Please inspect my stock of books
The huntsman turned to the cover-side,
The soft horn sang, the pack swung wide,
Trying the hollies, trying the ride…
I have, during my twenty years as a tatty old bookseller, had the opportunity of acquiring and reading a remarkable assortment of sporting literature — a constant flow of literary entertain¬ment, ranging from the mireful and tawdry to sparkling dia¬monds fit for a queen. Some of these gems are known to hunting men and scholars alike, such as Siegfried Sassoon’s “Memoirs of a Foxhunting Man”, and Masefield’s “Reynard the Fox”; both being regarded as fine examples of our literary heritage. Any hunting chap who has not read these should be drawn and quartered, without the inaugural hanging. He should also endeavour to read such classics as Buchanan-Jar¬dine’s “Hounds of the World,” Beckford’s “Thoughts on Hunt¬ing”, and possibly Somerville’s “The Chace”, all worthy and informative works.
Half familiar, and none the same,
Sons and daughters,
Kin by name,
With Rally & Ringwoods ancient line
That hunted the Forest in thirty-nine:
Suddenly, sometimes, as bubbles rise,
Dexter & Daystar, old and wise,
Would look again from the puppies’ eyes…
One of the pleasures of the chase is the unexpected, unpre¬dicted event which sometimes enhances an otherwise average day or season. Most of us will readily agree, however, that a lifetime of sport will afford no more than a handful of fine jewels in the crown. I don’t mean the “red letter days” which appear sporadically throughout one’s sporting life; but the days which, however dark the memories fade, remain locked for eternity in one’s heart. Thus it is with my twenty seasons of book-hunting that I encountered my first diamond – no more than a couple of years ago…
And the hare came down on the road alone
Ears well forward and pace sedate,
Never changing his easy gait,
The little jack hare came softly down,
Steadily running the tarmac crown…
‘The Hunting of the Hare” by Steven Bracher. I read, re-read, and continue to read this gem again, again.., and never do I fail to glean intense pleasure and emotion from this narrative poem. It is set in the New Forest, Christmas Eve in 1945, after the long hard years of war; it flows like the finest Chinese silk, generating emotions that only true lovers of rural days and ways can experience. It surely is the most beautiful hunting poem I have ever had the privilege to read, comparing more than favourably with Masefield’s “Reynard the Fox.”
Who and where was Steven Bracher? I wanted to trace him, if only to express my thanks for the pleasure he has afforded. I also considered that, as I had taken eighteen years to find a copy, it must be scarce; probably rare. This being the case, it was worthy of wider readership — a new edition. I resolved to find him. I first contacted the Masters of the New Forest Beagles, but failed totally in my quest. I then obtained the names and addresses of all Brachers in the two directories covering the New Forest area, and wrote to one and all.
Although several were kind enough to reply — I again drew blank. What next? Last resort was a letter to “Hounds Magazine” and “Horse & Hound”.
By Linwood Cottage the music quickened,
Under the oaks where the hollies thickened,
Quickened and died, and silence stood
As a wave-crest taut in the silent wood:
Hung and toppled: and headlong breaking,
As the crest of a wave when the tide is making,
Down in the forest, tumbling, crying,
Like a jostle of bells the hounds were flying,
Fading and falling, rising and dying,
Drowned and lost in the shadowed seas
Fainter and further under the trees…
EUREKA! At last, I had him! A reply from Wiltshire. Steven Bracher is a pen-name; the author was alive and thriving, and I have permission to go ahead with a new edition. That fine artist – Tim Scott-Bolton – has agreed to illustrate it with pencil sketches (the first issue is not illustrated), and I have a few extra verses from the author. The venture is under¬way and it will mark my twenty years as a sporting bookseller, fifty years of hunting with the Bleasdale, and the Centenary of our Association of Masters of Harriers & Beagles.
The daylight faded. The dusk came on,
The woods were dim, and the light was gone.
Faintly and far a horn was crying,
Rising and sinking, rising, dying:
All the griefs of earth were there,
Calling down the evening air,
And like an echo through it ran,
The tragic transience of man,
The mists came up as the daylight passed:
Two men came over the hill at last.
“A pound to a penny,” said one, “He’s down
Here in the heather on Pilmore crown.”
But the light was gone, and the scent was bad.
“‘Twas a stout old hare, and I’m just as glad,
That we left him after the run we had…”
…The voices faded, they sank the hill.
An owl called softly, the air struck chill,
The hare lay close and the moor was still
DAVID A H GRAYLING
(An article originally in “Hounds” magazine Summer 1997)