204 APOLOGY FOR FOX-HUNTING. 



your horse as pleased as yourself; sharp and clear m 

 the gray atmosphere the leafless trees and white farm- 

 houses stand out, backed by a curtain of mist hanging 

 on the hills in the horizon. With eager eyes you take 

 all in; nothing escapes you; you have cast off care for 

 the day. How pleasant and cheerful everything and 

 eveiyone looks ! Even the cocks and hens, scratching 

 by the road-side, have a friendly air. The turnpike-man 

 relaxes, in favour of your ' pink,' his usual grimness. A 

 tramping woman, with one child at her back and two 

 running beside her, asks charity; you suspect she is an 

 impostor, but she looks cold and pitiful ; you give her a 

 shilling, and the next day you don't regret your foolish 

 benevolence. To your mind the well- cultivated land 

 looks beautiful. In the monotony of ten acres of turnips, 

 you see a hundred pictures of English farming life, 

 well-fed cattle, good wheat crops, and a little barley for 

 beer. Not less beautiful is the wild gorse-covered moor 

 — never to be reclaimed, I hope — where the wiry, white- 

 headed, bright-eyed huntsman sits motionless on his 

 old white horse, surrounded by the pied pack — a study 

 for Landseer. 



" But if the morning ride creates unexecuted cabinet 

 pictures and unwritten sonnets, how delightful ' the find,' 

 ' the run' along brook-intersected vales, up steep hills, 

 through woodlands, parks, and villages, showing you in 

 byways little gothic churches, ivy-covered cottages, and 

 nooks of beauty you never dreamed of, alive with startled 

 cattle and hilai'ious rustics. 



" Talk of epic poems, read in bowers or at firesides, 

 what poet's description of a battle could make the blood 

 boil in delirious excitement, like a seat on a long-striding 

 hunter, clearing every obstacle with firm elastic bounds, 

 holding in sight without gaining a yard on the flying 



