The Sport of Kings 



By MR. JOHN CXAY 



Master of the North Northumberland Foxhounds 



IN THE States we talk about hunting and it means 

 shooting, but in the British Isles hunting means fol- 

 lowing the fox, the deer or the innocent hare. The 

 fox hunter generally looks down with pity on a man who 

 rides after a "carted" deer turned loose, or follows the gen- 

 tle hare, who when pressed shows a cunning worthy of 

 reynard. Hounds of different sizes are used. Long years 

 of experience have demonstrated what is needed in size, 

 color, pace and stamina. In the forest at Fontainbleau 

 they use an immense hound to follow the wild deer who 

 is harbored early in the morning, while at Arcachon, 

 below Bordeaux, where they hunt the wild boar, a rough- 

 coated hound something like the English otter hound is 

 popular and well fitted to find his way through the under- 

 brush and pine woods of that region. 



My life has been spent entirely, so far as hunting is 

 concerned, with fox hounds. Sixty years ago as a very 

 small boy my father entered me to this great and glorious 

 sport, a very small tricky Shetland pony being my steed. 

 We saw a lot of sport. Then came a cob about fourteen 

 hands high and at last a horse; then a stud of horses. 



In farming days a pair of knee breeches with leggings, 

 a rough Tweed coat and a cap made up our sporting tog- 

 geiy. Then came jack boots, corduroy riding breeches, a 

 black coat, a top hat and a white stock. Lastly a red coat 

 made by Tantz, also a pair of white breeches and a fancy 

 waistcoat. 



Bobby Peale, or his successor, made your top boots. 

 Those with a velvet cap, made even an ordinary horseman 

 look quite smart. Perhaps we carried this matter of dress 



too far. The gallant Shore, huntsman for many a year to 

 the Duke of Buccleuch, thought so; still, most men have 

 a sneaking admiration for a well-cut coat or an immacu- 

 late pair of top boots as you ride up to the "meet." 



My career in hunting began in a modest way, as said 

 above. Once a week when hounds met near your home 

 you would steal away after a morning on the farm and 

 join the joyous chase. Those were halcyon days, rich in 

 experience and as you rubbed shoulders with a cosmopoli- 

 tan lot some of the rough edges of youth were rubbed off. 



When I was a boy the Earl of Wennyss hunted Berwick- 

 shire and North Northumberland. If you have read Hand- 

 Icy Cross, the greatest sporting novel ever written, you will 

 recollect that when Richard Bragg applied to the immor- 

 tal Jorrocks for a huntsman's place, one of his own recom- 

 mendations was as follows: "I will hunt a fox with any 

 man — with the great Lord Elcho himself." 



The Elcho of that day became the Wennyss of my day 

 and I remembered the old man coming up to the meet 

 with a very flashy pack of hounds. When I knew him first 

 he was past the three score and ten, but he carried the 

 horn and I hunted with him in his eightieth year. In his 

 young days he was a wonderful sportsman. For some 

 years he lived in Kelso, Scotland, a beautiful town in the 

 heart of a romantic and very sporting neighborhood. 

 There he kept a pack of harriers. He would go out early 

 in the morning and account for a hare, possibly two. Then 

 he joined the Duke of Buccleuch's fox hounds at 10:45, 

 then hunted by the famous Will Williamson and saw them 



kill a fox. (Continued on Page 121) 



35 



