During the tumult which ensued amongst the gentlemen who had been hunting, an honest farmer, whose land surrounded the covert, came up and stated that a short time before he had found in a field close by a large trap exactly of the same sort, which had in it two of a fox’s toes. They belonged to the foot which I parted with myself. It is impossible to describe the sensation created by this additional circumstance; but it caused amongst other remarks the following, which reached my ears:—“These acts of shocking cruelty were scarcely ever heard of in this part, till game became an article of traffic to the landlord, and shooting on his land began to be let to strangers who have no interest whatever in the welfare of the country where it lies. Nothing conduces to that welfare more than brilliant sport afforded by a pack of hounds; as it leads others, as well as those who own estates, to become residents in the country. Noblemen and gentlemen have now lost their good old English feelings, and instead of inviting their friends for the sport, they let their shooting, or sell their game in the market. It frequently happens that the persons to whom the shooting is let are men who are engaged in business and reside in large towns. They are consequently ignorant of the tricks and cruelties of their keepers during their absence, and unaware of the disappointment these keepers create to hundreds of gentlemen who reside in the country, who keep large establishments of horses for the express purpose of hunting, and whose money might otherwise be spent in more questionable ways in town or elsewhere.” I have heard the following lines recited by one who said that they ought to be put up over the mantelpiece of every farmer in the kingdom:— Attend, ye farmers, to this tale, And when ye mend the broken rail, Reflect with pleasure on a sport That lures your landlord from the court, To dwell and spend his rents among The country folk from whom they sprung; And should his steed with trampling feet Be urged across your tender wheat, _That steed_, perchance, _by you_ was bred, And _yours the corn_ by which he’s fed, Ah! then restrain your rising ire, Nor rashly curse the hunting squire.—WARBURTON. “So, Devonian, tell us thy history, for methinks ’twill be something strange.” DEVONIAN’S STORY