HUNTING FOX AND STAG. 185 



off ; on you jog, turn the collar of your coat up, scarcely 

 exchange a word with your neighbours ; at last, in a 

 pelting shower, the hounds are put into the gorse, and 

 again — blank ! Nothing daunted, on you trot again. 

 It gets late in the afternoon ; the hounds feather out 

 of covert without even a whimper: a iQ^\N minutes' con- 

 versation, and then the hounds, with heads and sterns 

 down, drag along the road a miserable ten miles home. 

 You who had ridden ten miles to the meet in the 

 morning, are now fifteen miles from home ; about 6.30 

 you get back ; jaded, damp, and tired, you slide off 

 your fagged horse, thoroughly annoyed at a wasted 

 day. 



To the man who is fond of hunting, or even may 

 require strong horse exercise for his health, if he lives 

 in the country and amongst a sporting fraternity with 

 whom he can heartily associate, a blank day is not of 

 much consequence ; but to the man who lives in 

 London, or in one of the great manufacturing towns, 

 it is of great importance that he should rarely, if ever, 

 be indulged with a luxury of this description. The 

 establishment of so well found and equipped a pack 

 of stag-hounds as those of Lord Rothschild is a real 

 blessing to the urban sportsman — and there are many 

 as true and keen followers of sport in the Metropolis 

 as in the best of the Shires. Men who have their 

 duties to attend to in Parliament or in public offices, 

 others with financial business in the City, and not seldom 

 men engaged in trade, find it of the utmost consequence 

 that they should be spared the annoyance and dis- 

 appointment of a blank day. To me, it is a pleasant 



