CHAPTEK VI. 



PHEASANT SHOOTING 



" What can people know about spoiling that never go a hunting 

 above once a year, and then only on Easter Monday in a hackney- 

 coach?" — Sir Oliver Ballwinkle, 



" Heeds not the jay the insect's painted wings, 

 Nor hears the hawk when Philomela sings." — Pope. 



It is a fact, that more than one writer, upon the 

 science and mystery of sporting, speaks of the cruelty 

 of killing the pheasant, because of the beauty of its 

 plumage. This is cariying consideration for outward 

 appearance, beyond most modem instances. For our 

 poor part, we hold such philosophy worthy only those 

 gentry who " go a hunting on Easter Monday in a 

 hackney-coach." To the youthful shooter we say, ac- 

 count fine feathers as little as doth the hawk; indeed, 

 we go further, and counsel him, should the chance 

 offer, rather to enrich his game-bag with some espe- 

 cial dandy of the pheasant tribe, some beau in gold 

 or silver plum'd brocade, than the mere bird of scarlet 



