Hibernia Venatica

salutary.

II.

"χθω̑ν σ∊σαλ∊ύταı."

Tally-ho! Gone away!

Lever du rideau in Meath—Kells—Headfort—Fast thing from Shaucarn—Bellinter and its beauties—Summerhill—Wilkinstown—Swainstown—Carton, etc.

MANY will be familiar with Charles Lamb’s naïve rejoinder to the chief clerk or head of department at the India House, when he was summoned before that impersonation of ruffled official majesty. "Mr. Lamb, why do you come so habitually late to your office? I must have some explanation, sir. Tis true, stutteringly answered Elia, ’tis quite true that I do come very late, but pray recollect how very early I go away. Now the Meath hounds are the very antithesis to Charles Lamb’s systematic curtailment of the hurry due to red tape and departmental ukase. They begin earlier than any pack I wot of in Ireland, and they leave off later. Their precision at the trysting place on the correct card during the season is often considered over-strained by the tardy and unpunctual, and so long as it is possible to draw on during the brief illumination of a winter’s day, so long will Mr. Waller comply with any reasonable request to try so-and-so—run the hounds through that coppice or furze-brake—even where many a master would think he had done more than enough to gratify an ordinary appetite for sport in his field. In fact, the fox family in Meath have a very uneasy time of it, once the cubs have shown signs of being able to travel afield; and the description one Irish landlord in London gave of another’s retainers, namely, that Mr. Threestars’ tenantry were the most harried and harassed set of men he knew of (meaning thereby their familiarity with distresses, processes, and evictions, and such like engines of the oppressor), is very apposite, I think, to foxhood in Meath. On the other hand, during the close season, these interesting felons have the tenderest care lavished on their wants and caprices. Bulletins are sent about respecting the health and habits of Mrs. Vixen and her thievish brood. They take young lamb" before any of our sybarites; presents of game in fur and feather, black game in the shape of crows, woodpigeons, and many other minor delicacies of the season, find their way to the earth or hollow tree the family are known to haunt; forays on hen roosts, felonies of pheasants—all these things are not only condoned, but acquiesced in, as the ebullitions of a wild, high-couraged race; while some noble sportsmen have, I hear, with a view to improve their physique and to initiate them early into training, supplied the young esurients and their mammas and papas with Spratt’s dog biscuits, by a due course of which food it may be supposed, theoretically, they would be put on a level with their pursuers so far as condition went, while their wily instincts would be so much weight in their favour in the great handicap ’twixt fox and hound. Whether the new style of feeding works the desired result is a problem awaiting solution; but I feel sure that if a turtle soup and still champagne regimen was a specific for turning the ordinary vulp into an extraordinary, straight-running, long-winded, bold tod, the remedy would not be long wanting in certain quarters. Fortunately, a rat, a newt, a frog, a beetle, or a mouse rank higher in the fox ménu than the veriest nectar or ambrosia of our cellars and larders.

The hunting of foxes in Meath ceased to be an Eleusinian mystery to which the hierophants and the initiated (practically the few who had the office, as the argot goes) alone were admitted, on Thursday, the 19th inst. I believe I am correct in stating that, in accordance with the time-honoured traditions of the country and its hunting archives (inflexible generally as were the laws of those old oriental hunters, the Medes and Persians), the previous Tuesday would have witnessed the lever du rideau on royal Meath’s fox-hunting drama, but that many of the principal supporters of the hunt and owners of coverts were engaged in synodical functions in Dublin of the gravest moment—in fact, electing Lord Plunket Bishop of Meath (Ardbraccan, his palace, is close to the county kennels, and its wide episcopal lands and woods are much run through and over in the season). The scene of the opening day is, I believe, equally fixed by custom or tradition, or both, at Headfort, the spacious park of the marquis of the same title, which graces with its well-wooded undulations and natural lake (formed by the river Blackwater, now in full spate) part of the line of hills on which stands the interesting old town of Kells, whose history is so intimately interwoven with the fluctuations and vicissitudes of Ireland’s fortunes. The antiquarian would fain wander by the Aryan round tower, or by St. Columkill’s ivymantled hermitage—pausing at the Celtic cross, whose ornamentation and symbolism speak of a lettered and artistic past. The hunter of foxes must hurry past many interesting signs and tokens of a great past and comfortable present in Kells. In ten minutes more, if his Jarvey will give the mare her head, he will be within the cyclopean walls of Headfort Park, trying to find his mount in the tumult of horses and horsemen, and the sauve qui peut, devil take the hindmost, of the mimic fray; for a fox has been found in the home woods already, and a very large and brilliant cortége, strongly picked out with pink, is galloping up and down the rides, while Bishop and Colton are cracking their whips, and the sylvan sounds so long unfamiliar to the ear are filling space once more. A ring past the stately house, and then we emerge in a rather north-easterly direction towards open country, when, just as the many-coloured pack, racing over brilliantly green turf, were beginning to show us their form and pace so soon as scent (almost dead in the woodlands) served them a bit, our fox got into an impregnable bank. A second fox had, it would appear, started parallel to him, and him we chivied, with no very positive result either, through the woods, and into some burrow or other near the railway; and now, during these pauses, we can take some stock of our ensemble and their surroundings.

Homer made, said, or sung a catalogue of the transports used in his famous war, but your scribe cannot undertake any enumeration of the sportsmen and sportswomen who flashed through the russet-tinted woods or lingered on the verdant lawns. Enough if we can glance at a few of the more conspicuous of the melée. The executive deserve the pride of place. Mr. Waller has evidently summered well, and so has his handsome workmanlike bay horse, whom I recognized as a friend of last year. Goodall, the new huntsman, is on a very neat grey of good lineage, but certainly to the eye not equal to his weight, save when horses can go on top of the ground, not through it. He looks the huntsman all over (as indeed he is bound to be, if birth and breeding avail aught), and his pack, full of lusty condition and bright as stars in a green firmament, look as if they had reached even a higher level than last year. Bishop, the first whip, was on a tidy-looking dappled grey; T. Colton, the new whip (from the Duke of Grafton and George Beers), was on a wiry bay—all good men and efficient, as we hear on all sides. Of the fair forms en amazone, Miss Waller was charmingly mounted on a well-known Kildare horse; so were Miss Tisdal and Miss Kellett, and the Misses Reynell. Cadet, who carried Mrs. Garnett, is a celebrity beyond hunting fields; Lady Chapman’s ponies were extremely neat Big men must have big horses—big somewhere, though not necessarily leggy, or even tall. Mr. Sam Reynell was riding a stalwart bay of a good stamp; the Hon. Harry Bourke’s Phenomenon looked capable of doing as great things as he did last year; the Hon. C. Bourke was on a capital flea-bitten grey; Mr. Mervyn Pratt rode a fine hunter; the Marquis of Headfort rode two of his high-class hunters through the day; the Hon. Captain Maxwell was admirably mounted on a chestnut mare; Captain Trotter’s bay looked as if it could carry a heavier man than its owner (a harder ’twere not easy to pick); Mr. Kearsley’s grey was a very nice high-caste animal; Mr. Dyas was on a rare weight-carrying stamp, of a light bay colour; Mr. Naper, of Loughcrew, always rides nice horses; Mr. Johnstone’s colt by The Colonel looked full of promise; while Messrs. Rothwell, Rowley, Mortemer, Hopkins, Ratcliffe, Sweetman, Walker, Montgomery, Chapman, Froome looked very happily carried; and Master Wilson Patten (the youngest entry, I fancy) looked at home on a neat black pony. Half an hour succeeded in doing hunter’s justice to the good things which Lord Headfort’s hospitality provided, and while in the dining room the topic of conversation was the hunting convocation to which Lord Waterford had bidden so many hunting celebrities, and the high-class sport he had shown them—notably two very good runs, the first from Lord Bessborough’s coverts, and the second from the Castletown woods.

Presently we are by the side of a gorse which rejoices in the name of Williamstown (Mr. Stawell Garnett’s care, I believe), and are gladdened by an almost instantaneous find and gone away! Popping over a low stone wall, we sweep past Dilmount, when again sport is marred in a most promising stage by defective earth-stopping. Trains in this part of the world wait only for the captain, so we bade a reluctant farewell to the pack en route to Kingsfort, which, I believe, did not hold to-day. O dura venatoribus terga must be the motto of this Meath line, for an exchange from the saddle to a first-class carriage is hardly a gain in comfort or even softness. I hear this line is very liberal to hunters, and this fact, if true, must cover a multitude of imperfections and short-comings in charges and accommodation. A dripping day is succeeded by an evening downpour, and the lower country seems partially in flood, every brook having overflowed its banks. Thus far into the bowels of the earth (I mean copy) had your scribe penetrated, when he received an account, written in hot haste and with none of the intoxication of delight yet evaporated, of the glorious finale of Meath’s opening day—which, miserable slave and bondsman to a niggardly company that only runs two trains per diem, he was denied the joy of witnessing, even if his testimony had been only that of a witness placed by force of circumstances at a respectful distance. The daylight was just beginning to wane, when a fox posted out of Shancarn, made his point straight for the hill of Mullagh, nearly seven miles distant, where the hounds had to be whipped off, owing to the supervening darkness. Scent, I hear, was superb, pace something short of flying; and this express rate of travelling, plus a big brook, weeded out the field, barring four—Goodall, whose riding was simply Goodallish (pardon the expression, but the Correggiosity of Correggio tempted me), the Hon. Harry Bourke, and Messrs. Trotter and Kearsley. Of those proximi longo intervallo I can give no account, and I tell you the tale as ’twas told to me. From all I hear, Goodall has already won golden opinions in royal Meath. Friday introduced me to about the smartest pack of bitches, small foxhounds, about a dozen of the best-stamped weight carriers, nearly all greys, to be seen in Ireland, and such kennel and stable arrangements and appliances as an amateur of hounds and horses and all their paraphernalia rarely has an opportunity of witnessing. I allude to Mr. J. J. Preston’s private pack of harriers, with which he hunts his lordship of Tara and the neighbourhood of his own beautiful park of Bellinter, on the Banks of the Boyne. The whole thing is so perfect of its kind, and so much good taste and judgment has been exercised in planning and completing every detail and minutia, that a description of the pack and its entourage would require at least a column to do it common justice. The kennels and hounds are under the presidency of John Suter, well known to many who do their pursuing of foxes in the Campagna, and to others in Herefordshire; while a groom who can show such a stud of high-charactered high-class hunters—not the least partaking of the recognized cobby, short, strong, stuffy, quality-lacking harrier type—in the acme of autumnal condition, is to be much congratulated. Scent has not been very favourable to this pack so far, but they have killed a fair quota of hares already—well-nigh a score—and had a rattling burst with an outlying fox, whom they sent to ground, thus giving him a preliminary breather for his more regular antagonists, the Meath fox-hounds.

I should have added, for the information of sportsmen on your side of the Channel, that the squire of Bellinter was some few lustrums ago the proprietor of Brunette, perhaps the most successful steeplechase mare of this century; although several of the larger prizes and palms of cross-country contests did not fall to her share, I think she was his highest trump card in a very strong hand.

On Saturday Summerhill, visited by the Meath hounds, was the magnet to draw forth fox-hunters from downy pillows, late lounging breakfasts, and all other devices for killing the arch enemy, whom methinks ’twere wiser policy in us ephemeral mortals to propitiate by good service and sensible enjoyment of the short or long lease of lives he gives us. Summerhill, Lord Langford’s fine park and mansion, is not only easily accessible to its own county, but it invites pilgrims from afar—say from Westmeath and Dublin—by its comparative proximity to several stations, such as Maynooth, Leixlip, Kilcock, Enfield, and, on another line, Dunboyne, a place where many hunting men find it convenient to keep their horses for the season, the boxes and provender and the situation all inviting thereto.

It was my fortune to hack along the road from the latter town to the meeting point—some dozen miles, or near it, of English measurement—and to pass through a most peerless expanse of pasture land, where a bit of plough is as rare as a black swan out of Australia. To the left, at about two miles’ distance, are the woodlands of Carton, the Duke of Leinster’s residence; then Colistown, point of departure of many a good fox, is passed, and so is the Hatchet, a very favourite meet of this pack. Then, once the chapel of Kilmore is passed, for miles the eye rests on hardly a single homestead, hamlet, or building of man in which a beaten fox would endeavour to baffle his bloodthirsty foes. Presently the park wall and trees of our destination come in view. Carriages flash past, and groups of horsemen, all bent towards the same goal, join us. The meet is at the Northern Lodge Gate, which opens upon a rather neat village, and by II a.m. it is clear that, in addition to the usual Meath field, there will be a considerable influx of visitors, for the advenœ are seen cantering down the avenue, past the house, and from their direction the majority of them may be guessed to hail from Kildare. In a few moments more the dog pack are busy in that extensive belt of plantation which shuts out the view of the park wall from the house of Summerhill, and before they find let us glance at the rather extensive lawn party. Among the non-Meath men are Lord Cloncurry, the Hon. Major Lawless, Mr. Percy La Touche, two Mr. Blackers, Mr. Sherrard, Captain and Mrs. Davis, Mr. F. Rynd, Mr. George Brook, Captain Frank Cole, with many others. Grey was decidedly the colour of the day—I mean only in horseflesh—for Snowstorm and Grey Plover have certainly taken rank among the highest hunting celebrities by their recent performances, not only in the hunting field, but in hunt and farmers’ races. The roll-call of Meath would take too long to write at length; suffice it to say it embraced a small host of good men and good horses—the latter, young and old, made, half made, and some with their hunting troubles before them, like the young bears. Mr. Murphy was riding Sapling, a smart bay horse, who has shown a bit of galloping form already, while among the young ones a bay by Blood Royal—ridden by a welter pursuer, Mr. Rafferty—moved well, and looked like a promising hunter; while Captain Tuthill seemed nicely mounted on a young chestnut of good stamp, and Mr. C. Hamilton was on a Carlo Maratti horse, who seemed a good performer indeed

But the hounds are now in full chorus, and are rattling a fox merrily and musically through the woods, while we emerge at the eastern lodge gate, and presently somebody views a red rover racing away towards Pratt’s Gorse—a charming line, and likely to lead to a good run. Is he the hunted one? We tarry for a few moments on the road in expectation, but not a hound forsakes the old quarry; so we get into the park again to find the pack have slipped away in a northerly direction, and after a ride of a few minutes we get a view of the country intervening between the park wall of Summerhill and a point short of Dangan Castle literally peopled by pursuers of all shades and colours, who are not with the hounds, and don’t quite know where they have gone to. Some are incoherently slipping up lanes, some are perched on banks just about to leap down, others are quietly and patiently resigning themselves to their fate of being thrown out in good and numerous company. But a minute or two solved the problem. The hounds had checked by a clump of trees, and thence, after a cast or two, took on a cold line to the Bullring Gorse, part of which appeared to me cut down; thence over some stiffish fences, and a couple of large but safe doubles, in a sort of semicircle, back by the Bullring.

The next stage was a visit to Rahinstown gorse, when three foxes were on foot Scent was not much better than in the earlier hours, and the six-mile point that a Rahinstown fox made recently was not to be repeated, as the driving power was wanting; so some ringing was all that ensued, and that not very fast or furious—Major E. Lawless showing us that neither his horses nor himself have lost their straight-going propensities, one drop which he negotiated being a perfect caution to unstrung nerves in men or defective shoulders or forelegs in horses.

Meanwhile Mr. Maxwell’s harriers were discoursing most excellent music in that pastoral district to the west of Dunboyne, to a very distinguished circle of admirers, among whom was his Royal Highness the Duke of Connaught, Captain Fitzgerald his equerry, and a cloud of light and heavy horsemen, attracted by the fine day, the inviting country, the certainty of finding plenty of furry game, and the prospect of a pleasant ride; nor were they disappointed. The first hare, found near the trysting place, Sterling (good name for man, horse, or hound), ran very straight and fast for some twenty odd minutes, and was rolled over in the Moor of Meath, to the great delight of Mr. Betagh—who, in Mr. Maxwell’s absence, held the horn of office—Mr. Leonard Morrogh, of the Ward Union Hunt, Captain and Mr. Butler, of Priestown, and other notables in the hunting world, who know what a quick thing is with stag, fox, or hare. One used to hear a good deal of the qualifications for the man for Galway, among which were a good trigger-finger, a quick eye, a firm seat and good hands and nerve on horseback. As Duke of Connaught, his Royal Highness is certainly by virtue of his title the man for Galway; but, titles apart, and rank apart, the Prince certainly proved himself, by universal consent, the man for the Dublin country. His straight bold riding was on every tongue. Some inaugural function in Dublin claimed his presence, and prevented the royal cortége from witnessing the remainder of the afternoon’s sport, which was very good and satisfying. I forgot just now, in writing about Summerhill, to say that this park has already done good service to the Meath Hunt, and that among the best things of their cubbing season was a good run from here, and another from Mr. Fowler’s covert of Rahinstown.

On Monday this pack met at Wilkinstown station, not many miles from the kennels. The day was bright and gaudy, with a touch of winter in it when the sun was not asserting his supremacy. Scent ranged fairly good, considering all things, or the hounds could never have given the satisfactory account they did of a very twisting, home-staying, dodging lot of foxes whom they encountered to-day, who tried every device foxhood is capable of—running the fences and ditches, through sheepholes, over foiled ground, and so on; but the pack gave them no chance, following every turn and twist, working like harriers, and, by the most exemplary patience and perseverance, enabled Goodall to handle a brace of cubs and to run a third to ground. It was quite a hound day, and the lovers of hunting had a rare treat.

Tuesday among Meath men was a day of great expectations, which were only partially realized. In the first place, the congregating point, Swainstown, Kilmessan, is in the heart of a magnificent pastoral country. It is known to be fox-haunted to an almost embarrassing degree; and Kilcarty Gorse is nearly synonymous with, and implied in, the trysting places—equivalent to long odds on a good gallop. Add to all this that Rumour had busily propagated the report that his Royal Highness the Duke of Connaught was about to pay his maiden visit to Meath’s broad pastures, a report which the fathering wish no doubt assisted in spreading. Another fine and rather brilliant day; and it will be easily understood that a very numerous and fashionable assemblage was seen mustering on the lawn of the Kilmessan parsonage, and other pleasant rendezvous in the neighbourhood of Swainstown House, between 10.30 and 11 a.m. There are parsons and parsons! Some are monkish fanatics; others are engrossed by the detail and minutiæ, the black letter, the symbolism, the externals, be they pompous or lowly, of their caste. Too much unleavened learning exalts some above ordinary mortal fellowship; too little prompts others to rush in where angels fear to tread. But commend me to the parson who is not a whit the less a churchman or divine, or a shining light to his circle, because he can enter into, and enjoy in moderation, the amusements of his fellow-men—who may not hunt himself, though he knows all about it, but can greet with a hearty, kind welcome pursuers who come in his way. It seemed natural and de règle for most of the habitués of this hunt to turn into Kilmessan Glebe. The hounds and staff knew their way there, and somehow most hunters naturally turned in at the lodge gate. The keen air made many who, like myself, had ridden more than half a score of miles to the meet, pretty hungry, and the esurient were not sent empty away. But the Duke (just now there is only one in Ireland) was not at breakfast, and it soon transpired that he was not to be seen in these latitudes to-day. So Kilmessan village, that had pranked itself out in extra bravery in honour of the occasion (the show of Galway red cloaks was worthy of the poppy fields of India), was forced to content itself with the cortége of the hunt, minus its own particular bright star of loyal expectation!

Swainstown, Mr. Preston’s park, did not hold to-day as it did on the occasion of my last visit, so we trotted on to Kilcarty Gorse, and the find there was so quick that those who loitered to coffee-house, or exchange their hacks for hunters, had to gallop very fast to make up lee way. The fox broke handsomely in a north-westerly direction, giving the field a large, safe double for their initial fence. He then inclined to the right, running very fast over some large grass fields, till a short check let up the tail men. Then the line took us to a road by Cortestown (Mr. Wilkinson’s neat residence), and from that point the hounds hunted him, with very catchy scent, for about a mile and a half, till we came to the Trim branch of the Meath line, which our fox probably ran, and here we left him, the Boyne not being far off. There was plenty of fencing in the line we had travelled, and lots of leisure to look at our neighbours and the performances, meritorious or otherwise, of their hunters. I saw a hard welter weight get a very phenomenal sort of fall at a big up-bank, the horse slipping up against one of the hounds, whom, however, he did not seriously injure. A projecting bough of a tree hurled another man, who was riding a very neat ci-devant chaser, out of his saddle. Old Ironmould—who, if I recollect right, once made Marie Stuart gallop her best at a finish—was jumping as if to the manner and the country born; while a very neat thoroughbred grey, belonging, I think, to Mr. Turbitt, of Dublin (a winner too), was fencing in beautiful style. Mr. S. Garnett’s Roscommon Grey, a new purchase, showed very well in the field to-day—a master of weight, with great jumping power; and so did a very hunting-like horse of the same colour ridden by Miss Coleridge, of which I heard a very high character. Mr. Brown was carried by a most masterfullooking chestnut Mr. Dunn is always seemingly well-mounted, and the Hon. Captain Rowley’s chestnut and Mr. Stewart’s big brown mare were good samples of their classes. But we have now crossed the Meath line, and are in that beautifully green valley bisected by the metals, the gentle acclivities of which are crowned by Killeen and Dunsany Castles on one side, by Warrenstown and Batterjohn on the opposite. A straight point-to-point fox chase in such a wilderness of parks and demesnes is at this time of the year not to be calculated on, but en revanche there was a fine show of game, and from the road it was a perfect treat to view the many-coloured packs streaming over the pastures between the woodlands. One tod I saw killed; another run to ground. Of the sequel in the afternoon I cannot speak with confidence.

The Kildare hounds spent their fore and afternoon of this date in the Duke of Leinste’s extensive woods at Carton, but without much sport or good result.

The Ward Union hounds really met to-day at Ashbourne. Of the feasting, carousing, hard riding, and sociality which a beautiful day and pleasant surroundings encouraged, I must speak in a future letter, having exceeded my limit.

P.S.—The opening meet of the Ward Union hounds on the 25th was a most unequivocal success, judged by any test you please—the size of the field, the vast gallery of critics and spectators, or the quality of the sport, of which I can only send you a précis just now, reserving details for another occasion. About 2.30 p.m., an untried red stag was enlarged in the lands of Beltrasna, not very far from Ashbourne, and he was running in the direction of Kilbrick, when a colley dog headed him, and thus spoilt a very promising gallop; for the stag, mindful of the deer-park and his companions, turned back towards the place of his enlargement, and after giving us a sharp mile or more in view, was secured close by Fleenstown. A second red hind fared better than her predecessor, for she led her pursuers a rare dance by Kilrue, Balfestown, the Fairy House raceourse, towards Caulstoun, and so on into darkness and temporary liberty. There was tremendous grief, and two valuable hunters succumbed to the pace, distance, and recurring obstacles.

The opening scenes of fox-hunting in Louth were equally brilliant and successful.

III.

"Make me feel the wild pulsation I have often felt before,

When my horse went on before me, and my hack was at the door."

Opening day with the Wards—With the Louth hounds—The Flat House—West Meath, etc.

THOSE readers of The Field who followed Triviator’s records of the fleeting chase in Ireland last season will recollect that the Ward Union opening meet was like that of the witches on the blasted heath—in thunder, lightning, and in rain. The two former may be poetic licenses; the latter was a most prosaic force, of such huge antagonistic power that it quite vetoed all chance of hunting in safety or comfort in these flooded tracts; so that a hunting council convened at Ashbourne (aye, even credite posteri, after much solid and fluid refreshment had been snugly concealed and stowed away about the persons of these same friends in council) decided that hunting the stag must be postponed that day. So we returned, well fed, indeed, and well cared for in every way, but minus the object of our visit to Ashbourne. For three subsequent days, if my memory serves me, did the Hyades, the Pleiades, and all the patrons and patronesses of the watery element who had ever been translated to the galaxy above by the pantheistic Ovid, fight in their courses against stag-hunting. A week ago, and it seemed odds on a recurrence of a similar rainy experience. The brimming rivers were flooding their callow lands everywhere, and there appeared no pause or intermission of the downpour. Since Saturday, however, the weather has worn quite another aspect. Sat prata biberunt was the edict, and the refreshed pastures of Meath and Dublin never shone in a richer lustre of green; nature, in the perfect hush and lull which succeeded the fierce rain tempests, never wore a lovelier aspect. The air was balmy, and the poet’s or poetaster’s couplet,

"If thou wouldst see green Erin aright,

View it in autumn’s mellow light;"

was never better realised by tourists and visitors to our many points of interest and natural beauty. The corn has been almost universally carried, the hay ricked long ago. The fine week came most opportunely for the potato harvest, as that critical and delicate tuber—for which no national substitute has ever been discovered—has shown some symptoms of premature decay already, and it is of vital importance that the many thousands of tons now being dug and pitted through the length and breadth of the land, should be put together as dry and safely as possible. Sat prata biberunt! Nationally and insularly, we may be very thankful for our harvest prospects and realities. The panis is tolerably safe and abundant; the circenses begin everywhere.

"Uprise ye, then, my merry, merry men,

This is our opening day."

Scant need is there to din the refrain into Dublin ears, as the opening of the kennel and deer-park doors at Ashbourne for the season is a very great function in that sporting metropolis, and politics and polemics are temporarily absorbed in its engrossing vortex. Coaches, civil and military, are converging towards the northern road, well freighted with hunting men and women. Led horses have preceded them by an hour, while on-lookers have had an opportunity of contrasting the neat, well-bred, well-fed, well-groomed, lumberless hunter of the century with that gaudy equine monstrosity of the worst Flemish type which victorious William bestrides in College Green, reminding me far more of a Roman imperator than of a hard-fighting Dutch prince.

On horseback Nero mounted, crown’d with bays,

occurs to me as I pass this curious caperer in mid air. The road to the kennels is as dreary, monotonous a stretch as even Northern Germany can produce (which is handicapping it uncommonly high), and the ten long Irish miles seem to partake somewhat of the German standard. Ashbourne itself—I speak it with all respect to its constituted authorities—is as one-horse, tin-pot a city, to use the Yankee idiom, as need be desired; but the huntsman’s establishment (Charles Brindley’s), which combines more or less club-house, reception rooms, private residence, deer-park, kennels, and stables, is to the hunting eye the redeeming and interesting feature of the village. With many who entered long ago to stag—peradventure when soldiering in Ireland, or aiding the republic by their counsel and statecraft (by republic I mean the public weal, for we are monarchical of the monarchical here)—but whose lives are no longer cast in such pleasant hunting scenes as Dublin presents,

"Memory will stoop to trace

The parlour splendours of that festive place—

The whitewash’d wall, the neatly sanded floor,

The varnish’d clock that stood behind the door."

This is not exactly a photograph; but few, I ween, will forget the solid comforts and civilities they have met at Ashbourne and its well-ordered interior. To-day it was really en fête. A forenoon so still, warm, and beautiful, that a thunder shower seemed the only thing to fear, had tempted an enormous section of Dublin to make a day of it with the staghounds, and thither they flocked in hundreds, if not thousands, in cars, carriages, and a medley of wheels not unworthy of Epsom Downs; the distance from either metropolis not being wholly dissimilar. Here is the Sans Souci drag, enormously loaded—a most workmanlike affair, and as effective as ornamental, for it is seemingly ubiquitous; three or four regimental coaches follow or lead it. Here are a train or two of polo carts drawn by miniature hunters; a capital tandem of well-broken horses follows; then a perfect procession of side cars, and a few buggies, gigs, carts, etc., among whom Mr. Allen, the well-known V.S., drives decidedly the smartest stepper in a very neat blue roan mare. The Garrison sends a small squadron, recruited chiefly from the Inniskillings and 3rd Dragoon Guards, the latter regiment still in mourning for that promising young officer, Lieutenant Lees, who was recently killed in the Phoenix Park by his horse falling over timber. Captain Kearney, Messrs. Trotter, Kearsley, etc., represent Meath well and truly in good mounts. Dublin has, of course, turned out in force, and the Ward Union men (proper) show a few very nice hunters in their division—none, however, better or truer shaped than a dark brown stalliony sort of hunter that carried Mr. Leonard Morrogh, for, I fancy, the first time this season. But the play is about to begin.

Let us leave the lively array of driving people, and turn up the winding lane. Now jump a small bank and ditch, and you will find yourself among wide grassy fields, a unit in a very large body of riders, for the most part very hard; but we cannot pause to survey them now. The watches tell us that the red stag (not a notorions public performer) has had his full law. Charlie Brindley and his son, gorgeous in new unstained pinks (as erst her Majesty’s mail guards on May-day), are laying on the dappled pack, and their music, as the bouquet de cerf catches their spreading nostrils, tells us, with all the force of dog eloquence, that every second must now be utilised. The stag has treated the field kindly; for the first three or four impediments are small water jumps—nothing to the trained hunter, though even to them objections are made by sundry recalcitrant over-fresh or nervous steeds; but one ditch, about the fourth or fifth, causes grief in the array, and a grey horse seems to require the aid of a crowd to extract him out of a gripe. A loose horse or two now prance about in much delight, as if they knew by instinct that men in tops and leather are but poor runners. The line seems to lead on towards Priestown and Kilbride. Presently, however, our stag turns sharp back (a colley dog has done this), and for about a mile or two is hunted in view over a beautiful bit of country, till at Fleenstown he is secured, more or less uninjured. The day was very trying to condition. I think the deer felt it, and so did all hounds and horses who were not in tiptop order, as the atmosphere was almost unseasonably warm and balmy, and of wind there was none. Flasks are now emptied. Those who can draw upon large studs get on second horses (one envies Captain O’Neal, who can send home Jonah, and mount another perhaps as perfect), and away pricks a much diminished procession to hunt a second deer while the day still vouchsafes an hour’s more light. She proved equal to her reputation of last year, did this red hind, Lady Domville; for, enlarged by Killegland, with only a minute’s start, she simply ran her foes out of time and out of light, and secured her liberty for the present at least. Mr. Trotter lost a valuable hunter in this run, and Mr. Allan M‘Donough was equally unfortunate. The line by Caulstoun, the Fairy House, etc., was superb; the going very good.

It is the fashion to complain of the want of feathered game in Ireland, and the complaint has much truth in it, as those know full well who have toiled weary leagues and jumped ditches innumerable, and have not met ten head of such game all day long in their peregrinations, and these too wild to give the gunner a chance. Where there is real preservation game accumulates in Ireland; witness this fact, that in four days five guns shot 135 brace of partridges ten days ago at Creggs, in Galway, on grass farms for the most part, and not entering a single turnip field in their travels! Every foxhunter knows that the magpie is a certain rencontre on his way to a meet, sometimes in pairs, sometimes in flocks. If superstitious, he may make auguries from their flight and numbers; but these birds are of comparatively recent introduction into Ireland, and the way they increase and multiply is marvellous. Superstition hedges them round with a sort of reverence; so, as a rule, they are not trapped or shot, or minished in any way, and they indulge their nice taste in game eggs to the utter ruin of the game supply of the island.

The Louth hounds press hard on their neighbours of Meath in their zeal and forwardness in the fox campaign, for they began their regular season on the 24th inst, at Castle Bellingham; and if the Latin proverb about a good beginning—or, in fact, a beginning at all—be apposite to hunting, these hounds have already grasped success for the year forthcoming. Just as they were drawing for their first fox, the animal emerged from a hedgerow with his head turned for Dromina, the pack on good terms with him; thence he made his way to Dromisken, turned to the right, and got to ground at Sea Bank, on the fringe of the Channel—a very sharp burst of twelve minutes. The next move was to Bragganstown, which, as usual, literally swarmed with foxes, and it was a piece of rare luck that there was no division, but that the pack unanimously settled to one, who rang back by Drumcashel, then made for Baron and Derrycarna to Corballis, where he crossed the river, gained Irishtown and Gadderstown Gorse, but, unable to stay there, made a supreme effort to reach Ardee House covert, in which effort he broke down, and was rolled over by the Red House Gate, after a chase of 1h. 15min., of which the greater part was capital for riders—all a most meritorious performance of the pack. Few opening chapters in hunting chronicles will contain a brighter record than this, from the Land’s End to the last point of Caledonian hunting enterprise (and it does require enterprise to organise fox-hunting in such uninviting soil and surroundings). Apropos of the advantages that hunting men and hunting horses enjoy in Ireland, let me record the somewhat pregnant fact that in rather more than a week’s hunting I can only recollect having crossed two minute plough patches—one cropped with potatoes, the other with turnips. Think of this, ye heavy pursuers who toil painfully through hock-deep plough—aye, in the heart of the Shires—till it requires the courage and resolution of a Murat or Osbaldeston to put your hunter at yon stiff post-and-rails, with six to four on a fall, scramble, or what the Yankees call a declension, Anglicè a refusal. There is some difference between going on the top of the ground and through it. Horses know it, hunting men know it, valets know it; last, but not least, your cheque-book knows it, especially in the post-Christmas months.

On Friday the hunting programme for those living near the metropolis consisted of a meet with Mr. Maxwell’s harriers at Queenstown, and for early risers the Meath hounds at Philpotstown. I can myself only testify to an exceptionally pleasant bye afternoon with Mr. George Brooke’s 18in. and 19in. harriers, models of symmetry, who utterly astonished me by their capacity for driving at great pace, and their ability to compass the very large barriers which divide pasture farms anywhere near Dublin. Mr. Maxwell’s harriers had, I hear, only a moderate fifteen minutes, which was rather a strong contrast to their last appearance in public; but the Meath hounds had so satisfactory and satisfying a day that the pack went back to kennel somewhere about two o’clock p.m.—the best evidence in the world that all the actors in the fox drama (the victims alone excepted) were thoroughly pleased with the performance. They met at Philpotstown, and, finding at once there, rattled their fox towards Rathmore for about thirty minutes, when he crawled into some outbuildings, and, as the pack do not crave blood, he was not persecuted to the death. The second draw was Meadstown, from whence they drove a fox handsomely into the open towards Philpotstown, and rolled him over in about half an hour—thirty-five minutes actually, if one must be accurate.

On Saturday the Ward Union meeting point was Kilrue, and his Royal Highness the Duke of Connaught, with a large party, attended the trysting place. The day, warm and still, bordered on fogdom, and I have no doubt the same combinations of exhalations which made a haze here would have created a dense London particular on the banks of Father Thames. A trot of a mile or so brought the cortége to the wide grass lands of Ballyhack, where a very slight undulation gives an extensive view over the surrounding pastures. Here a red hind, known as Lady Langford—from, I think, the fine gallop she gave last year to that nobleman’s park—was enlarged, when she went away tolerably straight, then inclined a bit to the left, and wended her way by Ratoath village, leaving Sutherland to the left, and with Garrison Hill for her beacon and landmark in front. Scent was anything but good, and though the hounds hunted steadily and well, they had no driving energy to-day; so Milady of Langford—whether headed or not on her track I cannot aver—presently retraced her course to Ratoath, passed by Mr. Corballis’s house, and pointed towards the Fairy House, with its skeleton array of stands, which loomed very large in their emptiness. Whether a very long, dragging, unexciting chase—if chase it can be fairly called—ended in a capture of not, I cannot say, seeing I joined the homeward-bound fleet. There was a great deal of big jumping, and one or two main drains, almost wide enough for a steam launch, were crossed by a select few. The Duke of Connaught seemed to revel in big jumping, and was admirably carried by his dark brown hunter, who, if not already named, might be appropriately called Chancellor, as this son of The Lawyer has already attained the highest eminence among the sons of law and lawyers.

On Monday the Ward Union Hunt rendezvoused at the Flat House, not very far from Dunboyne, and, consequently, about a dozen of English miles from Dublin. The Flat House is not so called because it crowns a hilly country, on the lucus a non principle; its nomenclature is perfectly apposite to the locality, which is a sort of pasture field, only—unfortunately for many—a pasture field with a large number of natural and artificial subdivisions, in which it is quite possible for man and horse to lie perdu for ever so long, unless the rescuer be at hand. The very levelness of the country involves several feet of extra depth in the ditches to carry off the superficial water, not to speak of the necessary strength and size of fences in all countries depastured by bullocks. The meet was not a large one by any means, or comparable to Saturday’s; but a glance at men and horses told at once that riding was the ruling motive of the day and hour, not coffee-housing, pic-nicking, or the various causes and impulses which swell a meet of fox-hounds in a favourite neighbourhood. Several of the horses had performed in public; several would probably do so again next spring and summer; while the field contained not a few gentlemen jocks whose names are not unfamiliar in chasing circles here and on the far side of the Channel.

A mile or two brought us to the starting point, and in the first field it was quite evident, whatever be the proper term for the odora vis of deer, that rose—call it by any name you please—was shedding a perfume most enjoyable and titillating to the nostrils of the big dog pack, who travelled along most merrily and musically. The first two or three fences were nice open rhenes, which, however, let in a quota of the field At first the line seemed to incline to the left of Porterstown; but those who, like myself and a few more, rode wide here, were presently wholly out of it, as the deer’s course was under the old Fairy House Cottage, and thence round towards Ratoath, where pursuit ended in capture. A fresh deer was enlarged about a couple of hundred yards to the left of the Fairy House Grand Stand, with the brook of the same name immediately in front. It struck me that the quarry had been handicapped rather rigidly as to time; at any rate, for a couple of miles the pace was most enlivening—and the fencing, though very sound and fair for a horse that threw his heart over well to the far side, was certainly of wider proportions than one often meets in any hunting country. Grief did abound, certainly, though I do not think there was a single bad accident; but the line leads us on through Harborstown, across a bye-road, into which there was some grief, and so on across the metals towards Baytown Park, where I must leave them still running. A red coat and a grey jacket got a strong lead after jumping the first fence; and, as their hunters crossed the large obstacles in their path without pause, dwell, or turn, they were not likely to be deprived of their pride of place, and certainly were not so far as my vision carried me.

To return to Meath and its hunting annals. I must hark back to an unnoticed but very good day last Thursday, when Drewstown supplied them with a capital straight-going fox,