But what does it involve to the fox? This sleek, furry creature that steals chickens and ducks, and young pheasants and partridges, who is a nuisance to farmer and gamekeeper alike, but to preserve whom is made worth their while—this poor “vermin,” having no “earth” to hide in, is flying for his life before a pack of strong dogs, any one of which would be capable of answering for him.
The Death.
He has (it may be) three or four hours’ run before him, with that terrible bell-tongued chorus behind him. One can conceive him towards the close, his strength failing, even his vulpine cunning, his eyes starting from his head and glassy with terror, his jaws dropping foam, his heart like a hammer that must break, straining—straining, helplessly, hopelessly towards some covert that he knows now is not. And upon that at last the more merciful rush, the feeble turn at bay of an exhausted creature, the mellay of hounds, and—Death. Is it possible to conceive that to a creature any greater torture could be applied?
Is it really necessary to deal with that fatuous argument—the argument of minds that are either wholly dishonest or ignobly unintelligent—that the fox is “vermin,” and that he enjoys the run? Surely it has only to be stated to glare at one in all its farcical absurdity. I know of a household in which it is considered cruel to allow the cat to play with the mouse she has caught, and yet this household—men and women—is engaged in hunting other “vermin”—the fox—three days a week during the season.
Is it credible? But it is true. Women, who I have no reason to suppose are not kind daughters and affectionate mothers, will gleefully boast how they were in at the death—to see, that is, one poor furry creature torn into pieces by a swarm of hounds while in the throes of exhaustion, of terror, and of despair. Is it lack of imagination, or is it worse?
And that time-worn defence of all sport is no defence here—I mean the plea that men are improved in health and certain lofty animal qualities by the pursuit of this savage sport. For, to speak plainly, the fox is wholly unnecessary. The essentials of hunting are the hounds, who enjoy themselves, the horses, who as a rule must be admitted to do likewise, unless over-ridden, and the hunters, to whom the gratification of the hunt is the ride through brisk air, the cross-country fences, the air of adventure surrounding the run.
All these essentials are found equally in a drag hunt. Those who have had experience of drag hunts (from which an animal quarry is eliminated) will admit that there is as much pleasure in them as in the fox-hunt. Nay, they are more advantageous, and for two reasons. In a “drag” you are sure of a run; you are not dependent on the accident of a “find.” And, secondly, you have the benefit of knowing when you may order your change to meet you, and thus avoid inflicting pain on your horse. The drag obviates all cruelty in a sport which is otherwise invigorating and virile. Therefore, in Heaven’s name, let the masters of hounds, who are also men of feeling, cease to preserve the fox, and cultivate the drag.
The abolition of the Royal Buckhounds did much to throw into disfavour the abominable sport of hunting a tame stag, and it is known that aristocratic circles do not look with favour on the atrocious sport of coursing. Is it impossible to enlist the sense of the upper classes in this country in the abolition of fox-hunting?