the sports of the chace, in which our forefathers took such delight, we see the hunting-horn slung at the side of the huntsman,—something in the form and curve of a scymitar,-the notes of which have a shrill and ringing tone. How sweet in the woodlands, With fleet hound and horn, And taste the fresh morn. We are no longer the hardy race of hunters we once were. The gentry of these days snuff the 'noon-tide air,' not like the sportsmen of old, up and buckled with the grey of the morning. Then the hardy Baron, with his peasantry, enjoyed the sports of the field in the health-breathing morn.' Let us not forget these times, but refer to our national songs that describe such days of simplicity Who has not breathed the brown smell of the tangled wood, and heard in its fragrant shades the laughing echoes! Hark! the hollow woods, resounding, Echo to the bugle horn; Swift the buck, with vigor bounding, Clears the brake, and leaps the thorn. To rouse the stag from his bowery nook, and see him bound over hill and dale, fills the soul with transport, and admiration of Nature's works. But why should man with death pursue The graceful hind, that skims the forest through? Cannot he enjoy the sweet face of nature without staining it with blood? 'Tis savage custom all, and the time will come when man, refined, will sport no more with life. Hunting seems to have been the sole occupation of the highest ranks in former times. The clergy' were privileged to kill game on the royal grounds, upon the condition of sounding a horn, that it might not appear they intended to steal the game. An Abbot of Leicester surpassed all the sportsmen of the time in the art of hare-hunting; and the Bishop of Rochester, who lived in the thirteenth century, was so fond of the sport, that at the age of fourscore he made it his sole employment, to the total neglect of his Christian duties.* Happily for the age in which we live, pleasures more refined are rooting out this barbarous taste; and the timid hare, now more at ease, can range the pleasant fields of Leicestershire. * Strutt's Sports and Pastimes. This county, so celebrated for its smooth and verdant turf, and gently sloping hills, invites the gentry from all parts of England for the pleasures of the chase. The loitering hare now moves too slow for sport, and the daring fox leads on the adventurous throng. In the month of November the lovers of the chase begin to assemble at the neat little market town of Melton, dull as Morpheus in time of summer,waking to life only in the winter. As soon as the morning breaks, the dogs and horses are led to cover often to the distance of twenty miles, where the high-mettled steeds are walked about by spruce and cunning grooms, waiting their masters coming. Soon the landscape shows a speckled scene of glaring spots of red;* 'tis the Nimrods of the chase, on splashed and dirty hacks, bounding to cover. Arrived, their nether garb they doff, and in spotless trim mount their shining steeds.† All is cheerfulness and glee, but see! the master of the pack arrives, and the impatient hounds dart into cover. Now all is silence, save the huntsman's cheer, who calls the hounds to sport, Fo Yoick find him; try for him; have at him my boy. But hark! a hound gives tongue, * More than two hundred clad in scarlet. † Often to the number of three or four hundred. Heavens, what melodious strains! How beat our hearts With expectation keen, every eye is strained to see him burst. A single whoop proclaims the view, and the shrill horn calls the straggling hounds to scent. With holloo and hark-away, man and horse in fury rush: in vain the stream In foaming eddies whirls; in vain the ditch, But hark! a check ensues, Hoy ick, hoy-ick. Now they snuff the gale again, and sweep over the ground at tremendous rate! He tries to baffle, and would hide himself in yonder flock of gazing sheep; now he skulks beneath the hedge; 'tis all in vain, they seize, they seize him fast, and # Woo whoop, woo whoop, proclaims the death.* The poets have described the shrill note of the Corno Inglesi resounding in the mountains, and Rossini has beautifully introduced it into the opera * This celebrated hunt was first established by Hugo Meynel, Esq. of Quorn, about the year 1790. It is now led and supported by the gallant Sir Harry Goodrick. In the fullest season not less than six hundred high bred horses are kept by three hundred grooms. A German count* paid Mr. Tilberry of London, one thousand guineas for the hire of ten horses for the season. The killing a horse of three or four hundred guineas' value is no uncommon thing. Three have been ridden to death within the last month! Their domestic economy is upon the most luxurious scale; one nobleman's establishment costs not less than six thousand pounds for the season. They bring with them their ladies, (not all wives,) their French cooks, and the mail, which passes through, conveys every delicacy. Dinner takes place at seven, in large parties, at which they are apt to run riot, before withdrawing to the ladies. The old hunters are not lured by harp and piano, but retire early, having the same game to play to-morrow. In this sport a man must have a total unconcern about his neck, and if he is not killed in the training, he forms a character that keeps a check upon dandyism and effeminacy. The Duke of Wellington has said, 'the best officers I had on the field were the Leicestershire foxhunters.' Sandos. |