THE LIFE OF A FOXHOUND. 29 



undergone a great change; and instead of 

 the old slow-and-sure system of occupying 

 minutes to find and hours to kill, we are now, 

 taking the season through, hours finding, and 

 minutes killing. " 



*' Which afi'orded most sport, do you 

 think? " inquired I. 



" It's difficult to say," returned Trim- 

 bush. " Unless we go the pace, men now 

 consider that there is no sport whatever ; but 

 some years since, the merits of a good hunting 

 run had nothing to do with the time in which 

 it was done, like a horse-race. With a cold 

 scent, stained ground, and an unruly field — 

 heading the fox, riding over us, and hallooing 

 at everything from a cow's tail to a jackdaw 

 — ^we frequently pick through, and even 

 hold it on with extraordinary keenness; but 

 seldom, indeed, do we get any credit for our 

 pains. If, however, the scent is breast high 

 — as it is this morning, or I couldn't talk to 

 you — and we fly along without a check, for 

 fifteen or twenty minutes, with blood for the 

 finish, then there is no end to the praise, and 

 we receive nothing but commendation and 

 renown. Not that / am an advocate for slow 

 hunting : — for the enjoyment of sport, there 



