Volume 93 — ON THE WRONG SCENT.

"Slow in pursuit, but matched in mouths like bells. Each under each." So Shakspeare's Theseus tells The merits of his tuneful Spartan pack. Would I could echo it concerning mine! Tut, tut! They're off again on their own line. Come back, ye fools, come back! I envy Theseus! Just the sort of hounds For a true Tory huntsman; kept in bounds By discipline none ventures to defy. With such a pack I should be well content; But some of mine are keen on a false scent, And off on a wild cry. Oh, these young dogs! They think disorder's dash; Heedless of horn, rebellious to the lash; Just now, too, when our quarry is so clear! Oh, hang the howling, yelping, whimpering lot! On a fine herring-trail the fools have got. They'll spoil the chase, I fear. Come back! Come back! What, "Vincent," "Bartlett," ho! This sort of thing won't pay at all, you know. We are not, now, after that sort of game. Ah, sweet Sir Roger, our Spectator's friend. What would you say to this? Come, let it end. For shame, ye curs, for shame! Addison's "good old Knight" was happier far. In his well-ordered pack the casual jar Of a raw dog or "noted Liar" met No recognition; no, "he might have yelped His heart out," but the row had nothing helped The hounds astray to set. Here be "notorious Liars" in full force (The epithet is technical, of course). "Torrington," back! Back, "Stanley"! "Ecroyd," back! Heed "the old hounds of reputation" here. This shindy must be stopped, or 'twill, I fear, Demoralise the pack!