e of the pursuers balances himself carefully,
his wicked head is raised, he strikes, and the long tremulous shriek of
despair is drowned in the hoarse crash of cheering from the mob. Brave
sport, my masters! Gallant Britons ye are! Ah, how I should like to let
one of you career over that field of death with a brace of business-like
boarhounds behind you!

There is no slackening of the fun, for the betting-men must be kept
busy. Men grow frantic with excitement; young fools who should be at
their business risk their money heedlessly, and generally go wrong. If
the hares could only know, they might derive some consolation from the
certainty that, if they are going to death, scores of their gallant
sporting persecutors are going to ruin. Time after time, in monotonous
succession, the same thing goes on through the day--the agonized hares
twirl and strain; the fierce dogs employ their superb speed and
strength; the unmanly gang of men howl like beasts of prey; and the
sweet sun looks upon all!

Women, what do you think of that for Englishmen's pastime? Recollect
that the mania for this form of excitement is growing more intense
daily; as much as one hundred thousand pounds may depend on a single
course--for not only the mob in the stands are betting, but thousands
are awaiting each result that is flashed off over the wires; and,
although you may be far away in remote country towns, your sons, your
husbands, your brothers, may be watching the clicking machine that
records the results in club and hotel--they may be risking their
substance in a lottery which is at once childish and cruel.

There is not one word to be said in favour of this vile game. The
old-fashioned courser at least got exercise and air; but the modern
betting-man wants neither; he wants only to make wagers and add to his
pile of money. For him the coursing meetings cannot come too often; the
swarming gudgeons flock to his net; he arranges the odds almost as he
chooses--with the help of his friends; and simpletons who do not know a
greyhound from a deerhound bet wildly--not on dogs, but on names. The
"sport" has all the uncertainty of roulette, and it is villainously
cruel into the bargain. Amid all those thousands you never hear one word
of pity for the stricken little creature that is driven out, as I have
said, for execution; they watch her agonies, and calculate the chances
of pouching their sovereigns. That is all.

Here then is another vast engine