LETTER XXX. 



I REMEMBER a bagman being exposed to view by an 

 old fox-hunter (who was up to a dodge or two) in a very 

 adroit manner. Upon the outskirts of a fox-hunting 

 country there lived, and, for aught I know to the con- 

 trary, lives there still, the master of a scratch pack of 

 harriers. He was neither a farmer nor a cattle-dealer, 

 nor a pork butcher, but all these combined together, 

 and a little knowledge of dog-stealing as well, consti- 

 tuted about as recherche a character as could well lay 

 claim to the title of sportsman, which he had the assu- 

 rance to call himself. His locale being within two miles 

 of a large city, he was patronized by many dashing 

 blades, of rather equivocal pretensions to the name of 

 gentlemen, and certain professionals of low standing, 

 who, by subscribing a few pounds to support this scratch 

 concern, passed off as hawks among these small birds, 

 when they would not have obtained any notice at all 

 with the foxhounds. To cater for his patrons' amuse- 

 ment, this worthy master used to obtain foxes from the 

 country of the foxhounds, which he turned down upon 

 the sly in some outlying place, pretending of course that 

 he could not ride up to stop his hounds (which was true 

 enough) from running fox. This excuse was always 

 ready when he thought himself likely to get into hot 



