be the case in the fast countries where three hundred souls meet to ride at one another? Are the hounds to blame? On the contrary, they are the best bred, selected with the greatest care and attention, and at the greatest expense. Besides, breeding does not destroy the powers of scent in the foxhound (a common mistake, and one I formerly gave some credence to) but improves it, while his increased pace brings him nearer the object of pursuit. Look at Lord Southampton's bitches. And with all this, how seldom does one get what I have enjoyed in Essex-a hunting run, with a favourable finish. Are the servants to blame? On the contrary, they are, like the hounds, generally the best that can be got. I need only mention with the Pytchley, Payne; Lord Southampton's man, Simpson; and Morgan with the Warwickshire-to say nothing of others in the midland counties of England, all more or less good. And how do they kill their foxes three times out of four? by a very fast good thing, which blows up Pug in about half an hour, leaving you young gentlemen to fight your way as you best can, about three fields in the rear; or by fortunate view-halloos, or by something so sticky and so trying to bad horsemanship, that the hounds clearly beat all, but the experienced sportsmen of the party. And I may as well tell you that as long as this system of overriding hounds goes on in the grass countries, you must not expect sport every day. You must have very fine and very fast runs every now and then; but you will be subject to disappointment when circumstances are not all in your favour. And I contend that the gentlemen who are in the habit of hunting regularly in these countries, and who for the most part understand their business, are not the men who do the mischief, however well with hounds; for it is not good riding, but bad riding, which spoils sport; and when country gentlemen do not ride, they have sense eneugh generally to take to the gates, the gaps, and the bye-lanes-an amusement, if not profitable, at all events perfectly harmless to their neighbours as well as themselves. A man that's come out for the day just to see them, he's the fellow to shout, and halloo, and jump; or a young farmer, full of beer; or a bear-leader; or a bear himself; and the last is the only one for whom we can find an apology, in the exuberance of youth, health, spirits, and ignorance. Notwithstanding the state of the country, or to speak more correctly, notwithstanding this state of things, and in consequence of the state of the country, runs have been plentiful with us, though I am obliged to confess that I have never left the neighbourhood of Pytchley in search of other hounds without experiencing grievous disappointment. I am convinced now that a country saturated with wet is in the fittest condition for holding weak hind-legs, shoes, and scent; and few men recollect a better season with the Pytchley hounds than the present. It has been the fashion, and with some show of justice, to speak of Charles Payne as a huntsman too fond of a halloo, and not sufficiently confident of his hounds. He has often been censured for his hurry, whilst his quickness has been overlooked; and men who did not know the field he had to contend with, were unfair judges of his merits as a sportsman. The late season, especially the last six weeks, has shown him to be much improved in those points of admitted deficiency; whilst his horsemanship and rapidity of execution remain his own. I daresay you can excuse a long and stupid detail of a month's hunting. Its staple commodities would be covers, gorses, grass fields, fallows, bullfinches, gaps, gates, stiles, in clumsily, in and out cleverly, dog-fox, bitch-fox, straight as a pigeon, turned short to the left, over the brook, into the meadows, dead horse, dislocated shoulders, sprained back sinews, heads and tails, and brushes (clothes'-brushes I mean) at a discount. Many men hunt for the sake of the coffee-room. Those who come into Northamptonshire for that purpose lose their reward. I conclude the country gentlemen are too practical to take such a folly as breakfast into account. It is, however, a very pleasant thing in its way; and a glass of sherry, or even two, after a run (if it happens to be close by a fine old glorious, hospitable English house, which opens its doors upon all occasions to those who can afford to return the favour in kind) adds materially to the pleasures of sport. We were made practically cognisant of the fact not long ago, by the hospitality of a gentleman who is at Ashby St. Ledger's Lodge-a fine preserver of foxes at all hazards. There was nothing very remarkable in the run of the 11th of last month, which consisted of a very fast quarter of an hour from the said gentleman's covers, some slow hunting to Bilton Grange, and the unfortunate death of our second fox at Ashby again, without sport. James Mason evidently intended to distinguish himself on The Baron, and several more did distinguish themselves in a widely different manner, at the brook below Captain Hibbert's spinnies. But the run upon the tap of sherry, claret-cup, and port, with an interior arrangement about cold beef, chickens, tongues, and other little matters “ quæ nunc perscribere longum est" (vide fifth form, boy's theme) was worthy of imitation; and I should think so gentle a hint is sure to be followed in the proper quarters. I should not fulfil the object of my correspondence with you if I were to give you no account of our doings in this part of the world. Without, therefore, entering into the particulars of all the turns and twists of the wily animals we follow, I may venture here and there to trespass upon your time with a short account of anything peculiarly good. And it frequently happens that a great deal of advice may be administered in a milder form, under such a description, and will have more effect, and make a greater impression on the softness of your brains, than when more dogmatically dictated. In the meantime, however, remember that there is no better opportunity for getting rid of bad habits, and fostering new, than at the beginning of the new year. They will sit upon you with a peculiar grace, and be about the handsomest Christmas-box you can present yourself with, or put yourself into. If, therefore, you have ridden over your friends, sworn at the parson, rushed into a gateway, or cut a double; if you have shirked water, and yet looked for soap; if you saw your friend down, and rode away because you feared he was dead, and might want your assistance; if you pretended to pluck when you hadn't got it; if you had twenty minutes all to yourself to the astonishment of your London cousins, over the mahogany; if you have peopled your upper story with dukes, marquises, barons, and members of parliament (though there's no great harm in that except to your own reputation), to be presented to your friends as occasion may serve-eschew it all with the old year. Cherish your friends for the future up or down; love the Church; and always make a hole for a black coat and white neckcloth in a bullfinch, and way for him in a gateway. Disregard soap, and go quick, but not too quick, at water. Never have twenty minutes all to yourself; no one ever has after leaving Oxford, and 'tis not the thing in Northamptonshire. Cultivate jolly fellows, and let the swells alone to take care of themselves. Sam Slick's advice on this head is worthy your attention. He never had any fun after he became an attaché, and got among the feathers and turbans. Dodford Holt is not the sort of place to bring a man to as a fine specimen of the Pytchley country. And yet it so happens that twice on a Dodford day, or rather Brockhall, which means the same, we have been peculiarly fortunate. Ploughed land almost surrounds it. In the direction of Daventry lie continuously up the sides and over the top of Barrow Hill large fields of seeds, turnips, freshly-sown wheat, and fallow. In the other direction are the covers of Brockhall, and the interminable mud lanes and deep lands of Nobottle Wood. The line for Badby Wood is a trifle better, but not what we should call Northamp tonshire grass. Saturday the 18th was a fine, bright day, with a sharp white frost, the wind S.E., and a scent even over plough. The Holt, a small strong cover of gorse and thorns, held a fox, but was not destined to hold him long, for he broke almost directly on the Norton side, and made his way to the foot of the formidable hill. It looked like the slope of the Devil's Punch-Bowl ploughed up. And here was seen the great advantage of a hill-it gave the hounds a chance. Fences stop hounds, but not horses-that is, with good men on their backs; but a hill-side of swedes, seeds, and fallow would stop the best horse in England, with the ground in its present state. After labouring up, we plunged into the turnip-tops, or turnips on the top, and slid down the other side, as far as the parsonage-wall at Daventry; some cold hunting let in the skirters, and away we went again over the large grass fields parallel with the Daventry and Weedon Road. By the time the hounds had crossed the Newnham Road, the bad ones were beat, the moderate ones going in distress, and nothing but the good ones alongside of the hounds. Still they persevered, and their ardour not yet damped they faced the brook. Some slight casualties occurred: refusals, by mutual consent; an odd collar-bone or so; and a distinguished foreigner-the Emperor of China, we believe-taking a lesson in swimming. Everdon Stubbs was the next point. Some rode for a nick-many more in the hopes of a check; and as the heavy cavalry scoured the road, inquiring the time and line, it was evident that Fortune for that day had deserted them. Everdon Stubbs was passed, and Mantell's Heath shortly after; but Charley was then like the Irishman, Sir Lucius O'Trigger, "too poor to do a dirty action," so continued his course without entering the cover, and was run into after one hour and ten minutes near Maidford, the whole distance being about twelve, the greatest distance from point to point about nine miles. The pace was good more or less throughout; the country, for the distance, more than tolerable; the result satisfactory; and the casualties-as Miss Dolly Plum said of her father's ball-sufficient to make them notorious. The finish was select, though I have not yet seen anyone who was not there. To be sure, one never does after a good run. Giles makes a wrong turn; Simpson-confound it!-drops his whip; but not a soul exists honest enough to confess that he was in too great a funk to ride down Barrow Hill so fast, or that a white gate to the left was so tempting that he went there determined to believe that the hounds would inevitably accommodate him in that direction. But a run is no use unless some reflection is the consequence, or some advice be the forerunner of the next. I shall, therefore, offer a suggestion or two to those whom it concerns. We all recollect the time when Mr. William Coke, with an urbanity which distinguishes a slow, but right-thinking aristocracy, placarded his back with a very ominous paper, "he kicks." Those who do not recollect the fact, will find it amongst other well-arranged fictions in Nimrod's celebrated run with the squire a run which the Quarterly, from a mass of classical, antiquarian, and critical lore, with something more than critical acumen, once honoured with a place in its pages. Now I can only recommend to certain gentlemen the same process. May they have shoulders broad enough to bear it, and they ought to have; for their expectations are unlimited as to the breadth of shoulders that are to bear them. Let certain gentlemen simply paste upon their backs, or upon some equally conspicuous place, (which would not be difficult to find after twenty minutes running) some such placard as the following. "It is my intention to ride over everybody, up or down, as long as my horse will carry me." I love to see a good, bold, determined horseman ; without wife, or children, or money, or reputation, but with those expectations which furnish all Ireland and half England with bread and cheese, bent upon taking a lead; but when that lead leads to the loss of human life, and his want of brains brings someone else to his own level, by depriving them of that rare appendage, I must say the thing goes beyond a joke. However, "forewarned forearmed," so let us have the placard. Crick has not yet reproduced her good fox; though we had a sharpish turn with a brushless vixen-it was quick enough, but not good. As her extraordinary manœuvres in a field to the left of the Old-street Road threw out all the leading men, and let in those who very seldom are let in, the prudent and slow. She went fast to Ashby St. Ledger's, where she saved herself; and we grounded a fresh fox a little beyond Watford Gap. We pass over good days at Brixworth, Oxenden, and a very moderate one at Stanford Hall (12 minutes' racing from a stubble field on the other side of the road from Lilburne, cut to pieces by the railroad and the scent), an admirable 17 minutes from Vanderplank's cover on the 5th of the new year, until we get to Brockhall on Saturday the 8th. The morning was lovely-the wind as usual S.E., the field large, and the train to Weedon (also as usual) half an hour late. At Dodford Holt we found a fox (a small 2 or 3 acre cover), and thanks to a farmer of that neighbourhood, ran him for 55 minutes in the cover, and killed him. I must enlarge (after the description of the day's sport) upon |