CHRISTOPHER IN HIS SPORTING JACKET 



three-deckers on board at once, and clothe some now 

 nameless peak or promontory in immortal glory, like 

 that shining on Trafalgar. 



Well, then, after cat-killing comes Coursing. Cats 

 have a look of hares — kittens of leverets — and they 

 are all called Pussy. The terriers are useful still, 

 preceding the line like skirmishers, and with finest 

 noses startling the mawkin from bracken-bush or rush 

 bower, her skylight garret in the old quarry, or her 

 brown study in the brake. Away with your coursing 

 on Marlborough downs, where huge hares are seen 

 squatted from a distance, and the sleek dogs, disrobed 

 of their gaudy trappings, are let slip by a Tryer, run- 

 ning for cups and collars before lords and ladies, and 

 squires of high and low degree — a pretty pastime 

 enough, no doubt, in its way, and a splendid caval- 

 cade. But will it for a moment compare with the sud- 

 den and all-unlooked-for start of the "auld witch" 

 from the bunweed-covered lea, when the throat of 

 every pedestrian is privileged to cry "halloo — halloo 

 — halloo'"* — and whipcord-tailed greyhound and hairy 

 lurcher, without any invidious distinction of birth or 

 bearing, lay their deep breasts to the sward at the 

 same moment, to the same instinct, and brattle over 

 the brae after the disappearing Ears, laid flat at the 

 first sight of her pursuers, as with retroverted eyes 

 she turns her face to the mountain, and seeks the 

 [28] 



