STAG-HUNTING ON EXMOOR 223 



sweet air and homely speech and hospitable fare only 

 may cure. It is then I go west, go where merrie 

 England is merrie England still, remote from stir 

 and traffic of modern life, forgotten of civilization 

 and the so-called march of mind. Cathay within 

 three hundred miles of Paddington Station ! 



Not many years ago there came over me the 

 old longing. As summer merged into autumn it 

 got into my blood and there being no help for it, 

 ere September waned I packed my bag and set 

 out for Exmoor. There, descendants of the tall 

 deer whom the Conqueror " loved as if he were 

 their father," were to be found in plenty, hunted 

 with horn and hound, captured and slain. 



As much in the spirit of the pilgrim as of the 

 sportsman, I made my way to where the river Exe 

 and its bio- brother Barle have union. To Dul- 



o 



verton I fared, even as John Eidd had fared two 

 hundred years before, and as I crossed the threshold 

 of the Eed Lion, recalled John Fry's striding into 

 the hostel, " with the air and grace of a short- 

 legged man, and shouting as loud as if he were 

 calling sheep upon Exmoor." 



" Hot mootton pasty for twoo trarv'lers, at 

 number vaive, in vaive minnits ! Dish un up in the 

 tin with the grahvy, zame as I hardered last Tuesday." 



In these days Uulverton may be said to exist 



