FOX-HUNTING RECOLLECTIONS 147 



'' It was a difficult undertaking. I bred 

 many years, and an infinity of hounds, before I 

 could get what I wanted. I at last had the 

 pleasure to see them very handsome, small, yet 

 very bony ; they ran remarkably well together, 

 ran fast enough, had all the alacrity that you 

 could desire, and would hunt the coldest scent. 

 When they were thus perfect, I did as many 

 others do, I parted with them.'' 



This is exactly what I did myself in the spring 

 of 1897, and I have never blown a horn again 

 since that day. Perhaps I had blown my own 

 trumpet quite enough already ! 



With the last century many sporting writers 

 have come and gone, but amid all that hunting 

 lore, what is there to compare with " My Winter 

 Garden,*' that tale so descriptive of Charles 

 Kingsley and his musings when a hunted fox 

 crossed the path of his afternoon ride along 

 the fir - clad heather lands which far and 

 wide encircled his peaceful rectory at Eversley. 

 Nothing in the English language can be more 

 charming than the simple story he told us just 

 fifty years ago. 



Peter Beckford must have been about forty 

 when he began his letters dated from ''Bristol 

 Hot Wells, 20th March 1779/' He published 

 them as a book in 1781, and called it Thoughts 



