[To the Editor of the SPECTATOR.] Whipper-In " would have
us accept hunting on the plea, among others, that " the death meted out to a stag at the hands of a huntsman is infinitely (sic) more merciful and swift than that reserved for him by Nature ; whilst the death of the fox . . . is encompassed by the hounds themselves in a second." It would seem, then, to be the manifest duty of " Whipper-In " and his friends, as " the true friends of the animals they hunt " they claim to be, to hunt to its death every huntable creature, so soon as—but not before—its powers show signs of weakening before the inexorable advance of Nature. So, doubtless, the kindly planter hunted with bloodhounds his runaway slaves, lest the unfortunate creatures should perish miserably of starvation. And so, too, may we, when we see our duty more clearly, call in our footpads to hunt down the human victims of incurable disease, while we " derive pleasure and hours of healthy exercise and excite- ment " in " seeing the fun." The " life-preserver " would seem to be the appropriate badge of these super-huntsmen.
Once more we get the old, stale argument, that without the continuance of hunting the practical extermination of the beasts of the chase would be certain. It may be pertinent to ask " Whipper rt what disadvantage he supposes that would be to an unborn and non-existent stag. Conceivably he may believe in a pre-existent animal soul ; if he does not, his argument is mere flap-doodle ; if he does, has he considered the possible reactions between his own soul and the soul of his quarry which his pursuit of pleasure may induce ?
In their ultimate, the arguments of the hunters reveal them- selves as false scents by which they hope to divert those who are hunting them—but not to destruction—and their real basic reason for hunting is seen, when we come in sight of it, to be that " it makes them happy." As much may be said for the small boys who tie tin cans to the tails of dogs and cats. " Whipper-In " most probably would regard them as nasty little brutes, embryo Bolshevists—or do I wrong him ? Perhaps they are embryo sportsmen ?
His question, " Who is my neighbour ? " was answered nineteen hundred years ago. —I am, Sir, &c.,
J. LEONARD CATIIER, Commander, R.N. ETimeads, Bexhill Old TCL011, Susse.r.
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