“There’s nothing like break-o’-day hunting,” observed my companion: “the ground is cool and unstained; and there are no people about. Those terrible enemies to our sport, shepherd’s dogs, too, are not often in the way; and the hundred-and-one difficulties to be picked through at noon removed.” “But we are not thrown off generally at this hour, are we?” inquired I. “Never,” replied my friend, “except at this season. In times gone by,” continued he, “as I have heard tell, the meet used to be before cock-crow; and often hounds would be waiting at the cover-side for daylight. But fox-hunting, like most other things, has undergone a great change; and instead of the old slow-and-sure system of occupying minutes to find and hours to kill, we are now, taking the season through, hours finding, and minutes killing.” “Which afforded most sport, do you think?” inquired I. “It’s difficult to say,” returned Trimbush. “Unless we go the pace, men now consider that there is no sport whatever; but some years since, the merits of a good hunting run had nothing to do with the time in which it was done, like a horse-race. With a cold scent, stained ground, and an unruly field--heading the fox, riding over us, and hallooing at everything from a cow’s tail to a jackdaw--we frequently pick through, and even hold it on with extraordinary keenness; but seldom, indeed, do we get any credit for our pains. If, however, the scent is breast high--as it is this morning, or I couldn’t talk to you--and we fly along without a check, for fifteen or twenty minutes, with blood for the finish, then there is no end to the praise, and we receive nothing but commendation and renown. Not that _I_ am an advocate for slow hunting:--for the enjoyment of sport, there must be a dash, spirit, and fire; and in creeping along at snail’s speed there can be neither one nor the other. But what I wish our admirers and critics to understand is, that a fast run by no means shows our qualities, but a slow one may do so; and often that both our praise and our censure are equally unmerited.” “Still,” said I, beginning to pant for wind as we rattled up a steep hill, with the scent improving, if possible, at every stride, “as the old exploded system wanted that dash and spirit which, you say, are indispensable for first-rate sport, there can be no doubt of the present one being the most desirable.” “On the whole I think so,” rejoined my companion; “but that may be,” he continued, “from not being practically acquainted with any other. At the same time, ‘honour to those to whom honour is due;’ and my belief is that our ancestors, the line hunters, _hunted_ their fox as well, if not better, than we who now _race_ him down.” “Your judgment’s an impartial one,” returned I.