FOX-HUNTING 



it beautifully, and there is rare lying in it." These words are 

 scarcely uttered, when the cover shakes more than ever. 

 Every stem appears alive, and it reminds us of a corn-field 

 waving in the wind. In two minutes the sterns of some more 

 hounds are seen flourishing above the gorse. " Have at him 

 there,'''' holloas the Squire,^ the gorse still more alive, and hounds 

 leaping over each other's backs. " Have at him there again, 

 my good hounds ; a fox for a hundred ! " reiterates the Squire, 

 putting his finger in his ear, and uttering a scream which, not 

 being set to music, we cannot give here. Jack Stevens (the 

 first whipper-in) looks at his watch. At this moment John 

 White, Val, Maher, Frank Holyoake (who will pardon us for 

 giving them their noms-de-chasse), and two or three more of 

 the fast ones, are seen creeping gently on towards a point at 

 which they think it probable he may break. " Hold hard 

 there," says a sportsman ; but he might as well speak to the 

 winds. " Stand still, gentlemen ; pray stand still," exclaims 

 the huntsman ; he might as well say so to the sun. During 

 the time we have been speaking of, all the field have been 

 awake — gloves put on — cigars thrown away — the bridle-reins 

 gathered well up into the hand, and hats pushed down upon 

 the brow. 



' At this interesting period, a Snob, just arrived from a very 

 rural country, and unknown to any one, but determined to 

 witness the start, gets into a conspicuous situation : " Come 

 away, sir ! " holloas the master (little suspecting that the Snob 

 may be nothing less than one of the Quarterly Reviewers). 

 " What mischief are you doing there ? Do you think you can 

 catch the fox ? " A breathless silence ensues. At length a 

 whimper is heard in the cover — like the voice of a dog in a 

 dream : it is Flourisher, and the Squire cheers him to the echo. 



' In an instant a hound challenges — and another — and 

 another. 'Tis enough. "Tally-ho ! '' cries a countryman in a 

 tree. " He 's gone," exclaims Lord Alvanley ; and, clapping 

 his spurs to his horse, in an instant is in the front rank. 



' Mr. Osbaldeston was popularly called ' Squire ' Osbaldeston. 

 B 9 



