he appeared to be, in the pursuits which were the cherished passion of his heart, surrounded by all the conveniences if not the luxuries of this world, had little more to ask, little to complain of, and might be envied much; yet perhaps, could his heart have been laid bare, few of us would have desired to exchange it with our own: such, however, is human nature; such it ever will be. Yet, while dwelling on this sporting passion, so eminently distinguished among the inhabitants of the land we live in, we could not but recollect how widely different are the feelings it excites in the hearts of the multitude. By some it is looked on merely as a pleasing out-door pastime, to be taken advantage of or renounced as circumstances may dictate. By others, an anticipated pleasure, looked forward to and longed for as each year comes round, and followed with unremitting ardour; nevertheless, when the fitting season for gun or hound has elapsed, they betake themselves to other pleasures, to them equally exciting, and, forgetting the past, think only of the present, till the past becomes again the present. By far the greater portion, however, look forward to the period termed the sporting season with a feverish anxiety, amounting to an actual passion: to them the hound, the horse, the dog, the rod, the gun, are all animals and implements of pleasure, an excitement beyond belief. The approach of the green and beauteous cheering Spring is to them, as to the million, a bleak November; whereas the falling of the leaf is hailed with ecstatic joy. They sleep not for weeks before the 12th of August, and the 1st of September is the brightest of the year. The announcement of a meet of their favourite pack is read with more joy, and brings to them more real delight, than did the passing of the Reform Bill to those who struggled with such ardour to obtain it, or the abolition of the Corn Laws to R. Cobden. But there are limits to all these enjoyments; and moralists will tell us there is as great a crime in the killing of a woodcock dead, or the winging of a pheasant, as is there in the picking of a poor man's pocket, or perhaps say more, and call it murder. There are hundreds also who look on the pastime termed sport as a positive vice. And, lastly, there are thousands, we would fain believe, of timid and christian hearts-and with these we trust and hope we go far in their sentiments of (real) feeling-who find no pleasure in the death or pain of the humblest living thing which breathes and exists on the wide earth. Most truly do we appreciate and esteem the gentleness of nature of the few, yet most sadly do we commiserate and despise the inconsistency of the many. None, no, not a living man-or if there be, his passion must be strong-has a greater admiration for the animal horse, or love for the dog, or even a cat (by no means a general favourite), than we have. Even at the moment our pen runs over these words, a large black cat is purring on the very table near us, while stretched on the hearth-rug lies a noble deer-hound, whose comforts we would not disturb to supply our own, even though the night is one of the coldest of bitter November; and were a horse admissible, we should scarcely care to turn him from our room-indeed, we well recollect the night when we have slept soundly, perhaps more soundly, beneath the manger of an Andalusian favourite, than had we been enjoying the best of beds. The death cry of a hare, the tearful eye of the stag, the last but gallant agony of the fox-for all deaths to the human heart are more or less pictured in anguish-are many causes which strike the mind with pangs of regret, after the heat and enthusiasm of the chase is over. Were we, however, to set ourselves down to moralise on all such matters in life's career, to use a vulgar term, we might as well shut up shop at once. Yet, believe us, there is a wide difference between cruelty and sport; though we admit there are many atrocities classed under that head, or coming under that denomination, that we would gladly see erased from the list of such noble and joyous pursuits, a wish in which we are satisfied that every lover of real sporting and every gentleman would join in. These we may class under the disgusting denominations of dog-fighting, bull and badger baiting, time matches, and, worst and most brutal of all, man fighting. There may be physical stamina which enables one to stand and be battered by another, but it is the physical power of the beast, and unworthy to be admitted as a sport in the land we live in. On the other hand, we cannot but believe that the staghound, the foxhound, the grey or gazehound, and all other dogs and hounds in their different callings, were given as friends and companions to man, with natural instincts and natural powers to chase and kill the several species of game to which their powers or instincts have particularly adapted them by nature. True, they were probably so given to destroy game as a portion of man's means of existence; and what else do they now? save that, as game has become more domesticated, and dogs higher bred, the torture of their death is more rapid and far less barbarous than in the days when good King Arthur ruled the land, or even in more recent times, when a hunted hare lived hours before a pack, and the stag had no respite. On the tables of the rich, as on those of more humble means in our day of 1848, the roasted pheasant and the savoury jugged hare are seen more frequently on the board than in the time of our forefathers, and so much the better. During the gastronomic indulgence procured thereby, however, few are the comments heard, few the remarks consequent on the cruelty of sport. Send a handsome present of game to some sympathetic dame, or a couple of woodcocks early in the season to some kind-hearted critic, who has written a leading article on the horrors of sport, and sent all sportsmen to the d——, and he will neither refuse your courtesy, nor will the lady or critic care whether they were shot dead or strangled, but on the contrary they will demolish it with gusto, and thank you for more. The mutton lover thinks not of the butcher's knife, which secured him his well flavoured saddle. The savory ham is served for breakfast without one particle of commiseration for piggy. The gentle sucklings of three weeks old are taken from their tender mothers, spitted and roasted, without a single thought of her maternal agony, or all the tears and grunts which the other little pigs send forth in their sorrow and condolence for the missing one: they revel in the delicate flesh, and glory in the crackling. These are the meats of every day consumption, indulged in by gentle maidens and tender hearted putters down of sport. But look to the refined cuisine of the higher or richer classes. A fine lady, who would swoon (not all, we are happy to say) at the sight of a wounded hare, or a winged partridge fluttering in pain, nevertheless indulges without remorse in the pleasant pickings of a perigord pie, patie de Strasbourg, or fricandeau, forgetting that to obtain the one turkeys are fed to repletion, in order to procure the enlargement of their livers, in order to provide for their fastidious tastes, or to obtain the latter in its excellence and delicate whiteness of meat, many a poor calf is weaned from its mother cow and bled to death. Simple facts are these, and true ones, for those to digest who denounce all sport as acts of barbarous cruelty. To stand without emotion, with a thick crab-stick in hand, and witness the tying of a tin kettle to the tail of a poor dog, and refrain from breaking the offender's head, or look calmly at the brutal treatment to which the noble horse so patiently submits in the streets of London and elsewhere, are every-day occurrences without causing one extra palpitation to the tender hearts of such fanatical moralisers, because, forsooth, their several tastes tend not to the enjoyment of country pleasures; yet we are bold enough to assert that four score out of every hundred real sportsmen are as warm-hearted and christian men as can be found in the land we live in. The very pursuit by so many denominated cruel, leads the man to dwell among, and the mind to dwell on, all that is finest and fairest in nature; and what more is required to expand the heart to generous emotions and acts of charity and benevolence. The true sportsman, who really loves the object of his pursuit, has rarely time or inclination for vicious thoughts: he forgets at the moment that there is any thing in the world besides hunting and shooting: all anger, hatred, and revenge, lust, ambition, passion, save the ambition and passion of excelling in his pursuit, are obliterated from his mind, at all events for the hours of his sport, which is something gained; and when the day of pleasure is passed he returns to the comfort of home and enjoyment of society with a mind and frame invigorated by air and exercise, and a heart contented with his own and envying not the lot of his neighbour. The man on the other hand, who ever dwells amid the tumult of the city, must seek other pleasures for excitement and relaxation-the theatre, the gaming house, the festive board, the nightly revel, all tending to enervate the constitution, enfeeble the mind, and contract and crush the best feelings of human nature. But we have dwelt on this theme sufficiently long to put all our brother sportsmen asleep, while it keeps us on the watch. So, good friends, to all of you good night. For us a forester's bed in choice, most worthy Boniface of the Railway Arms at the ancient town of B.; though, doubtless, many a worthy traveller would be well satisfied with your accommodation. But ""Tis midnight, and silence with unmoving wings (To be continued.) FOX HUNTING IN THE SOUTH OF FRANCE. MR. EDITOR, Thinking that a short description of our "country" and our sport in these " diggins" might prove interesting to your readers, I take the liberty of addressing to you these few lines. It is to be regretted that sportsmen in England, who may be ordered abroad for their health, particularly for weakness in the " chest," are not more generally aware what very good hunting may be enjoyed here at quite a moderate expense. Without comparison, it must be pronounced the best and the most English-like out of the "merry isle." It is fair, open huntingno galloping about in the rides of forests, as in French stag-huntingwith plenty of fencing, in the shape of high banks, deep ditches, now and then a stone wall, and neat blackthorn hedges. The ground is generally good, being mostly grass; and from the nature of the soil never heavy, even after weeks of rain. The Landes covered with grass, intermixed with fern and occasionally gorse, offer at times a fine, clear space for a scurry. Woods and spinnies are resorted to in quest of the varmint," at times sufficiently abundant; but the general wildness of the country, affording shelter in almost every part to this cunning animal, renders a "find" by no means sure. As the climate is very fine-rather too bright and warm for such violent exercise-foxes will as often lie in a dry ditch, or under a bridge in a gateway, as in a wood. Strangers who are unacquainted with this peculiarity of the "country," are at first somewhat discouraged, concluding rather hastily that there is a lack of foxes; but a few wet days, which draw these luxurious gentlemen out of their hitherto dry lying places at the bottom of drains and ditches, into the better shelter of woods and gorse coverts, soon dispel all such despondency. To obviate also the want of that strict preservation of this useful animal which is so indispensable to sport, for "vulpecide" is not, unfortunately, considered a crime in these parts, young cubs are caught during the spring in the country beyond our hunting range, and turned down at a suitable age in the earths of Pau wood, our crack cover. This season, our new master, an American gentleman, has had eleven taken with his terriers, and put down. Unfortunately the earth-stoppers began too soon, and many more young cubs were destroyed in the earths by the ferocity of the dogs. Last season an old vixen fox, which was taken in this way, afforded us two capital runs, escaping us fortunately both times; once by a storm, after having been dug out and turned down; and the second time by going to ground. Occasionally we even descend to hunting a bagman, for which we ought not to be too severely blamed; as in no other way can we have a gallop over the cream of our country, which lies entirely out of the line of our own foxes. Allowing such a proceeding to be Cockneyish, unsportsmanlike, snobbish, disreputable, &c., it is no less certain that one of the very best runs last season was obtained in this way. It was a fox taken a few days previous, after a run of an hour and a half in a woodland district, within a few miles of Tarbes; and which was preserved, as the hounds had already had a “kill." Being at the end of the season, when a vixen in whelp might have been destroyed, we determined upon giving this gentleman a chance for his life by turning him down upon the Landes. After fifteen minutes "law" the hounds were laid on with great care, that they might not be rendered wild, and away they rattled. Reynard soon left the open ground, and took to the strongly enclosed fields bordering the Tarbes road, over capital hunting ground; thence crossing this high road, he kept straight on, down into the valley on the other side, slap into four brawling streams (all brimful of water from the late heavy rains), up the steep hill on the opposite side, across the ridge (fencing and ground unexceptionable), down again on the opposite side, through another brook, until, completely blown, he lay down in some water to await his merciless pursuers. At this juncture some peasants espied him, and incontinently knocking him on the head, threw him into a cart, and were driving off their prize when up came the “field." We at once suspected something wrong, and our huntsman, a Bearnais, at once rode up to the culprit, and insisted upon his giving up his booty. Not fancying our looks, and much less our upraised whips, he let go his hold; when, to our astonishment, we found our gallant "commercial gentleman" all alive and kicking; so I interceded for him, and had the satisfaction of seeing him borne home, well gagged and leg bound, across the saddle-bows of young L-; who, from having led throughout on his uncle's thorough-bred Commodore by Irish Arthur, was fairly entitled to the brush. There was on this occasion one narrow escape from drowning, in the case of Mr. Harvey; who, following in the wake of young Livingstone through one of these brooks (for jumping them was totally out of the question), had his horse roll back upon him, when down they floated, each on his own hook, until they were brought to, all standing, on a friendly sand-bank. The "bottoms" here are good, being without exception gravelly; so that there is no danger of bogging one's horse. What was strikingly peculiar in this run was the gallantry of "Binks" in facing these streams, which no fox of the country will scarcely ever cross. clude the biography of this fine fellow, he gave us the slip a few nights afterwards, by unpaving under the stable-door, and walking off, collar and all. To con This "hunt" was established here several years ago by Sir Henry Oxenden, who then resided at Tarbes. Being an excellent sportsman, and an equally good judge of hounds, he soon had a pack such as never will again be seen here. At this moment there is only one, old Fallacy, remaining of this pack. She is now kept for her nose......After Sir Henry left this country, the hunt" was transferred to Pau, where it was kept up by subscriptions from the English who have hitherto resorted here for health, economy, or the enjoyment of this glorious sport. The pack had become "small by degrees and beautifully less," until it was reduced to eleven or twelve hounds in all, which still, from the rare excellence of their "noses," continued to show surprisingly good sport; when fortunately Mr. Pery Standish was induced to bring out thirty couple of fresh hounds, for which, at great expense, he erected a new kennel at Bordes, 16 kilometres distant on the Tarbes road. This |