134 Sportsmen Parsons in Peace and War 



William Butler. If you were to ask anybody in his county of 

 Dorset or any of the surrounding counties if they had ever 

 heard of the Rev. William Butler they would shake their heads 

 and say, " No, never " ; but say, " Do you remember Billy 

 Butler ? " and their reply will be quite different, for his name is 

 a household word. He was always called " Billy " with the 

 familiarity of affection by his fellow-sportsmen, and as such is 

 remembered to-day by those of his contemporaries who are still 

 living, while others know of him so well they almost feel as if 

 they also had been personal friends. 



With perhaps the exception of Jack Russell, I know of no 

 other hunting parson so well known or so frequently quoted. 

 His memory has endured well, for he died in 1843, at the age of 

 eighty-one, and hunted up to the end of his days — a round- 

 about, jolly old man. 



The Rev. Billy was rector of Frampton in Dorset, and was a 

 great friend of George IV. when Prince of Wales, who hunted a 

 pack of hounds from Crichel in 1800, kennelling them at Puddles- 

 town. 



Many are the stories told relating to the friendship between 

 His Royal Highness and Mr. Butler. It was in the hunting-field 

 they first met, and I believe what drew them together in the 

 first instance was Mr. Butler's assistance on a blank day. 



There had been a long and fruitless draw, and all were 

 dispirited, when somebody pointed out Mr. Butler as a man 

 who knew the haunt of every fox in the neighbourhood, and he 

 was asked where he thought one would be found. He at once 

 advised a neighbouring gorse to be drawn. 



Hounds went through it, but owned to no fox. People 

 began to think their infallible Billy was at fault for once, but 

 they were mistaken. Going up to the huntsman, he asked 

 which was the most reliable hound in the pack. " Trojan " was 

 pointed out. Mr. Butler at once began friendly overtures to 

 this hound, and at last picked him up in his arms and struggled 

 with him through the middle of the gorse, and after a little 

 persuasion got him to put his nose down. 



A whimper, and then a deep note soon told the field the 

 parson was right after all. The whole pack was away full cry 

 on the line of a fine fox, which had lain close in the thickest part 

 of the gorse. 



