THE WILD PONIES OF EXMOOR.

In England there are so few wild horses, that the following description of a visit I made to Exmoor a few years ago in the month of September, may be doubly interesting, since Mr. Rarey has shown a short and easy method of dealing with the principal produce of that truly wild region.

The road from South Molton to Exmoor is a gradual ascent over a succession of hills, of which each descent, however steep, leads to a still longer ascent, until you reach the high level of Exmoor. The first six miles are through real Devonshire lanes; on each side high banks, all covered with fern and grass, and topped with shrubs and trees; for miles we were hedged in with hazels, bearing nuts with a luxuriance wonderful to the eyes of those accustomed to see them sold at the corners of streets for a penny the dozen. In spring and summer, wild flowers give all the charms of colour to these game-preserving hedgerows; but a rainy autumn had left no colour among the rich green foliage, except here and there a pyramid of the bright red berries of the mountain ash.

So, up hill and down dale, over water-courses now merrily trotting, anon descending, and not less merrily trudging up, steep ascents we proceed by a track as sound as if it had been under the care of a model board of trustees for the simple reason that it rested on natural rock. We pushed along at an average rate of some six miles an hour, allowing for the slow crawling up hills; passing many rich fields wherein fat oxen of the Devon breed calmly grazed, with sheep that had certainly not been bred on mountains. Once we passed a deserted copper-mine; which, after having been worked for many years, had at length failed, or grown unprofitable, under the competition of the richer mines of Cuba and South Australia. A long chimney, peering above deserted cottages, and a plentiful crop of weeds, was the sole monument of departed glories in shares and dividends and mine-captain’s promises.

At length the hedges began to grow thinner; beeches succeeded the hazels; the road, more rugged and bare showed the marks where winter’s rains had ploughed deep channels; and, at the turn of a steep hill, we saw, on the one hand, the brown and blue moor stretching before and above us; and on the other hand, below, like a map, the fertile vale lay unrolled, various in colour, according to the crops, divided by enclosures into every angle from most acute to most obtuse. Below was the cultivation of centuries; above, the turnip the greatest improvement of modern agriculture flourished, a deep green, under the protection of fences of very recent date.

One turnpike, and cottages at rare intervals, had so far kept up the idea of population; but now, far as the horizon extended, not a place of habitation was to be seen; until, just in a hollow bend out of the ascending road, we came upon a low white farm-house, of humble pretensions, flanked by a great turf-stack (but no signs of corn; no fold-yard full of cattle), which bore, on a board of great size, in long letters, this imposing announcement, “The Poltimore Arms.” Our driver not being of the usual thirsty disposition of his tribe, we did not test the capabilities of the one hostelry and habitation on Lord Poltimore’s Moorland Estate, but, pushing on, took the reins while our conductor descended to open a gate in a large turf and stone wall. We passed through left Devon entered Somerset; and the famous Exmoor estate of 20,000 acres, bounded by a wall forty miles in length, the object of our journey, lay before us.

Very dreary was this part of our journey, although, contrary to the custom of the country, the day was bright and clear, and the September sun defeated the fogs, and kept at a distance the drizzling rains which in winter sweep over Exmoor. We had now left the smooth, rocky-floored road, and were travelling along what most resembled the dry bed of a torrent: turf banks on each side seemed rather intended to define than to divide the property. As far as the eye could reach, the rushy tufted moorland extended, bounded in the distance by lofty, round-backed hills. Thinly scattered about were horned sheep and Devon red oxen. For about two miles we jolted gently on, until, beginning to descend a hill, our driver pointed in the valley below to a spot where stacks of hay and turf guarded a series of stone buildings, saying, “There’s the Grange.” The first glance was not encouraging no sheep-station in Australia could seem more utterly desolate; but it improved on closer examination. The effects of cultivation were to be seen in the different colours of the fields round the house, where the number of stock grazing showed that more than ordinary means must have been taken to improve the pasture.

We started on Exmoor ponies to ride to Simon’s Bath.

Exmoor, previous to 1818, was the property of the Crown, and leased to Sir Thomas Dyke Acland, who has an estate of a similar character close adjoining. He used its wild pasture (at that time it was without roads) for breeding ponies and feeding Exmoor sheep. There are no traces of any population having ever existed on this forest since Roman times. The Romans are believed to have worked iron-mines on the moor, which have recently been re-opened.

Exmoor consists of 20,000 acres, on an elevation varying from 1000 to 1200 feet above the sea, of undulating table-land, divided by valleys, or “combes,” through which the River Exe which rises in one of its valleys with its tributary, the Barle, forces a devious way, in the form of pleasant trout-streams, rattling over and among huge stones, and creeping through deep pools a very angler’s paradise. Like many similar districts in the Scotch Highlands, the resort of the red deer, it is called a forest, although trees with the exception of some very insignificant plantations are as rare as men. After riding all day with a party of explorers, one of them suddenly exclaimed, “Look, there is a man!” A similar expression escaped me when we came in sight of the first tree a gnarled thorn, standing alone on the side of a valley.

The sides of the steep valleys, of which some include an acre, and others extend for miles, are usually covered with coarse herbage, heather, and bilberry plants, springing from a deep black or red soil: at certain spots a greener hue marks the site of the bogs which impede, and at times almost engulph, the incautious horseman. These bogs are formed by springs, which, having been intercepted by a pan of sediment, and prevented from percolating through the soil, stagnate, and cause, at the same time, decay and vicious vegetation. They are seldom deep, and can usually be reclaimed by subsoiling or otherwise breaking the pan, and so drying the upper layers of bog. Bog-turf is largely employed on Exmoor as fuel. On other precipitous descents, winter torrents have washed away all the earth, and left avalanches of bare loose stones, called, in the western dialect, “crees.” To descend these crees at a slapping pace in the course of a stag-hunt, requires no slight degree of nerve; but it is done, and is not so dangerous as it looks.

Exmoor may be nothing strange to those accustomed to the wild, barren scenery. To one who has known country scenes only in the best-cultivated regions of England, and who has but recently quitted the perpetual roar of London, there is something strangely solemn and impressive in the deep silence of a ride across the forest. Horses bred on the moors, if left to themselves, rapidly pick their way through pools and bogs, and canter smoothly over dry flats of natural meadow; creep safely down the precipitous descents, and climb with scarcely a puff of distress these steep ascents; splash through fords in the trout-streams, swelled by rain, without a moment’s hesitation, and trot along sheep-paths, bestrewed with rolling stones, without a stumble: so that you are perfectly at liberty to enjoy the luxury of excitement, and follow out the winding valleys, and study the rich brown and purple herbage.

It was while advancing over a great brown plain in the centre of the moor, with a deep valley on our left, that our young quick-eyed guide suddenly held up his hand, whispering, “Ride on without seeming to take notice; there are the deer.” A great red stag, lying on the brown grass, had sprung up, and was gazing on our party too numerous and too brightly attired to be herdsmen, whom he would have allowed to pass without notice. Behind him were clustered four hinds and a calf. They stood still for some minutes watching our every movement, as we tried to approach them in a narrowing circle. Then the stag moved off slowly, with stately, easy, gliding steps, constantly looking back. The hinds preceded him: they reached the edge of the valley, and disappeared. We galloped up, and found that they had exchanged the slow retreat for a rapid flight, clearing every slight or suspicious obstacle with a grace, ease, and swiftness it was delightful to witness. In an incredibly short time they had disappeared, hidden by undulations in the apparently flat moor.

These were one of the few herds still remaining on the forest. In a short time the wild deer of Exmoor will be a matter of tradition; and the hunt, which may be traced back to the time of Queen Elizabeth, will, if continued, descend to the “cart and calf” business.

A sight scarcely less interesting than the deer was afforded by a white pony mare, with her young stock consisting of a foal still sucking, a yearling, and a two-year-old which we met in a valley of the Barle. The two-year-old had strayed away feeding, until alarmed by the cracking of our whips and the neighing of its dam, when it came galloping down a steep combe, neighing loudly, at headlong speed. It is thus these ponies learn their action and sure-footedness.

It was a district such as we had traversed entirely wild, without inclosures, or roads, or fences that came into the hands of the father of the present proprietor. He built a fence of forty miles around it, made roads, reclaimed a farm for his own use at Simon’s Bath, introduced Highland cattle on the hills, and set up a considerable stud for improving the indigenous race of ponies, and for rearing full-sized horses. These improvements, on which some three hundred thousand pounds were sunk, were not profitable; and it is very doubtful whether any considerable improvements could have been prosecuted successfully, if railways had not brought better markets within reach of the district.

Coming from a part of the country where ponies are the perquisites of old ladies and little children, and where the nearer a well-shaped horse can be got to sixteen hands the better, the first feeling on mounting a rough little unkemped brute, fresh from the moor, barely twelve hands (four feet) in height, was intensely ridiculous. It seemed as if the slightest mistake would send the rider clean over the animal’s head. But we learned soon that the indigenous pony, in certain useful qualities, is not to be surpassed by animals of greater size and pretensions.

From the Grange to Simon’s Bath (about three miles), the road, which runs through the heart of Exmoor proper, was constructed, with all the other roads in this vast extra-parochial estate, by the father of the present proprietor, F. Knight, Esq., of Wolverly House, Worcestershire, M.P. for East Worcestershire (Parliamentary Secretary of the Poor Law Board, under Lord Derby’s Government). In the course of a considerable part of the route, the contrast of wild moorland and high cultivation may be found only divided by the carriage-way.

At length, descending a steep hill, we came in sight of a view of which Exmoor and its kindred district in North Devon affords many a deep gorge, at whose precipitous base a trout-stream rolled along, gurgling and plashing, and winding round huge masses of white spar. The far bank sometimes extended out into natural meadows, where red cattle and wild ponies grazed, and sometimes rose precipitously. At one point, where both banks were equally steep and lofty, the far side was covered by a plantation with a cover of under-wood; but no trees of sufficient magnitude to deserve the name of a wood. This is a spot famous in the annals of a grand sport that soon will be among things of the past Wild Stag Hunting. In this wood more than once the red monarch of Exmoor has been roused, and bounded over the rolling plains beyond, amid the shouts of excited hunters and the deep cry of the hounds, as with a burring scent they dashed up the steep breast of the hill.

But there was no defiant stag there that day; so on we trotted on our shaggy sure-footed nags, beneath a burning sun a sun that sparkled on the flowing waters as they gleamed between far distant hills, and threw a golden glow upon the fading tints of foliage and herbage, and cast deep shadows from the white overhanging rocks.

Next we came to the deep pool that gives the name to Simon’s Bath, where some unhappy man of that name, in times when deer were more plentiful than sheep, drowned himself for love, or in madness, or both long before roads, farms, turnip crops, a school, and a church were dreamed of on Exmoor. Here fences give signs of habitation and cultivation. A rude, ancient bridge, with two arches of different curves, covered with turf, without side battlements or rails, stretches across the stream, and leads to a small house built for his own occupation by the father of Mr. Knight, pending the completion of a mansion of which the unfinished walls of one wing rise like a dismantled castle from the midst of a grove of trees and ornamented shrubs.

A series of gentle declivities, plantations, a winding, full-flowing stream, seem only to require a suitable edifice and the hand of an artist gardener to make, at comparatively trifling expense, an abode unequalled in luxuriant and romantic beauty. We crossed the stream not by the narrow bridge, but by the ford; and, passing through the straggling stone village of Simon’s Bath, arrived in sight of the field where the Tattersall of the West was to sell the wild and tame horse stock bred on the moors. It was a field of some ten acres and a half, forming a very steep slope, with the upper path comparatively flat, the sloping side broken by a stone quarry, and dotted over with huge blocks of granite. At its base flowed an arm of the stream we had found margining our route. A substantial, but, as the event proved, not sufficiently high stone fence bounded the whole field. On the upper part, a sort of double pound, united by a narrow neck, with a gate at each end, had been constructed of rails, upwards of five feet in height. Into the first of these pounds, by ingenious management, all the ponies, wild and tame, had been driven. When the sale commenced, it was the duty of the herdsmen to separate two at a time, and drive them through the narrow neck into the pound before the auctioneer. Around a crowd of spectators of every degree were clustered ’squires and clergymen, horse-dealers and farmers, from Northamptonshire and Lincolnshire, as well as South Devon, and the immediate neighbourhood.

These ponies are the result of crosses made years ago with Arab, Dongola, and thorough-bred stallions, on the indigenous race of Exmoors, since carefully culled from year to year for the purpose of securing the utmost amount of perfection among the stallions and mares reserved for breeding purposes. The real Exmoor seldom exceeds twelve hands; has a well-shaped head, with very small ears; but the thick round shoulder peculiar to all breeds of wild horses, which seem specially adapted for inclemencies of the weather; indeed, the whole body is round, compact, and well ribbed. The Exmoor has very good quarters and powerful hocks; legs straight, flat, and clean; the muscles well developed by early racing up and down steep mountain sides while following their dams. In about forty lots the prevailing colours were bay, brown, and gray; chestnuts and blacks were less frequent, and not in favour with the country people, many of whom seemed to consider that the indigenous race had been deteriorated by the sedulous efforts made and making to improve it an opinion which we could not share after examining some of the best specimens, in which a clean blood-like head and increased size seemed to have been given, without any diminution of the enduring qualities of the Exmoor.

The sale was great fun. Perched on convenient rails, we had the whole scene before us. The auctioneer rather hoarse and quite matter-of-fact; the ponies wildly rushing about the first enclosure, were with difficulty separated into pairs to be driven in the sale section; when fairly hemmed in through the open gate, they dashed and made a sort of circus circuit, with mane and tail erect, in a style that would draw great applause at Astley’s. Then there was the difficulty of deciding whether the figures marked in white on the animal’s hind-quarters were 8 or 3 or 5. Instead of the regular trot up and down of Tattersall’s, a whisk of a cap was sufficient to produce a tremendous caper. A very pretty exhibition was made by a little mare, with a late foal about the size of a setter dog.

The sale over, a most amusing scene ensued: every man who had bought a pony wanted to catch it. In order to clear the way, each lot, as sold, as wild and nearly as active as deer, had been turned into the field. A joint-stock company of pony-catchers, headed by the champion wrestler of the district a hawk-nosed, fresh-complexioned, rustic Don Juan stood ready to be hired, at the moderate rate of sixpence per pony caught and delivered. One carried a bundle of new halters; the others, warmed by a liberal distribution of beer, seemed as much inspired by the fun as the sixpence. When the word was given, the first step was to drive a herd into the lowest corner of the field in as compact a mass as possible. The bay, gray, or chestnut, from that hour doomed to perpetual slavery and exile from his native hills, was pointed out by the nervous anxious purchaser. Three wiry fellows crept cat-like among the mob, sheltering behind some tame cart-horses; on a mutual signal they rushed on the devoted animal; two one bearing a halter strove to fling each one arm round its neck, and with one hand to grasp its nostrils while the insidious third, clinging to the flowing tail; tried to throw the poor quadruped off its balance. Often they were baffled in the first effort, for with one wild spring the pony would clear the whole lot, and flying with streaming mane and tail across the brook up the field, leave the whole work to be recommenced. Sometimes when the feat was cleverly performed, pony and pony-catchers were to be seen all rolling on the ground together; the pony yelling, snorting, and fighting with his fore feet, the men clinging on like the Lapithae and the Centaurs, and how escaping crushed ribs or broken legs it is impossible to imagine. On one occasion a fine brown stallion dashed away, with two plucky fellows hanging on to his mane: rearing, plunging, fighting with his fore feet, away he bounded down a declivity among the huge rocks, amid the encouraging cheers of the spectators: for a moment the contest was doubtful, so tough were the sinews, and so determined the grip of Davy, the champion; but the steep bank of the brook, down which the brown stallion recklessly plunged, was too much for human efforts (in a moment they all went together into the brook), but the pony, up first, leaped the opposite bank and galloped away, whinnying in short-lived triumph.

After a series of such contests, well worth the study of artists not content with pale copies from marbles or casts, the difficulty of haltering these snorting steeds equal in spirit and probably in size to those which drew the car of Boadicea was diminished by all those uncaught being driven back to the pound; and there, not without furious battles, one by one enslaved.

Yet even when haltered, the conquest was by no means concluded. Some refused to stir, others started off at such a pace as speedily brought the holder of the halter on his nose. One respectable old gentleman, in gray stockings and knee-breeches, lost his animal in much less time than it took him to extract the sixpence from his knotted purse.

Yet in all these fights there was little display of vice; it was pure fright on the part of the ponies that made them struggle so. A few days’ confinement in a shed, a few carrots, with a little salt, and gentle treatment, reduces the wildest of the three-year-olds to docility. When older they are more difficult to manage. It was a pretty sight to view them led away, splashing through the brook conquered, but not yet subdued.

In the course of the evening a little chestnut stallion, twelve hands, or four feet in height, jumped, at a standing jump, over the bars out of a pound upward of five feet from the ground, only just touching the top rail with his hind feet.

We had hoped to have a day’s wild stag hunting, but the hounds were out on the other side of the country. However, we had a few runs with a scratch pack of harriers after stout moorland hares. The dandy school, who revel in descriptions of coats and waistcoats, boots and breeches, and who pretend that there is no sport without an outfit which is only within the reach of a man with ten thousand a year, would no doubt have been extremely disgusted with the whole affair. We rose at five o’clock in the morning and hunted puss up to her form (instead of paying a shilling to a boy to turn her out) with six couples, giving tongue most melodiously. Viewing her away we rattled across the crispy brown moor, and splattered through bogs with a loose rein, in lunatic enjoyment, until we checked at the edge of a deep “combe.” Then when the old yellow Southerner challenged, and our young host cheered him with “Hark to Reveller, hark!” to hear the challenge and the cheer re-echoed again from the opposite cliff; and as the little pack in full cry again took up the running, and scaled the steep ascent to see our young huntsman, bred in these hills, go rattling down the valleys, and to follow by instinct, under a vague idea, not unmixed with nervous apprehensions of the consequences of a slip, that what one could do two could, was vastly exciting, and amusing, and, in a word, decidedly jolly. So with many facts, some new ideas, and a fine stock of health from a week of open air, I bade farewell to my hospitable hosts and to romantic Exmoor.