WRITING TO THE EDITOR. I 27 



give you an account of a day's sport with the humane 

 gentlemen who now hunt my native woods. 



" Now, sir, I must first confess myself to be a shifty old 

 beggar — not like Othello, for I am 'easily moved.' My 

 lodging was the Rodings, but that bloodthirsty Trendwell 

 pressed me so hard that I gave him leg-bail, and changed 

 my quarters to Harlow Park ; but there my rest was broken in 

 upon at times when I least e.xpected to be disturbed from my 

 cosy kennel. Comfortably dreaming of midnight plunder, 

 and the social science of ' catch who catch can ' — faithfully 

 relying upon the far distant ' meet,' where covers are plenti- 

 ful and foxes abound — 1 was more than once aroused from 

 my slumbers by the twang of the musical Barwick, and forced 

 to .seek .safety from my pursuers by a little stiff fencing. 



" This, indeed, was not dangerous, but uncomfortable, 

 and some say, unfair ; but any way, not to be endured by an 

 old 'un like me, and therefore I hooked it, or moved, or 

 whatever my sporting friends may be pleased to call it, and 

 settled myself in a country where hitherto hounds have 

 seldom drawn — resolving to enjoy the 'otium' without 

 the dignity of amusing the Harlovian clique. But ease 

 brought on disease ; my blood became foul from the poultry 

 I ate, my tongue was furred from the rabbits, and hcjrse- 

 flesh produced hypochondriasis. Dr. Wizzel advised e.xer- 



