222 THE HUNTING FIELD 



By the way, our friend Somerville is not quite 

 correct in his phraseology — " dogs " is a term 

 not allowed in speaking of hounds. However, 

 never mind, he is a pleasant poet, and we forgive 

 him. 



The nobleman now entering the field is a minister 

 — one of the Cabinet and Lord Lieutenant of the 

 county. He seeks relaxation from the toils of office 

 by a run down into his native county. Last night's 

 mail train brought him down, to-morrow night's train 

 takes him up. He is going to enjoy a stolen 

 pleasure. Lord Evergreen has been a sportsman 

 from his youth, and neither age, cares, nor the 

 trammels of office can deaden the feeling within him. 

 Deaden it, forsooth ! they are more likely to cherish 

 it — to increase it. 



What so likely on a mild February morning, when 

 mistaken birds are warbling their premature notes in 

 St. James's or the Green Park, and sprouting shrubs 

 are opening their silly buds — what so likely to awaken 

 the victim of red boxes and Downing Street to the 

 delights of the real country, as the too palpable 

 imitation and efforts of nature in town. 



We are quite certain that the parties who enjoy 

 hunting most are those who cannot command an 

 unlimited quantity of it. The regular five-days-a- 

 week-man looks to the sport and the sport only; 

 whereas those who only get it by fits and starts — 

 those who exchange the unsporting, unnatural cere- 

 ments of brick and mortar for the broad open enjoy- 

 ment of unrestricted, unadulterated country — are the 

 people that get the " sermons out of stones," and 

 good out of everything. 



Let people talk as they will of the wild tractable 

 scenery of St. James's or the Regent's Park, the 

 forest-like glades of Kensington Gardens, or the open 

 breadth of Hyde Park, " still, still," as Sterne says, 

 " it is not country," and we cannot divest ourselves of 



