Why have I written this book? I will tell you. For of all the subjects
that might have occurred to me, this I am sure is the last in the world
on which I should have ever dreamed of trespassing. Accident, however,
is apt to take a hand in the most trivial things of this world as well
as in the most important. It is continually responsible for the most
unlikely events, and it was in fact by accident that I undertook this
work, in which I have collected and jotted down remarks that are
entirely my own, concerning an art to which I have devoted myself for
more years than I care to remember.
I was staying in the country at an old manor house belonging to one of
my friends. The litter of autumn, fallen leaves and withering herbage,
was scattered over field and woodland. This is a favourite season
with poets, when Nature before her winter sleep affects a serene and
melancholy air, that inclines to reverie and lends wings to fancy. The
season also favours sportsmen. Coverts in which the game has hitherto
found shelter are no longer impenetrable, and every day the wind robs
the poor persecuted beasts of some fraction of their shield of verdure.
At my friend's house there were no poets, but there was instead a large
shooting party. We used to take the field after breakfast, and come
home towards dusk, all of us as tired as a man has a right to be when
he has done six or eight hours' walking. After dinner we invariably
adjourned to the smoking room, and spent the evening in discussing
things in general over our cigars.