By the Right Hon. J. W. LOWTHER, M.P.

That portion of Cumberland and Westmorland, which is popularly known as the Lake District, is the holiday ground of a great number of persons who delight in its splendid scenery of mountain, wood and lake, who enjoy roaming on foot over its uplands, climbing its peaks, driving in motor or charabanc along its sinuous valleys, rowing or sailing on its lakes, and sketching or photographing its picturesque views, which present themselves to even the most inartistic eye. But these folk belong to the family of “HirundinidÆ”—swallows—they are summer visitants.

To my mind, the Lake Country, always beautiful, is more beautiful at the other three seasons of the year. In the spring and autumn the grasses and mosses of the upper slopes and of the smooth round shoulders, the bracken of the lower slopes, the larch woods creeping up from the valleys, and the emerald green of the lush meadows present finer contrasts of colour and more variety of shade and tone than the monotonous green of summer; whilst in winter the snow-capped mountains look higher and grander and more inaccessible, the effects of light and shade are more varied, and even on the lower slopes, by reason of the lower altitude of the sun and the prolongation of shadows, the folds and crinkles of the mountain bases are more distinctly seen. Visitors, however, are comparatively few, for days are short and often wet, the attractions fewer in number, and accommodation in the remoter spots not easily available. But those who come, and are fortunate in their meteorological experiences, are amply rewarded; and, if they are able-bodied and active, can enjoy the hunting which some four or five packs of hounds afford.

To most people “hunting” connotes horses and riders, and red coats, and breeches and boots. The Lakeland hunter, however, sees none of these things. At most he will catch an occasional glimpse of the scarlet coat of huntsman or whip. A horse would be as much out of place at a meet of a fell-side pack as a hippopotamus, and be about as useful. Breeches and boots would be an impossible handicap. The iron horse, the bicycle, takes the place of the covert hack, knickerbockers of leathers, and shooting-boots of tops.

The mountain packs of hounds were instituted or taken over by the farmers of the district for the protection of their flocks from the depredation of the numerous foxes, which frequent the fells, and at times take a heavy toll of the lambs in the spring. But to business has been added pleasure. Business, however, comes first. A day’s hunting is always something of a lottery, whether it be in Leicestershire or in Lakeland, and it may be at once conceded that the Shires produce more prizes than the fells; but, on the other hand, the fells never result in a “blank” day. The climatic conditions, propitious as they are for scent, often militate against complete enjoyment of his surroundings by the follower of the hunt. He must be prepared for a very early rise, a long day in the open air, a steep climb, a dreary trudge up or down interminable slopes of grass or moss, a scramble across shifting screes, long waits, biting blasts, heavy showers, drenched garments, the descent of mist, or the loss to sight and hearing of the pack and all its followers. All these calamities, however, do not often occur in combination. Let us look at the brighter side of things. Then the sportsman may enjoy a glorious outing, a steady climb, when every 100 feet of ascent seems to strike a purer stratum of invigorating air, a gradually expanding view of distant mountain tops, a glimpse of the Solway or the Irish Channel miles away, and when the summit is reached a magnificent panorama of peaks and precipices, of vast stretches of smooth uplands and diminutive lakes. Then comes the satisfying sense of “something attempted, something done.” There is also always the chance of having selected a spot from which a good view of the hunt may be obtained, when the fox can be seen crossing the breast of the opposite hill with the hounds stringing out far behind, the anxiety whether he means to come this way or cross the opposite skyline. If all turns out luckily the music of the pack grows gradually fortissimo, the fox slips quietly past, but is rolled over in full view.

It is not my intention to attempt a record of the doings of any of the fell packs, of one of which (the Blencathra) I had the honour of being for several years the Master. I need now only express my great regret that parliamentary duties in London coincided unfortunately with the foxhunting season in the Lakes, and limited very severely my opportunities for the enjoyment of the sport, which I commend to all who are still sufficiently young in spirit or vigorous in body to enjoy this healthy pastime. Young and old alike will find in Mr. Clapham’s pages an invigorating description of the sport, as well as a record of minute and extensive observation of the habits and idiosyncrasies of the four-legged participants in the pursuit and a keen appreciation of the beauty of the surroundings in which Lakeland hunting is carried on.