MASTERS OF THE DEVON AND 

 SOMERSET. 



Those who can appreciate the poetry of sport will find 

 nothing in the three kingdoms that can compare with 

 hunting the wild red deer on Exmoor. But I suspect 

 that in his heart of hearts the genuine fox-hunter, who, as 

 a rule, is the reverse of romantic, will feel disappointed 

 when he first tastes the sport of wild stag-hunting with 

 the far-famed Devon and Somerset. For, there is an 

 absence of that fierce excitement which makes a man's 

 blood thrill as he gallops at break-neck pace after a 

 stout fox over the level pastures and stiff bullfinches of 

 the Shires. To the real lover of hunting as a craft, the 

 chase of the wild stag will commend itself as almost the 

 perfection of sport. But the hard rider who wants 

 sensation, and wants it strong, will secretly vote the 

 hunting methods of Exmoor slow and unexciting. I say 

 secretly, for after the rhapsodies of Whyte-Melville and 

 others upon the glories of chasing the red deer over his 

 native wilds, no man will venture openly to disparage 

 a sport which has been so eloquentl)' eulogised in prose 

 and verse by writers from whom it would be considered 

 presumptuous to differ. I have spoken of the poetry of 



