BRITISH SPORT PAST AND PRESENT 



Bristol Channel chafe and surge in vain. There, in the valley, 

 you may see the garden and groutids of Holnicote, Sir Thomas 

 Acland's lovely summer abode.' Below us lie Cloutsham 

 farm, and the famed coverts of Horner. We descend the steep, 

 cross the stream, and ascend again until we reach the knoll 

 on which the farm-house stands. . . . But there is no time to 

 be lost. The covert is large and deep, and the chances are 

 that much time must elapse ere we see the tufters fairly settled 

 on their stag, and the monarch of the woods driven from his 

 stronghold. 



' The harbourer approaches ; and around him is held a 

 council. He is certain that the same stag that we found in 

 the covert a week ago has again made that favourite haunt his 

 resting-place. He fed in the turnips beyond the oak copse 

 this morning, and, though there are many hinds and calves 

 in the wood, by care and perseverance we are assured that 

 he will be found and got away. The order is given to 

 draft out the tufters, and Sam proceeds to perform the duty. 

 Let us follow him. The hounds are shut up in a large 

 barn, and we hear them baying, as if to chide the delay 

 which takes place while preliminaries are being settled. 

 Cautiously Sam opens the door. A rush of hounds is 

 checked by the old fellow's voice and whip. " Get back, my 

 darlin's ! " says Sam, as he checks the impetuous advance of 

 the eager babblers, and singles out the staid and steady 

 veterans, to whom the business of " tufting " is to be confided. 

 Far back in the dim recesses of the hovel sits old " Shiner," 

 looking as if he were ashamed to appear concerned, yet shudder- 

 ing all over with excitement. " Shiner," says Sam ; '' Shiner, 

 old man," and the noble hound springs from his place, clears 

 the youngsters, and in a moment is rolling on the greensward, 

 and giving utterance to his joy in notes loud, deep, and pro- 

 longed. " Constant ! Constant ! " cries Sam, and the wary 

 old bitch slips round the door-post as if by magic, and whence 



' Holnicote, Sir T. D. Acland's residence, was destroyed by fire in August 1851. Jt 

 is now (18(J2) in the course of rebuilding. 



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