/IDastevs ot tbe Wcvon ant) Somerset 437 



sport. If you would know wherein it consists, read this 

 passage from my old friend and colleague the late James 

 Nevill Fitt, who, though a staunch fox-hunter, had a 

 vein of poetic feeling in him which no one would have 

 guessed from his personal appearance. 



' I shall never forget one kill I saw near Waters Meet. 

 The stag had taken soil, and so steep was the path from 

 the road above to the river below, that even the hardy 

 Devon and Somerset men (who are by no means accus- 

 tomed to stick at trifles in this way) dismounted, and leav- 

 ing their horses, scrambled down, holding by boughs and 

 twigs to help them in their descent. When the stream 

 was reached, so closely did the boughs intertwine over- 

 head, that a shade deeper than that of the nave of York 

 Minster was produced. There stood the stag at bay, 

 breast deep in the stream ; behind him a waterfall, with 

 its torrent like a sheet of silver ; every stone, every 

 boulder, moss-covered and dripping with moisture; in 

 fact, a tiny waterfall of itself. Around him the baying 

 pack, some swimming, others standing on rocks, while 

 the leafy canopy overhead, aided by the mountain sides, 

 made their melodious voices re-echo again and again. 

 Some dozen men in scarlet, just serving to light up the 

 scene, and throw in the colouring that made it perfect, 

 were scattered round ; and to him who had eyes to see, 

 it seemed like a hunt in fairyland. That it was stern 

 and real, the dead deer, a few minutes later, and the long 

 ride home, proved ; but to this day I have never realised 

 how the death stroke was given. A strange feeling, 

 such as Kingsley's friend Claude felt at the sight of the 

 herd when " staring stupidly at them, trying in vain to 

 take in the sight, with the strangest new excitement 

 boiling up in my throat : and at the sound of their hoofs 



