At Dinner, Among Other Things, The Conversation Turned Upon Hunting.
It Always Seemed To Me A Curious Thing, That In The Height Of English
Civilization This Vestige Of The Savage State Should Still Remain.
I
told Lord Albemarle that I thought the idea of a whole concourse of
strong men turning out to
Hunt a poor fox or hare, creatures so feeble
and insignificant, and who can do nothing to defend themselves, was
hardly consistent with manliness; that if they had some of our
American buffaloes, or a Bengal tiger, the affair would be something
more dignified and generous. Thereupon they only laughed, and told
stories about fox hunters. It seems that killing a fox, except in the
way of hunting, is deemed among hunters an unpardonable offence, and a
man who has the misfortune to do it would be almost as unwilling to
let it be known as if he had killed a man.
They also told about deer stalking in the highlands, in which exercise
I inferred Lord John had been a proficient. The conversation reminded
me of the hunting stories I had heard in the log cabins in Indiana,
and I amused myself with thinking how some of the narrators would
appear among my high-bred friends. There is such a quaint vivacity and
droll-cry about that half-savage western life, as always gives it a
charm in my recollection. I thought of the jolly old hunter who always
concluded the operations of the day by discharging his rifle at his
candle after he had snugly ensconced himself in bed; and of the
celebrated scene in which Henry Clay won an old hunter's vote in an
election, by his aptness in turning into a political simile some
points in the management of a rifle.
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