WITH HORSE AND HOUND 



ten feet high, and his horse sitting disconsolate on his tail at 

 the bottom, like a great dog. However they are up again and 

 out, painted of a fair raw-ochre hue ; and I have to follow in 

 fear and trembling, expecting to be painted in like wise. 



' Well, I am in and out again, I don't know how : but this 

 I know, that I am in a great bog. Natural bogs, red, brown 

 or green, I know from childhood, and never was taken in by 

 one in my life ; but this has taken me in, in all senses. Why 

 do people pare and trim bogs before draining them ? — thus 

 destroying the light coat of tenacious stuff on the top, which 

 Nature put there on purpose to help poor horsemen over, and 

 the blanket of red bog-moss, which is meant as a fair warning 

 to all who know the winter-garden. 



' However I am no worse off than my neighbours. Here 

 we are, ten valiant men, all bogged together ; and who knows 

 how deep the peat may be ? 



* I jump off and lead, considering that a horse plus a man 

 weighs more than a horse alone ; so do one or two more. 

 The rest plunge bravely on, whether because of their hurry, or 

 like Child Waters in the ballad, " for fyling of their feet." 



' However " all things do end," as Carlyle pithily remarks 

 somewhere in his French Revolution ; and so does this bog. 

 I wish this gallop would end too. How long have we been 

 going ? There is no time to take out a watch ; but I fancy the 

 mare flags : I am sure my back aches with standing in my 

 stirrups. I become desponding. I am sure I shall never see 

 this fox killed ; sure I shall not keep up five minutes longer ; 

 sure I J hall have a fall soon; sure I shall ruin the mare's 

 fetlocks in the ruts. I am bored. I wish it was all over, 

 and I safe at home in bed. Then why do I not stop ? I 

 cannot tell. That thud, thud, thud, through moss and mire 

 has become an element of my being, a temporary necessity, 

 and go I must. I do not ride the mare ; the Wild Huntsman, 

 invisible to me, rides her ; and I, hke Biirger's Lenore, am 

 carried on in spite of myself, " tramp, tramp, along the land, 



splash, splash, along the sea." 



28 



