"You hunt the fox till he is tired, and then you kill him. Surely "that is cruel?" said Lady Underside.

"A very neat and compact position," said Captain Wynckly; "but which is the cruelty-the hunting till he is tired, or the "killing?"

"Perhaps both," said Lady Ashford; "but you must not omit "the terror the poor creature is in all the time he is being hunted "—that is part of the cruelty." ""How do you know," said Lord Wyville," that the fox is in any terror? All the habits of the animal go to prove the con"trary. For instance, he is a savage wild beast. You will allow

• "that?"

"Yes, that he is. He kills my poultry and Sir Charles's pheasaid Lady Underside.

sants,

"And he is always on the watch for his prey, and is accustomed "to dogs every day and every night of his life, as he prowls about "farm-yards and cottages, and so he has no great fear of them. "Why should he have? He carries off his prey from the yards "under their very noses."

"But a pack of hounds hunting him? Surely, Lord Wyville, "that is different?"

The

"Yes, in a degree, but only in a degree; and this is proved by "the fact that the fox is commonly never far before the hounds. "He will stay in a wood, and go round and round in it, and up and <"down it, and never care to go very far from the hounds, if he finds "they do not press him; that is, if there is a bad scent. "truth I take to be, that the fox is a daring and fierce animal, and "he is so gifted with instinctive craft that he will, by his courage "" and skill, baffle a pack of hounds day after day. If he finds the "hounds press him, he will leave the wood and go right away to a <"distance, as the best way to shake them off-not in terror, but as ""a matter of skill; and even then he will not go far in front of "them, but take it leisurely, and will often stop and listen if he "can hear them coming. These are well-known facts. If he ""hears them he goes on, if not he quietly lies down, and goes back "home. Where is there any terror in all this cool scheming? If "the hounds do come up to him, he never loses his presence of ""mind, one may almost call it, but uses all his skill, and often "defeats his enemies at the very last moment by some artful. ""dodge. You would make him out to be a stupid coward, ter"rified at the barking of dogs-the sound he has been hearing "" and despising every night of his life; whereas a stupid coward is "the precise thing he is not, but a daring genius in his line."

"I agree with every word that Lord Wyville has uttered," said Mr. Morrice.

"But, anyhow, he is tired out and then killed," said Lady • Underside; "and it seems a cruel thing to do this to the poor animal, ""however clever and bold you make him out to be."

"I do not think the tiring goes for much," said Captain Wynckly, VOL. XXI. NO. 143.

M

"because our domestic animals get tired by us often enough-our "horses and dogs-and no one complains of that; our humani"tarians do that with a safe conscience."

"It is the killing is the main point," said Frank; "that is where "Lady Underside comes down on us foxhunters. But if killing "is cruel, how about mutton and beef, and chickens and ducks, "pigs and geese? Are you prepared to give up the farm-yard?" "Good Heavens! no! Give up my larder!"

"Please," said Frank, "if you should be persuaded by any one, "on account of poor foxy's hard case, to give up your larder"please invite me to be present at your first meeting with your "" cook."

"But you know, Lord Wyville," said Lady Ashford, "there is "one point of the question which affects us ladies especially. We 6 66 are taken to task seve:cly for going out hunting, and more par"ticularly for being in at the death, and, it is said, liking and enjoying the death of poor foxy. Do we enjoy this? I am not a "huntress, and so I can't say; but is it true that the people out "with the hounds really take a pleasure in killing the poor animal ?" "I can answer for myself," said Lord Wyville. "I take no "kind of pleasure in the act of killing the fox; and I don't believe "one person in ten of the whole field does so, and certainly not c cc even a single lady. That there is satisfaction in the finale of a run in the death of a fox, is true. As a last wind-up scene in a "play, before the curtain comes down, or a hard neck-and-neck race "for the Guineas, it is a fine finish. But if there is no run, and a "fox is chopped, then there is no pleasure in his death. Every"body is disgusted, except the huntsman, who counts noses, and "does not much care how he gets them."

“The truth is, it is the run that is really enjoyed," said Frank. "You are quite right," continued Lord Wyville. "The run is "the thing, the music of the foxhounds in cry, the excitement of "the number of horses galloping, the eager rivalry of the riders, "the efforts of skill in keeping with hounds in spite of difficulties, "the demands on one's courage, the pride in one's horse, the "mere animal pleasure of galloping fast through the fine bracing "air, which gives the nerves health and vigour-it is all this that "is the real pleasure of hunting. And then, when one knows "that there is a crafty, and daring, and swift, and bloodthirsty wild "animal in front, whose cunning it will take all the united clever<"ness of those hounds and men to defeat, and whose courage is "never at fault, then there is a certain natural desire to conquer "him. If he gives us a good run, and we beat him, we triumph; "but he dies with all the honours. We laud him with pæans, "loudly-a good fox!-a gallant fellow !"

Let us add as loudly,-Which the vulpicide is not.

M. F. H.

NOVEMBER AND DECEMBER IN THE SHIRES.

MELTON.

THE opening months of the hunting season were ushered in with every promise of sport, and were entered on more hopefully than has been the case for years. All our little stock of knowledge on the subject prophesied success, and apparently pointed most satisfactorily to the why and wherefore of the probability-the fons et origo of our belief being the plentiful moisture in the ground, and satisfactory accounts of the all-needful animal.

But daily does the ignorance of would-be-wise sportsmen appear more patent. The chances of sport are just as the chances of the weather (the former, by the way, being largely dependent on the latter); everybody thinks he knows a great deal about them, and is averse to discover how totally unenlightened he is on the matter. If a man says it is going to rain, and it does so, he at once pats himself on the back as a clever fellow, and gives himself credit for being weatherwise. If his prophecy is wrong, he thinks and says no more about it; and exactly a similar course is adopted by the man who pretends to foresee events in the field. In future we will accept no theory whatever; for all our treasured notions have been cast to the winds during the last two months; and we intend to shut our ears to all new ones till we can meet with the man who, setting the frost apart from the question, can give us convincing reason for the general absence of scent and failure of sport during the early part of

this season.

be

November is spoken of by many good folks as the best month in the year. But for one reason in favour of this rule there are twenty against it. The young hounds have not learned their work, and make even the veterans flashy; the foxes don't know how to run; the pastures are soiled by countless sheep and cattle; and the ditches are so blind that they are a terror to the boldest heart (as may seen by the hesitation and hanging back of the first flight, as compared with their dash and ardour in later months). There is never much hard riding in November-this year there was notably less than ever; for no one remembers the country such a network of pitfalls as it was in the past early autumn. In dry and barren summers the cattle get into the ditches and clear them out, keeping even the hedges short-cropped; but this year there was such a luxuriance of keep that they have not even deigned to show us the rabbit-holes. The one recommendation of November lies in the shortness of quantity and redundancy of quality of the fields. There is none of the cockneyfied element that appears so strongly after Christmas; but almost every man is a sportsman and loves hunting for its own sake.. Many of the Melton habitués, however, from one cause or another, are obliged to miss some weeks at starting-the Earl of Wilton, for instance, is seldom at the Viceregal Lodge in time for Kirby Gate; though it was cheering to hear of him sitting

down on his hack on Newmarket Heath, and riding for a glimpse of his own colours first past the post, to learn of his winding up the season successfully at Liverpool and Shrewsbury; and to know that we should again see him leading the van with all his old skill and quickness. Indeed it is difficult to understand how one in his position can make the year long enough to contain all that he has to compress into it. A winter at Melton, racing from spring till autumn, the London season, and Parliament, appear more than one man's energy and one man's strength can grapple with. And there are claims on such a man that we, of an inferior world, can scarcely realise in their full extent-claims of party, claims of society, and claims of neighbourhood. Heaton Hall and its hospitality have to be kept up, and visits have to be made far and near. In his son, however, he had the fittest possible representative; Lord Grey de Wilton was here to time, and he and Captain Riddell were doing most of the pioneering work during November-their partiality for open timber standing in good stead to keep them clear of hidden dangers. Sir Frederick Johnstone was also kept back by the autumn racing, and came only in time to hear that he ought to have been out at Owston Wood, though it should be some slight consolation to him (or, at least, to his groom) to know that the ash rails are now as brittle as glass after the hard weather. Colonel Forester and one or two others were delayed for the same reason, and Lord Calthorpe only came down a week before Christmas. Captain Coventry arrived just before the first frost, and might have employed his time profitably in walking over the white-rimed pastures, and picking his place in the reputed impossibilities of the neighbourhood. But, in whatever way he spent the fortnight's vacation, he was well on the spot on Mr. Tailby's great day. Mr. Forster having, in the last two seasons, perfected his knowledge of every ravine in the hunt, intends to pursue his geographical researches elsewhere, and is reported an absentee from the metropolis. From the fact of farmers having taken to plashing their hedges, the heavy weights have no longer the advantage at the bullfinches as formerly; so Mr. Charles Fenwick's cheery face will probably be but occasionally seen at the covert side. Captain Smith appeared during the first few days of November, and vanished again like a meteor-only waiting to lead a dance over the hairy Six Hill country on a four-year old. Melton, though, expects every man (or, at all events, all her best) to do their duty; the international meetings on Tuesdays and Fridays demanded his presence; and, accordingly, he was in his place as soon as serious business commenced. The George has most of its patrons again-Captain Boyce, with Smoke, as juvenile as when he won the Light-Weight Military ten years ago (he was then aged), with Sledge-hammer to join him in an old man's chorus, and Waterloo to be brought up in this establishment of eternal youth; Captain Molyneux, whose capabilities have attracted the notice of the Admiralty and have been mainly instrumental in deciding them to do away with a special class of navigating officers, for he wants no pilot, can steer his own course,

and seldom runs aground; Mr. Brand, whose stud, if not all turned out of one mould, are all made for work; and Mr. Creyke, with much the same lot of nice animals as last year. Captain Stirling is at the Harborough Arms with a goodly remnant of neatness and quality saved from the stampedes at Aldershot; and Major Paynter is again. down, and has his hands full of schooling. The Messrs. Behrens have, as usual, the best stud of horses and the best rough-rider (both amateur and professional) in Leicestershire.

Two of the oldest and most popular of the regular visitors I have not yet spoken of, viz., Mr. Little Gilmour, and Mr. Westley Richards. The former has been associated with Melton as long and intimately as Lord Wilton himself, and has been no less famous as a rider over a country. In his day he had a special forte for coming straight down at, and getting safely over a fence that most men would consider impracticable, and is said to have been more difficult to stop when hounds were running than any man in England. Though he has now resigned his place in the van to younger spirits, he loves hunting none the less; his sense of enjoyment, instead of being dimmed, is strengthened by the accumulated experience of years; and his cheery presence always command the respect and admiration due to a Nestor. Mr. Westley Richards is one of the chief and staunchest supporters of the Quorn; he breeds his own horses, is now riding a selection made to hand for him by Colonel Jervoise, and can still take his cropper as kindly as a younger man.

To turn to the residents. The promising brightness of Mr. Coupland's mastership has been sadly gloomed by the painful incident of the autumn. When he would fain have been at home, his engagements forced him early into the field; but in the excitement and duties of his office he must have found a certain relief. He has never been going better than this year, his new stud are, if anything, better than their predecessors, and certainly no master was ever more anxious in the cause of sport than he is. Mr. William Chaplin has some of the best material that Sheward and Chapman can produce; but, though no man can show forth their good qualities to better advantage, he has had but little work out of them hitherto.

Colonel Markham is again here, and each member of his family supports foxhunting to the utmost, the two little Dianas on grey ponies caring neither for weather nor distance. The new arrivals are Lord and Lady Dupplin, Mr. and Lady Ida Hope, and Mr. and Mrs. Sloane Stanley. Melton never had so many lady-riders for years as now; and three better horsewomen never graced a field than the last-named (who had the ill-luck to mark her two first days by a fall on each), Lady Grey de Wilton, and Lady Evelyn Coventry, and the others are no unworthy companions in the field.

Lord Dupplin has got together some horses which belie their appearance if they are not fit for the work in store for them; and Mr. Hope has a nice little stableful of some five-and-twenty, about a moiety of which would call for Highly Commended from any judge of style and action.