which have been fortunate in getting away with their fox. It is true, they possess the speed of a race-horse; but nothing short of their high mettle could induce them to thread their way through a body of horsemen going the best pace, with the prospect of being ridden over and maimed at every stride they take. But, as Beckford observes,"Tis the dash of the foxhound which distinguishes him.' A turn, however, in their favour, or a momentary loss of scent in the few hounds that have shot a-head-an occurrence to be looked for on such occasions-joins head and tail together, and the scent being good, every hound settles to his fox; the pace gradually improves; vires acquirit eundo; a terrible burst is the result!

At the end of nineteen minutes the hounds come to a fault, and for a moment the fox has a chance,-in fact, they have been pressed upon by the horses, and have rather overrun the scent. What a pity!' says one: What a shame!' cries another-alluding, perhaps, to a young one, who would and could have gone still faster. You may thank yourselves for this,' exclaims Osbaldeston, well up at the time, Clasher looking fresh; but only fourteen men of the two hundred are to be counted,-all the rest coming. At one blast of the horn, the hounds are back to the point at which the scent has failed, Jack Stevens being in his place to turn them. Yo doit! Pastime,' says the Squire, as she feathers her stern down the hedge-row, looking more beautiful than ever. She speaks! 'Worth a thousand, by Jupiter!' cries John White, looking over his left shoulder as he sends both spurs into Euxton, delighted to see only four more of the field are up. Our Snob, however, is amongst them. He has gone a good one,' and his countenance is expressive of delight, as he urges his horse to his speed to get again into a front place.

The pencil of the painter is now wanting; and unless the painter should be a sportsman, even his pencil would be worth little. What a country is before him!-what a panorama does it represent!-Not a field of less than forty-some a hundred acres— and no more signs of the plough than in the wilds of Siberia. See the hounds in a body that might be covered by a damask table-cloth-every stern down, and every head up, for there is no need of stooping, the scent lying breast high. But the crash! -the music!-how to describe these? Reader, there is no crash now, and not much music. It is the tinker that makes great noise over a little work, but at the pace these hounds are going there is no time for babbling. Perchance one hound in ten may throw his tongue as he goes to inform his comrades, as it were, that the villain is on before them, and most musically do the light notes of Vocal and far-famed Venus fall on the ear of those who

may

may be within reach to catch them. But who is so fortunate in this second burst, nearly as terrible as the first? Our fancy supplies us again, and we think we could name them all. If we look to the left, nearly abreast of the pack, we see six men going gallantly, and quite as straight as the hounds themselves are going; and on the right are four more, riding equally well, though the former have rather the best of it, owing to having had the inside of the hounds at the last two turns, which must be placed to the chapter of accidents. A short way in the rear, by no means too much so to enjoy this brilliant run, are the rest of the élite of the field, who had come up at the first check; and a few who, thanks to the goodness of their steeds, and their determination to be with the hounds, appear as if dropped from the clouds. Some, however, begin to show symptoms of distress. Two horses are seen loose in the distance-a report is flying about that one of the field is badly hurt, and something is heard of a collar-bone being broken, others say it is a leg; but the pace is too good to inquire. A cracking of rails is now heard, and one gentleman's horse is to be seen resting, nearly balanced, across one of them, his rider being on his back in the ditch, which is on the landing side. 'Who is he?' says Lord Brudenell to Jack Stevens. 'Can't tell, my Lord; but I thought it was a queerish place when I came o'er it before him.' It is evidently a case of peril, but the pace is too good to afford help.

Up to this time, 'Snob' has gone quite in the first flight; the 'Dons' begin to eye him, and, when an opportunity offers, the question is asked- Who is that fellow on the little bay horse?' Don't know him,' says Mr. Little Gilmour, (a fourteen-stone Scotchman, by-the-bye,) ganging gallantly to his hounds.'He can ride,' exclaims Lord Rancliffe. A tip-top provincial, depend upon it,' adds Lord Plymouth, going quite at his ease on a thorough-bred nag, three stone above his weight, and in perfect racing trim. Animal nature, however, will cry' enough,' how good soever she may be, if unreasonable man press her beyond the point. The line of scent lies right athwart a large grass ground, (as a field is termed in Leicestershire,) somewhat on the ascent; abounding in ant-hills, or hillocks, peculiar to old grazing land, and thrown up by the plough, some hundred years since, into rather high ridges, with deep, holding furrows between each. The fence at the top is impracticable-Meltonicè, stopper;' nothing for it but a gate, leading into a broad green lane, high and strong, with deep slippery ground on each side of it. Now for the timber-jumper,' cries Osbaldeston, pleased to find himself upon Clasher. For heaven's sake, take care of my hounds, in case they may throw up in the lane.' Snob is here in the

a

best

best of company, and that moment perhaps the happiest of his life; but, not satisfied with his situation, wishing to out-Herod-Herod, and to have a fine story to tell when he gets home, he pushes to his speed on ground on which all regular Leicestershire men are careful, and the death-warrant of the little bay-horse is signed. It is true he gets first to the gate, and has no idea of opening it; sees it contains five new and strong bars, that will neither bend nor break; has a great idea of a fall, but no idea of refusing; presses his hat firmly on his head, and gets his whip-hand at liberty to give the good little nag a refresher; but all at once he perceives it will not do. When attempting to collect him for the effort he finds his mouth dead and his neck stiff; fancies he hears something like a wheezing in his throat; and discovering, quite unexpectedly, that the gate would open, wisely avoids a fall, which was booked had he attempted to leap it. He pulls up then at the gate; and as he places the hook of his whip under the latch, John White goes over it close to the hinge-post, and Captain Ross, upon Clinker, follows him. The Reviewer then walks through.

The scene now shifts. On the other side of the lane is a fence of this description: it is a newly-plashed hedge, abounding in strong growers, as they are called, and a yawning ditch on the further side; but, as is peculiar to Leicestershire and Northamptonshire, a considerable portion of the blackthorn, left uncut, leans outwards from the hedge, somewhat about breast-high. This large fence is taken by all now with the hounds-some to the right and some to the left of the direct line-but the little bay horse would have no more of it. Snob puts him twice at it, and manfully too, but the wind is out of him, and he has no power to rise. Several scrambles, but only one fall, occur at this rasper,' all having nearly enough of the killing pace; and a mile and a half farther, the second horses are fallen in with, just in the nick of time. A short check from the stain of sheep makes everything comfortable; and, the Squire having hit off his fox like a workman, thirteen men, out of two hundred, are fresh mounted, and with the hounds, which settle to the scent again at a truly killing pace.

'Hold hard, Holyoake!' exclaims Mr. Osbaldeston (now mounted on Blucher), knowing what double-quick time he would be marching to, with fresh pipes to play upon, and the crowd well shaken off; 'pray don't press 'em too hard, and we shall be sure to kill our fox. Have at him there, Abigail and Fickle, good bitches-see what a head they are carrying! I'll bet a thousand they kill him.' The country appears better and better. He's taking a capital line,' exclaims Sir Harry Goodricke, as he points out to Sir James Musgrave two young Furrier hounds, who are particularly distinguishing themselves at the moment. Worth a dozen Reform

Bills,'

Bills,' shouts Sir Francis Burdett, sitting erect upon Sampson,* and putting his head straight at a yawner. We shall have the Whissendine brook,' cries Mr. Maher, who knows every field in the country, for he is making straight for Teigh.' And a bumper too, after last night's rain,' holloas Captain Berkeley, determined to get first to four stiff rails in a corner. 'So much the better,' says Lord Alvanley, I like a bumper at all times.' A fig for the Whissendine,' cries Lord Gardner; I am on the best water jumper in my stable.'

The prophecy turns up. Having skirted Ranksborough gorse, the villain has nowhere to stop short of Woodwell-head cover, which he is pointing for; and in ten minutes, or less, the brook appears in view. It is even with its banks, and

'Smooth glides the water where the brook is deep.'

Yooi, OVER he goes!' holloas the Squire, as he perceives Joker and Jewell plunging into the stream, and Red-rose shaking herself on the opposite bank. Seven men, out of thirteen, take it in their stride; three stop short, their horses refusing the first time, but come well over the second; and three find themselves in the middle of it. The gallant Frank Forester' is among the latter; and having been requested that morning to wear a friend's new red coat, to take off the gloss and glare of the shop, he accomplishes the task to perfection in the bluish-black mud of the Whissendine, only then subsiding after a three days' flood. Who is that under his horse in the brook?' inquires that good sportsman and fine rider, Mr. Green, of Rolleston, whose noted old mare had just skimmed over the water like a swallow on a summer's evening. Only Dick Christian,' answers Lord Forester, and it is nothing new to him.' But he'll be drowned,' exclaims Lord Kinnaird. I shouldn't wonder,' observes Mr. William Coke. But the pace is too good to inquire.

The fox does his best to escape: he threads hedge-rows, tries the out-buildings of a farm-house, and once turns so short as nearly to run his foil; but-the perfection of the thing-the hounds turn shorter than he does, as much as to say-die you shall. The pace has been awful for the last twenty minutes. Three horses are blown to a stand-still, and few are going at their ease. • Out upon this great carcass of mine; no horse that was ever foaled can live under it at this pace, and over this country,' says one of the best

* A favourite hunter of the baronet's, which he once honoured by coming all the way from London to Melton to ride one day with hounds.

A true story.

A celebrated rough-rider at Melton Mowbray, who greatly distinguished himself in the late grand steeple-chase from Rolleston. He is paid 15s. per day for riding gentlemen's young horses to hounds.

of

of the welter-weights, as he stands over his four-hundred-guinea chesnut, then rising from the ground, after giving him a heavy fall -his tail nearly erect in the air, his nostrils violently distended, and his eyes almost fixed. Not hurt, I hope,' exclaims Mr. Maxse, to somebody whom he gets a glimpse of through the openings of a tall quickset hedge which is between them, coming neck and croup into the adjoining field, from the top bar of a high, hogbacked stile. His eye might have been spared the unpleasing sight, had not his ear been attracted to a sort of procumbit-humibos sound of a horse falling to the ground on his back, the bone of his left hip indenting the green-sward within two inches of his rider's thigh. It is young Peyton,* who, having missed his second horse at the check, had been going nearly half the way in distress; but from nerve and pluck, perhaps peculiar to Englishmen, but very peculiar to himself, got within three fields of the end of this brilliant run. The fall was all but a certainty; for it was the third stiff timber-fence that had unfortunately opposed him, after his horse's wind had been pumped out by the pace; but he was too good to refuse them, and his horse knew better than to do so.

The Eneid of Virgil ends with a death, and a chase is not complete without it. The fox dies within half a mile of Woolwell-head, evidently his point from the first; the pack pulling him down in the middle of a large grass field, every hound but one at his brush. Jack Stevens with him in his hands would be a subject worthy of Edwin Landseer himself: a black-thorn, which has laid hold of his cheek, has besmeared his upper garments with blood, and one side of his head and cap are cased in mud, by a fall he has had in a lane, his horse having alighted in the ruts from a high flight of rails; but he has ridden the same horse throughout the run, and has handled him so well, he could have gone two miles further, if the chase had been continued so long. Osbaldeston's who-hoop might have been heard to Cottesmore, had the wind set in that direction, and every man present is extatic with delight. Quite the cream of the thing, I suppose,' says Lord Gardner, a very promising young one, at this time fresh in Leicestershire. The cream of everything in the shape of fox-hunting,' observes that excellent sportsman Sir James Musgrave, looking at that moment at his watch. Just ten miles, as the crow flies, in one hour and ten minutes, with but two trifling checks, over the finest country in the world. What superb hounds are these!' added the baronet, as he turned his horse's head to the wind. You are right,' says Colonel Lowther, they are perfect. I wish my father

*The only son of Sir Henry Peyton, Bart., one of the best and hardest riders of the present day.

had